“Yourmother was very young,” Mr. Fielding continued, “and early matured as marriage makes a girl. She was a little old-fashioned, I think, as well as I can remember, through being driven into maturity before her time. When a girl is married, not over happily——”
“Was her marriage not happy?” Edgar interrupted, with a cloud on his face.
“I should not have said that. I mean, you know, her being so young. Why, I don’t think she was as old as Clare when they came back here with you a baby——”
“I was born abroad,” said Edgar, half in the tone of one making an inquiry, half as asserting a fact.
“If you would try not to interrupt me, please,” said Mr. Fielding, piteously. “You put me off my story. Yes, you were born abroad. They came home in October, and you had been born in the end of the previous year. They took everybody a gooddeal by surprise. In the first place, few people knew there was a baby; and no one knew when your father and mother were coming. There were no bells rung for you, Edgar, when you came home first, and the old wives have a notion—but never mind that.”
“Tell me the notion,” said Edgar.
“Oh, nothing—about mischief to the heir for whom no bells are rung. That’s all; and heaven be praised, no mischief has come to you, Edgar. They came quite suddenly and the baby. Your father never made a fuss about babies. That is to say, my dear boy,” said the old Rector, lowering his voice, “if it will not grieve you; from the very beginningthathad begun.”
Edgar gave a little nod of his head, sudden and brief, understanding only too clearly; and Mr. Fielding stopped to grasp his hand, and then went on again.
“If I could have helped it, I would not have mentioned it; but, of course, it must be referred to now and then,” continued the Rector. “Instead of being proud of you, as a man, if he is good for anything, always is, he never seemed able to bear the fuss. To be sure, some men don’t. They will not be made second even for their own child. Your mother——”
“My mother was fond of me at least?” said Edgar, turning away his head, and cutting at the weeds with the light cane in his hand, doing his best to conceal his excitement and emotion.
“Your mother, poor child!—but that of course, that of course, Edgar; how could she be otherwise than fond of her first-born? Your mother’s entire life was absorbed in an attempt to satisfy her husband. I saw the whole process; and it made my heart bleed. She was a passive, gentle, little creature—not like him. She shrank from the world, and all that was going on in it. She liked melancholy books and sad songs, and all that—one of the creatures doomed to die young. And he was so different! She used to strain and strain her faculties trying to please him. She would try to amuse him even in her innocent way. It was very hard upon her, Edgar. You are an active, restless sort of being yourself; but, for heaven’s sake, don’t worry your wife when you get one. Let her follow her own constitution a little. She tried and tried till she could strive no longer: and when Clare was born, I think she was quite glad to be obliged to give in, and get a little rest in her grave. Of course, she was not here all the time. They used to come and go, and never stayed more than a month or two. You were left behind very often. The Doctor never sawher,” Mr. Fielding added pointedly, “till just before she died. He had newly come back and got settled in his house. He never saw her but on her death-bed. He knew nothing about her; but I—you may think I am bragging like a garrulous old talker as I am—but I saw a great deal of her one way or another. I think she felt she had a friend in me.”
“Thanks!” Edgar said below his breath. He was too deeply moved to look at his old friend, nor could he trust himself to speak.
“I buried her,” said the old clergyman in his musing way. “You know the place. It was all I could do to keep from crying loud out like a child. I lost my own wife the same way; but the child died too. That is one reason, perhaps, why I am so fond of Clare. When you come to think of it, Edgar, this world is a dreary place to live so long in. A year or two’s brightness you may have, and then the long, long, steady twilight that never changes. They are saved a great deal when they die early. What with her natural weakness, and what with you, it would have been hard upon her had she lived. However, it is lucky for us that life and death are not in our power.”
“I hate myself for thinking of myself when you have been telling me of—her,” said Edgar. “But—my fate, it appears, was the same from the beginning.It could not arise from anything—found out?”
“There was nothing that could be found out,” Mr. Fielding answered, almost severely. “Your mother was as good a woman as ever lived—too good. If she had been less tender and less gentle it would have been better for her—and for her son as well. Yes, there is such a thing as being too good.”
“Am I like her?” said Edgar suddenly, looking for the first time in the Rector’s face.
Mr. Fielding looked at him with critical gravity, which by-and-bye melted into a smile. “If black and white put together ever produced red,” he said, “I should be able to understand you, Edgar. But I can’t somehow. It must be one of the old Ardens asserting his right to be represented; that sometimes occurs in an old family; some great-grandfather tired of letting the other side of the house have it all their own way; for you know that dark beauty came in with the Spanish lady in Queen Elizabeth’s time. You must be like your mother in your disposition—for you are not a bit of an Arden. The difference is that you don’t take things to heart much—and she did.”
“Don’t I take things much to heart?”
“My dear boy, you ought to know better than I do. I should not think you did. The world comesmore easily to you; and then, a man—and a young man in your position—can’t be kept down as she was. I am not blaming your father, Edgar. He meant no harm. To him it seemed quite proper and natural. Men should mind when they have a life and soul to deal with; but they never do until it is too late. Yes, of course, you are like her,” Mr. Fielding added; “I can see the marks of her bonds upon you. She taught herself to give in, and submit, and prefer another’s will to her own; and you do that same for your diversion, because you like it. Yes, my boy, you carry the marks of her bonds—you are the son of her heart.”
“That is a delusion,” said Edgar. “I always please myself.” But he was soothed by the kind speech of the old man, who was a friend to him, as he had been to his mother, and her story had moved him very deeply. She, too, had suffered like himself. “Thanks for telling me so much,” he added, humbly. “I never heard anything about her before. And Clare has a little picture, which she showed me. I have been thinking a very great deal about her for the last two or three days.”
“What has made you think of her more than usual?” asked Mr. Fielding, with some sharpness. Edgar paused, unwilling to answer. It seemed to him that the Rector knew or divined how it was.He had made several allusions to the Doctor, as if contradicting beforehand an adverse authority. But Edgar felt it impossible to allow that he had heard of any suspicion against his mother. He made a dash into indifferent subjects—the management of the estate, the building of the new cottages. Mr. Fielding was not deceived: but he was judicious enough to allow the conversation to be turned into another channel, and on this subject to ask no more.
Clarerode down the avenue about ten minutes later, the groom behind her leading Edgar’s horse, and her own thoughts very heavy with a hundred important affairs.
The immediate subject in her mind, however, was one which was very clearly suggested by the visit which she was about to make; and when her brother joined her at the Rectory Gate, she led him up to it artfully with many seeming innocent remarks, though it was with a little timidity and nervousness that she actually introduced at last the real matter which occupied her thoughts.
“You will laugh, I know,” she said, “but I don’t think it at all a laughing matter, Edgar. Please tell me, without any nonsense, do you ever think that you must marry—some time or other? I knew you would laugh; but it is not any nonsense that is in my mind.”
“Shouldn’t I return the question, and ask you, ‘Do you ever think that you must marry, Clare?’”said Edgar, when his laugh was over. Clare drew up her stately head with all the dignified disapproval which so much levity naturally called forth.
“That is quite a different matter,” she said, impatiently. “I may or may not; it is my own affair; but youmust.”
“Why must I? I do not see the necessity,” said Edgar, still with a smile.
“You must, however. You are the last of our family. Why, because it is your duty! Arden has not gone out of the direct line for two hundred and fifty years. You must not only marry, but you must marry very soon.”
“There remains only to indicate the lady,” said Edgar. “Tell me that too, and then I shall be easy in my mind.”
“Edgar, I wish you would not be so teasing. Of course, I don’t want to indicate the lady; but I will tell you, if you like, the kind of person she ought to be. Shemustbe well born; that is quite indispensable; any other deficiency may be taken into consideration, but birth we cannot do without. And she must be young, and handsome, and good—but not too good. And if she had some money—just enough to make her feel comfortable——”
“This is a paragon of all virtues and qualities,”said Edgar; “but where to be found? and when we find her, why should she condescend to me?”
“Condescend! Nonsense!” cried Clare. “You are just as good as she is;—so long as you are not carried away by a pretty face. It is so humbling to see you men. A pretty face carries the day with you over everything. Can you fancy anything more humiliating to a girl? She may be good, and wise, and clever, and yet people only want to marry her because her cheek has a pretty colour or her eyes are bright. I think it is almost as bad as if it were for money. To be married for your beauty! Every bit as bad—or even worse; for the money will last at least, and the beauty can’t.”
“But, my dear Clare, I don’t want to marry—either for beauty or anything else,” said Edgar.
“But you must marry,” repeated his sister, peremptorily. “If you had set your heart upon it, Edgar, I would not mind Gussy Thornleigh. I should like Ada a great deal better; but of course they have the same belongings. I think she is rather frivolous, and a great chatterbox; but still if you like her best——”
“I don’t like her best,” said Edgar. “I don’t like anybody best, except you. When you marry, then perhaps it will be time to think of it; but inthe meantime I am very happy. I think, Clare, you should let well alone.”
“But it is not well,” said Clare, with her usual energy. And then she added, under her breath, “Arthur Arden is your heir-presumptive. He will be the one who will be looked up to; and if you don’t marry soon, people will think—Edgar, you had much better make up your mind.”
This was said very rapidly, and with great earnestness. Was it a last attempt to stand by her brother, and resist the influence of the other, who, whether visibly or not, was her brother’s antagonist? Edgar turned round upon her with tranquil wonder, entirely unmoved. She was excited, but he was calm. Arthur’s pretensions, it was evident, were nothing to him.
“Well?” he said. “Of course Arthur Arden is my heir; and probably he would make a much better Squire than I. The only thing for which I have a grudge at him is that he is like you. I confess I detest him for that. He may have my land when his time comes and I am out of the way; but I don’t like him to be nearer than I am to my sister. He is an Arden, like you.”
“Heislike the old Ardens,” said Clare, with a faint smile; and then the conversation dropped. She did not care to prolong it. They went acrossthe cheerful country, still in the glory of the fresh foliage. The blossoms were beginning to fall, the first flush of spring verdure was past, but still the road was pleasant and the morning fine. Whether it was that Clare found enough to occupy her thoughts, or that she did not wish to disclose the confused state of feeling in which she was, it would be difficult to say; but, at all events, she gave up the talk, which it was her wont to lead and direct. And Edgar, left to himself, ran over his recent experiences, and, for almost the first time since he had seen her, thought of Gussy Thornleigh. She was very “nice;” she was a very different person to have at your elbow from that pretty Alice Pimpernell, whom Clare held in such needless terror. If a man could secure such a companion—so amusing, so pretty, so full of brightness, would not he be a lucky man? Edgar let this question skim through his mind, with that sense of pleasant exhilaration which moves a young man who is sensible of the possibility of power in himself, the privilege of making choice, before any real love has come in to change the balance of feeling. He had not been made subject by Gussy, had not set his heart on her, nor transferred to her the potential voice; and it half amused, half disturbed him to think that he probably might, if he chose, have for the asking that prettiest,liveliest, charming little creature. He did not enter so deeply into the question as to realize that it was his position, his wealth, his name, and not himself which she would be sure to marry. He only felt that it was a curious, amusing, exciting thought. He was not used to such reflections; and, indeed, had he gone into it with any seriousness, Edgar, who had a natural and instinctive reverence for women, would have been the first to blush at his own superficial mixture of pleased vanity and amusement. But, being fancy free, and feeling the surface of his mind thus lightly rippled by imagination, he could not think of the young women with whom he had been brought into accidental contact since he came home without a certain pleasant emotion. They moved him to a sort of affectionate sentiment which was not in the least love, though, at the same time, it was not the kind of sentiment with which their brothers would have inspired him. Probably he would have been utterly indifferent about their brothers. With a sensation of pleasure and amusement he suffered his thoughts to stray about the subject: but he had not fallen in love. He was as far from that malady as if he had never seen a woman in his life; and, with a smile on his lip, he asked himself how it was that they did not move him simply as men did—or rather, how it was thatthey affected him so differently? not with passionate or irreverent, far less evil thoughts, but with a soft sense of affectionateness and indulgent friendship, a mingling of personal gratification and liking which was quite distinct from love on the one hand, and, on the other, from any sentiment ever called forth by man.
Lady Augusta was at home, with all her girls, but on the eve of starting. They were going to town for the short season, which was all Mr. Thornleigh meant to give them that year. “Don’t you think it is hard,” Gussy said, confidentially, to Edgar, “that because Harry has got into debt we should all be stinted? If any of us girls were to get into debt, I wonder what papa would say. This is the last day of May, and we must be back in July—six weeks; fancy only six weeks in town, or perhaps not quite so much as that.”
“But Clare does not go at all,” said Edgar, “and I don’t think she suffers much.”
“Oh, Clare! Clare is a great lady, and not dependent upon anybody’s pleasure. When one is mistress of Arden, and has everything one’s own way——” Here, apparently, it occurred to Gussy that she was expressing herself too frankly, for she stopped short, and laughed and blushed. “I mean, when one is one’s own mistress,” she said, “and notone of many, like us girls—it is quite different. If Clare chose to go to Siberia, instead of going to town, I think she would have her way. I am sure you would not oppose.”
“I never oppose anybody,” said Edgar; and it was curious how strongly inclined he felt to laugh and blush just as Gussy had done, and to ask her whether she would like to be mistress of Arden? “Why shouldn’t she, if she would like it?” he felt himself asking. It seemed absurd not to give her such a trifle if it really would make her so much more comfortable. Edgar, however, felt a little disposed to reason with her, to demonstrate that the position was not so very desirable after all. “But it is not so easy as you think,” he said, “for Clare finds it very difficult to manage me. I don’t think she ever had so hard a task. She has no time to think of town or the season for taking care of me.”
Gussy’s eyes lighted up with fun and mischief. “I wonder if I could manage you—were I Clare,” she said, laughing, and not without a little faint blush of consciousness. Perhaps Lady Augusta heard some echo of these last words, for she came and sat down by Edgar, entirely breaking up theirtête-á-tête. Lady Augusta was very kind, and motherly, and pleasant. She inquired into Edgar’splans with genuine interest, and gave him a great deal of good advice.
“If I were you, I should take Clare to town,” she said. “I think it would do her good. To be sure, she is still in mourning, but she ought to be beginning to think of putting her mourning off. What is the use of it? It cannot do any good to those who are gone, and it is very gloomy for the living. To be sure, it suits Clare; but I think, Mr. Arden, you should take her to town. Besides, you ought not to shut yourself up at your age in the country all the year through; it is out of the question. My girls are grumbling at the short season we shall have. I daresay Gussy has told you. You must not mind her nonsense. She is one of those who say not only all, but more than they really mean to say.”
“Then I wish there were more of such people in the world, for they are very charming,” said Edgar heartily; and he thought so, and was quite sincere in this little speech. Lady Augusta was very friendly indeed as she shook hands with him. “Don’t forget that we expect to see you in town,” she said, as he went away. “He will be with us before ten days are over,” she said to Mr. Thornleigh, in confidence, with a nod of satisfaction: but her conclusion was made, unfortunately, on insufficient grounds.
Thefirst of June was very bright and warm. The summer had set in with great ardour and vehemence, not with the vacillation common to English summers. There had been no rain for a long time, and the whole world began to cry out for the want of it. A long continuance of fair weather, though it fills an Englishman with delight out of his own country, is very embarrassing to him at home. He gets troubled in his mind about the crops, about the grass, about the cattle, and tells everybody in the most solemn of voices that “we want rain;” whereas when he has crossed the Channel it is the grand subject of his self-congratulations that you need not be always speculating about wet days, but can really believe in the weather. The weather had been thoroughly to be trusted all that month of May, and all the rural world was gloomy about it; but Edgar had not yet acquired English habits to such an extent, and he was glad of the serene continuous sunshine, the blue sky that made a permanentbackground to his fine trees. It was the first time that he had been able to give hospitality, and it pleased him. When he had made sure that his sister did not object, he anticipated Lord Newmarch’s visit with a certain pleasure. There would be novelty in it, and some amusement; and it was natural to him to surround himself with people, and feel about him that flow and movement of humanity which is necessary to some spirits. The Ardens could do without society as a general rule. They had stately feasts now and then, but for the greater part of their lives the stillness of the park that surrounded them, the gambols of the deer, or the advent of now and then the carriage of a county neighbour coming to pay a call, was all that was visible from their solemn windows. This was not at all in Edgar’s way; and accordingly he was glad somebody was coming. It would have been a pleasure to him to have filled his house, to have put himself at everybody’s service, to have felt the tide rising and swelling round him. To Clare it might be a bore, but it was no bore to her brother. Lord Newmarch drove out from Liverpool, where he had been attending the great social meeting, between five and six in the afternoon. Edgar saw him from a distance, and hurried home to meet his guest. “Newmarch is coming, Clare,”he cried as he came into the little drawing-room in which Clare sat very demurely, with the silver and china shining on the little tea-table beside her, and her embroidery in her hand. It was not an occupation she cared for, but yet it was good for emergencies, and especially when it was necessary to take up that dignified position as the lady of the house. “Very well, Edgar; but you need not be excited about it,” said Clare. What was Lord Newmarch that any one should care about his coming? She sat in placid state to receive her brother’s visitor, secretly fretting in her heart to see that Edgar was not quite as calm as she was. “Can it be because he is a lord?” she said to herself, and shrank, and was half ashamed, not being able to realise that Edgar’s fresh mind, restrained by none of the Arden traditions, would have been heartily satisfied to receive a beggar, had that beggar been pleasant and amusing. To be sure Lord Newmarch was not amusing; but he was instructive, which was far better—or at least so some people think.
Clare’s placidity, however, vanished like a dream when she raised her astonished eyes and saw that two people had come into the room, and that one of them was Arthur Arden. The sudden wonder and excitement brought the blood hot to her cheeks. She gave Edgar a rapid angry look, which fortunatelyhe did not perceive, and then her cousin’s voice was in her ear, and she saw dimly his hand held out to her. She had known, of course, that they must meet, but she had expected to have time to prepare herself, to put on her finest manners, and receive him in such a way that he should feel himself kept at a distance, and understand at once upon what terms she intended to receive him. But there he stood all at once before the dazzled eyes which were so reluctant to believe it, holding out his hand to her, assuming the mastery of the position. Clare’s high spirit rose, though her heart fluttered sadly in her breast. She got up hastily, stumbling over her footstool, which was an admirable excuse for not seeing his offered hand. “Mr. Arden!” she exclaimed. “Forgive me for being surprised; but Edgar, you never told me that you expected Mr. Arden to-day.”
“I did not know,” said Edgar, with anxious politeness; “but he is very welcome anyhow, I am sure. We did not settle anything about the day.”
“Newmarch drove me over,” said Arthur. “I have been at Liverpool too, going in for science. At my age a man must go in for something. When oneceases to be interesting on one’s own merits—— But Miss Arden, if I am inconvenient, send me off to the Arden Arms. There never was man more used to shift for himself than I.”
“It is not in the least inconvenient,” said Clare, with her stateliest look; and she seated herself, and offered them tea. But she did not look again at her cousin. She addressed herself to his companion, and asked a hundred questions about his meeting, and all that had been discussed at it. Lord Newmarch was not in the least disinclined to communicate all the information she could desire. He sipped his tea, and he talked with that surprised sense of pleasure and satisfaction which the sudden discovery of a good listener conveys. He stood over her, his tea-cup in his hand, with the light, which was not positive sunshine, but a soft reflection of the blaze without thrown from a great mirror, glimmering on his spectacles as it did on the china—and expounded everything. “It was a very inconvenient time,” he said, “but fortunately nothing very important was going on, and I was so fortunate as to secure a pair. So I do not feel that I have neglected one part of my duty in pursuing another. This was the most convenient moment for our foreign friends. The fact is, all great questions affecting the people should be treated internationally. That has long been my theory. Politics are a different thing; but socialquestions—questions which affect the morality and the comfort of the entire human race——”
“But the measures which suit one portion of the race might not suit another,” said Clare, who was intensely British. “I don’t think I have any confidence in things that come from abroad.”
“Except brothers,” said Arthur Arden, almost below his breath.
Nobody heard him but Clare. It was said for her, with the intention of establishing that private intercourse which can run on in the midst of the most general conversation. But Clare had set herself stoutly against any such indulgence.
“Except brothers,” she said calmly, as if the observation had been her own.
“That is exactly my own way of thinking,” said the social philosopher, “but are not we all brothers? Am not I identical with my cousin in France and my brother in America so far as all social necessities are considered? I require to be washed, and clothed, and fed, and taken care of exactly as they do. We will never have a thorough and effectual system till we all work together. Though I am a Liberal in politics, I am not at all against the employment of force in a legitimate way. If I will not keep myself clean of my own accord, I believe I ought to be compelled to do it—not for my ownsake, but because I become a nuisance to my neighbours. If I do not educate my children as I ought, I should be compelled to do. There are a great many things, more than are thought of in our philosophy, which ought to be compulsory. The individual is all very well, and we have done a great deal for him; but now something must be done for the race.”
“If a man eats garlic, for instance, he should be compelled to give it up,” said Arthur Arden. “I was in Spain last year, and I would give my vote for that. Insects ought to be abolished, and all that. If you get up a crusade on that subject, I will give you my best support. And then there are duns. To be asked to pay money is a horrible nuisance. I don’t know anything that makes a man more obnoxious to his neighbour——”
“I don’t see what advantage is to be gained by laughing at a serious subject,” said Lord Newmarch, over his tea-cup. “There are a great many things that can scarcely be discussed in general society; though indeed ladies are setting us a good example in that respect. They are boldly approaching subjects which have hitherto been held unfit——”
“Edgar, you will remember that we dine at half-past seven,” said Clare, rising. Her usual paleness had given way to a little flush of excitement. Itwas not Lord Newmarch and his questionable subjects that excited her. Lord Newmarch was a politician and a Social Reformer, and, as he himself thought, a man of intellect; but Clare was perfectly able to make an end of him should it be necessary. It was the other man standing by, who made no pretension to any kind of superiority, who alarmed her. And he did more than alarm her. She was confused to the very depth of her being to see him standing there by her brother’s side. Was he friend or foe? Had he come back to Arden in love or in hatred; for herself or for Edgar? Arthur Arden had powers and faculties which were the growth of experience, and which are rarely possessed by very young men. He could look so that nobody could see him looking except the person at whom he gazed. He could express devotion, almost adoration, without the bystanders being a bit the wiser. He could flatter and persuade, and make use of a thousand weapons, without even addressing the object of his thoughts. And Clare, how she could not tell, had come to understand that strange language. She knew how much was meant for herself in all he said. She felt the charm stealing over her, the sense that here were skill and strength worthy a much greater effort brought to bear upon her, as if her approbation, her love, were the greatest prizes to be won upon earth.There is something very captivating to the imagination of a young woman in this kind of pursuit; but this time she was forewarned, and had the consciousness of her danger. She hurried away, and took refuge in her own room, feeling it was her only stronghold. Then she tried to ask herself what her feelings really were towards this man, the very sight of whom had made her heart flutter in her bosom. He was poor, and she was rich; he had passed the limits of youth, and she was in its first blossom. He had no occupation, nothing to do by which he could improve or advance himself. It was even suspected that he had not passed through the troubles of life without somewhat tarnishing his personal character. The history that could be made of him was not a very edifying history, and Clare was aware of it. But yet—— All these things were of quite secondary importance to her. The question that really absorbed her mind was—Had he come here forher? Wasshehis object? and if so, why? Clare knew well what everybody would say—that he came “to better himself;” that her fortune was to fill up the gap in his, and her young life to be absorbed in order to give sustenance and comfort to his worn existence. Could it be so? Could anything so humbling be the truth? Not merely to love and soothe, and make him happy; but hermoney to maintain, herself to increase his personal comfort. Clare tried very hard to consider the matter fully in this light. But how difficult it was to do it! Just when she tried to remember how penniless he was, and how important her fortune would be to him, a certain look rushed back on her mind which surely, surely could have nothing to do with her fortune! And then Clare upbraided herself passionately for the gross and foul suspicion: but yet it would come back. Was he a man to love generously and fondly, as a woman likes to be loved? or would he think but of himself in the matter, not of her? If he loved her, it would not matter to her that he had nothing, or even that his past was doubtful, and his life half worn out: all that was nothing if it was true love that moved him; but—— Old Arden was hers, and she was an heiress capable of setting him up again in the world, and giving to him honour and position such as in reality had never been his. And she felt so willing to do it. True, she had assured Edgar that she would not take Old Arden from him. But anyhow she would be rich, able to place her husband, when she married, in a position worthy of her name. If——
It may be supposed that to dress for dinner while these thoughts were buzzing through her brain was not the calm ceremony it usually is. And all thiscommotion had arisen from the first glance at him, the mere sense of his presence. What would it be, then, when he had found time to put forth all his arts?
The reader will probably think it very strange that Clare Arden should not have been utterly revolted by the thought that it was possible her kinsman could mean to make a speculation of her, and a mere stepping-stone to fortune. But she was not revolted. She had that personal objection to being married for her money which every woman has; but had not she herself been the heroine of the story, she would rather have felt approval than otherwise for Arthur Arden. What else could he do? she would have said to herself. He could not dig, and begging, even when one is little troubled with shame, is an unsatisfactory maintenance. And if everything could be put right by a suitable marriage, why should not he marry? It was the most natural, the most legitimate way of arranging everything. For the idea itself she had no horror. All she felt was a natural prejudice against being herself the subject of the transaction.
“MayI walk with you, if you are going to the village?” said Arthur Arden, when Clare met him in one of the side walks, two or three mornings after his arrival. She had not seen him until he was by her side, and all this time had avoided him strenuously, allowing herself to be deluged with Lord Newmarch’s philosophy, and feeling by instinct that to keep out of her cousin’s way as long as she was able would be her soundest policy. She would have abandoned her walk had she known that he was in the park waiting for her; but now it was too late to escape. Clare gave him a little bow of assent, feeling that she could not help herself; and she did not take any trouble to conceal her sentiments. The pucker came to her brow which Edgar knew so well, and the smile that just touched her lips was merely a smile of civility—cold and reluctant. She was, indeed, so far from disguising her feelings that Arthur, who was learned in such matters, drew a certain encouragement from herfrank discontent. He was clever enough to know that if this reluctance had been quite genuine, Clare would have taken some pains to restrain it. Her faint smile and only half-suppressed frown were the best warrants to him that she was not so perfectly indifferent as she had attempted to appear.
“You don’t want me?” he said, with a plaintive intonation. “I can see that very clearly; and you will never give me a chance of saying a word. But, Miss Arden, you must not be angry with me, if I have schemed for this moment. I am not going to say anything that will offend you. I only want to beg you to pardon me for what I once said in ignorance. I did not know Edgar then. What a fine fellow he is! I came disposed to hate him, and find fault with everything he did and said. But now I feel for him as if he were my younger brother. He is one of the finest young fellows I ever met. I feel that I must say this to you, at whatever cost.”
The blood rushed to Clare’s cheek, and her heart thumped wildly in her breast, but she did all she could to keep her stiff demeanour. “I am glad you acknowledge it,” she said, ungraciously; and then with a little rush of petulance, which was more agitation than anger—“If that was how youthought of my brother—if you intended to hate him—why did you come here?”
A pause followed upon this hasty question—a pause which had the highest dramatic effect, and told immensely upon the questioner, notwithstanding all her power of self-control. “Must I answer?” said Arthur Arden, at last, subduing his voice, and permitting a certain tremulousness to appear in it—for he had full command of his voice; “I will, if I must; but in that case you must promise not to be angry, for it will not be my fault.”
“I do not want any answer,” said Clare, seeing her danger. “I meant, how could you come with that opinion of Edgar? and why should you have formed such an opinion of Edgar? He has done nothing to make any man think ill of him—of that, I am very sure. An old prejudice that never had any foundation; because he did not resemble the rest of us——”
“Dear Miss Arden, do not I confess it?” said her cousin, humbly. “The echo of a prejudice—that was all—which could never stand for a moment before the charm of his good nature. If there are any words which will express my recantation more strongly teach them to me, and I will repeat them on my knees.”
“Edgar would be much surprised to see you onyour knees,” said Clare, who felt the clouds melting away from her face, in spite of herself.
“He need not see me,” said Arthur; “the offence was not committed in his knowledge. I am in that attitude now, though no one can see it. Will not the Lady Clare forgive her poor kinsman when he sues—on his knees?”
“Pray—pray, don’t be ridiculous!” said Clare, in momentary alarm; but Arthur Arden was not the kind of man to go the length of making himself ridiculous. Emotion which is very great has not time to think of such restraints; but he was always conscious of the limitations which it is wise to put to feeling. His homage was spiritual, not external; but still, he allowed her to feel that he might at any moment throw himself at her feet, and betray that which he had the appearance of concealing so carefully. Clare went on, unconsciously quickening her steps, surrounded by an atmosphere of suppressed passion. He did not attempt to take her hand—to arrest her in any way; but yet he spread round her that dazzling web which was woven of looks and tones, and hints of words that were not said.
“It is not anything new to me,” she said, hurriedly. “I always knew what Edgar was. It is very sad to think that poor papa would neverunderstand him; and, then, his education—— One cannot wonder that he should be different. My grand anxiety is that he should marry suitably,” Clare added, falling into a confidential strain, without knowing it. “He has so little knowledge of the world.”
“Does he mean to marry? Lucky fellow!” said Arthur Arden, with a sigh.
“It does not matter much whether he means it or not,” said Clare. “Of course he must. And then, he has such strange notions. If he fell in love with any girl in the village, I believe he would marry her as soon as if she were a Duke’s daughter. It is very absurd. It is something wanting, I think. He does not seem to see the most ordinary rules of life.”
“Lucky fellow, I say!” said Arthur Arden. “Do you know, I think it is angelic of me not to hate him. One might forgive him the houses and lands; but for the blessed power of doing what he pleases, it is hard not to hate him. Of course, he won’t be able to do as he pleases. If nobody else steps in, Fate will, and baulk him. There is some consolation to be got out of that.”
“It does not console me to think so,” said Clare. “But look—here is something very pretty. Look at them, and tell me if you think the girl is a great beauty. I don’t know whether I admire her or not, with those wild, strange, visionary eyes.”
The sight, which was very pretty, which suddenly stopped them as they talked, was that of Mrs. Murray and her granddaughter. They were seated under a hawthorn, the whiteness of which had begun to tarnish, but which still scented the air all round. The deeper green of the elms behind, and the sweet silken greenness of the limes in the foreground framed in this little picture. The old lady sat knitting, with a long length of stocking depending from her hands, sometimes raising her head to look at her charge, sometimes sending keen glances up or down the avenue, like sentinels, against any surprise. Jeanie had no occupation whatever. She lay back, with her eyes fixed on the sky, over which the lightest of white clouds were passing. Her lap was full of flowers, bits of hawthorn, and of the yellow-flowered gorse and long-plumed grasses—the bouquet of a child; but she was paying no attention to the flowers. Her eyes and upturned face were absorbed, as it were, in the fathomless blue of the sky.
“I hope she is better,” said Clare, in her clear voice. “I am very glad you can bring her out to enjoy the park. They say the air is so good here. Do you find it much milder than Scotland? I suppose it is very cold among the hills.”
“Cold, oh, no cold,” said Mrs. Murray, “but noso dry as here among your fine parks and all your pleasant fields. Jeanie, do you see the young lady? She likes to come out, and does nothing, the idle thing, but look up at the sky. I canna tell what she finds there for my part. She tells me stories for an hour at a time about all the bits of fleecy clouds. Ye may think it idle, Miss Arden, and a bad way to bring up a young thing; but the doctors a’ tell me it’s the best for the puir bairn.”
“I don’t think it idle,” said Clare, who nevertheless in her mind highly disapproved. “When one is ill, of course one must seek health first of all.”
“Jeanie, do ye no see the young lady?” whispered the grandmother; but neither of them rose, neither attempted to make that curtsey of which Clare felt herself defrauded. When the girl was thus called, she raised her head and looked up in Clare’s face with a soft child-like smile.
“I am better, thank you,” she said, with a dreamy sense that only a question about her health could have been addressed to her. “I am quite better, quite better. I canna feel now that it’s me at all.”
“What does she mean?” said Clare, wondering.
“That was the worst of all,” said Jeanie, answering for herself. “I never could forget that it wasme. Whatever I did, or wherever I was, it was aye me, me—but now the world is coming back, and that sky. Granny! do ye mind what you promised to say?”
“It was to tell you how thankful we are,” said Mrs. Murray, looking up from her knitting, yet going on with it without intermission, “that ye let us come here, Miss Arden. It is like balm to my poor bairn. When it’s no the body that’s ailing, but the mind, it’s hard to ken what to do. I’ve tried many a thing they told me to try—physic and strengthening meat, and all; but there’s nothing like the sweet air and the quiet—and many, many thanks for it. Jeanie, Jeanie, my darlin’, what has come to you?”
The girl had gradually raised herself upright, and had been seated with her eyes fixed in admiration upon Clare, who was as a goddess to the young creature, thus dreaming her way back into life; but there had been a rustle by Clare’s side which had attracted her attention. It was when she saw Arthur Arden that she gave that cry. It rang out shrill and wild through the stillness, startling all the echoes, startling the very birds among the trees. Then she started up wildly to her feet, and clutched at her grandmother, who rose also in sudden fright and dismay. “Look at him, look at him!” saidJeanie—“that man! it’s that man!”—and with every limb trembling, and wild cries bursting from her lips, which grew fainter and fainter as her strength failed, she fell back into the arms which were opened to support her. Arthur Arden started forward to offer his assistance, but Mrs. Murray waved him away with an impatient exclamation.
“Oh, if you would go and no come near us—oh, if you would keep out of her sight! No, my bonnie Jeanie—no, my darlin’! it’s no that man. It’s one that’s like him, one ye never saw before. No, my bonnie bairn! Oh, Jeanie, Jeanie, have ye the courage to look, and I’ll show ye the difference? Sir, dinna go away, dinna go away. Oh, Miss Arden, keep him still till my darling opens her eyes and sees that he’s no the man.”
Clare stood silent in her consternation, looking from one to the other. Did it mean that Arthur knew these strangers? that there was a secret, some understanding she had not been meant to know, some undisclosed wrong? She suspected her cousin; she hated that old, designing, artful woman; she feared the mad girl. “I can do nothing,” she said hoarsely, with quivering lips, drawing apart, and sheltering herself behind a tree. And then she hated herself that her first movement was anger and not pity. As for Jeanie, her cries sank into moans, hertrembling increased, until suddenly she dropped so heavily on her grandmother’s shoulder as to draw Mrs. Murray down on her knees. They sank together into the deep, cool grass—the young creature like one dead, the old woman, in her pale strength and self-restraint, holding her fast. She asked no help from either of the two astonished spectators, but laid the girl down softly, and put back her hair, and fanned her, with the gentleness of a nurse to an infant, murmuring all the while words which her nursling could not hear. “It’s no him, my bonnie bairn; oh, my Jeanie, it’s no him! It’s a young gentleman, one ye never saw—maybe one of his kin. Oh, my poor bairn, here’s it come all back again—all to do over again! Why did I bring her here?”
“What hashereto do with it? what do you mean by calling Mr. Ardenthat man? what is the meaning of it all?” said Clare, coming forward. “I must know the meaning of it. Yes, I see she has fainted; but you are used to it—you are not unhappy about her; and I am unhappy, very unhappy, to know what it means.”
The three women were by this time alone, for Arthur Arden had gone for help from the Hall, which was the nearest house, as soon as Jeanie fainted. Clare came forward, almost imperious, towhere the poor girl was lying. It was a thing the grandmother was used to, she said to herself. The old woman made no fuss about it, and why should she make any fuss? “I don’t want to be cruel,” she said, almost crying in her excitement; “if you are anxious about her, tell me so; but you don’t look anxious. And what, oh, what does it mean?”
“It means our ain private affairs, that neither you nor any stranger has aught to do with,” said Mrs. Murray, looking up with an air as proud as Clare’s own. And then she returned in a moment to her natural tone. “I am no anxious because she has fainted. She will come out of her faint, poor bairn; but it’s sore, sore work, when you think it’s all passing away, that the look of a man she never saw before should bring it back again. I canna tell ye my private history, Miss Arden. I may have done wrong in my day, and I may be suffering for it; but I canna tell it a’ to a stranger; and that is what it means—no an accident, but our ain private affairs that are between me and my Maker, and no one beside.”
“But she knew Mr. Arden!” said Clare.
“The man she took him for is dead; he was a man that did evil to me and mine, and brought us to evil,” said the grandmother, solemnly. “The life is coming back to her; and oh, if ye would but goaway, and keep yon gentleman away! If we were to bide here for a year, I could tell ye no more.”
Wretched with suspicion, unbelieving and unhappy, Clare turned away. Had she been capable of feeling any additional blow to her pride, that dismissal would have given it; but her pride was in abeyance for the moment, swallowed up in wonder and anxious curiosity. “The man she took him for is dead”—was that true, or a lie invented to screen one who had betrayed poor Jeanie. The girl herself could not surely be deceived. And if Arthur Arden had wrought this ruin, what remained for Clare?
Mrs. Murraywas left alone with her grandchild, and she was glad. Though she was old, she was full of that patient strength which shows itself without any ostentation whenever the emergency which requires it arises. She was not sorry for herself, nor did she think much of her own age, or of what was due to her. She had long got over that phase of life in which a woman has leisure to think of herself. And there was no panic of alarm about her, such as might have come to the inexperienced. She knew her work, and all about it, and did not overwhelm herself with unnecessary excitements. She laid her child down in the grass, in the shade, laying her head upon a folded shawl. Jeanie had come out of her faint, but she lay in a state of exhaustion, with her eyes closed, unable to move or speak. The grandmother knew it was impossible to take her home in such a state of prostration. She seated herself so as to screen her charge from passers by, and resumed herknitting—a picture of calm and thoughtful composure—serious, yet with no trace of mystery or panic about her. What had happened to Jeanie was connected with their own affairs. It was a thing which nobody but themselves had anything to do with. She sat and watched the young sufferer with all that grave power of self-restraint which it is always so impressive to witness, asking neither help nor pity, knitting on steadily, with sometimes a tender glance from her deep eyes at the young fair creature lying at her side, and sometimes a keen look round to guard against intrusion. The work went on through all, and those thoughts which nobody knew of, which no one suspected. What was she thinking about? She had a breadth of sixty years to go back upon, and memories to recall with which nothing here had any connection. Or could it be possible that there might be a certain connection between her thoughts and this unknown place? Sometimes she paused in her work, and dropped her hands, and turned her face towards the house, which was invisible from where she sat, and fell into a deeper musing. “Would I do it over again if it were to do?” she said half aloud to herself, with an instinctive impulse to break the intense stillness; and then, making no answer to her own question, sat with her head dropped on her hand,gazing into the shadowy distance. What was it she had done? It was something which touched her conscience—touched her heart; but she had not repented of it as a positive wrong, and could yet, it was clear, bring forth a hundred arguments to justify herself to herself. She paused, and leant her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes on the distance, in which, unseen, lay the home of the Ardens. Her thoughts had strayed away from Jeanie. She mused, and she sighed a sigh which was very deep and long drawn, as if it came from the depths of her being. “The ways of ill-doers are hard,” she murmured to herself; and then, after a pause, “Would I do it again?” It was not remorse that was in her face; it was not even penitence; it was pain subdued, and a great doubt which it was very hard to solve. But there was no clue to her musing, either in her look or her tones. She took up her knitting with another sigh, when she had apparently exhausted, or been exhausted by that thought, and changed the shawl under Jeanie’s head, making her more comfortable, and looked at her with the tenderest pity. “Poor bairn!” she said to herself; “Poor bairn!” and then, after a long pause, “That she should be the first to pay the price!” The words were said but half aloud, a murmur that fell into the sound of thewind in the trees and the insects all about. Then she went to work again, knitting in the deepest quiet—a silence so intense that she looked like a weird woman knitting a web of fate.
It was a curious picture. The girl with her bonnet laid aside, and her hair a little loosened from its smoothness, lying stretched out in the deep cool grass which rose all round her, and shaded by a great bough of hawthorn, laden with the blossom which was still so sweet. The white petals lay all about upon the grass, lying motionless like Jeanie, who was herself like a great white flower, half buried in the soft and fragrant verdure; while the old mother sat by doing her work, watching with every sense, ear and eye on the alert to catch any questionable sound. The girl fell asleep in her weakness; the old woman sat motionless in her strength and patience; and the trees waved softly over them, and the summer blue filled up all the interstices of the leafage. This was the scene upon which Arthur Arden came back as he returned from the house with aid and promises of aid. He had been interested before, and now, when he perceived that Clare was not to be seen, his interest grew more manifest. He came up hurriedly, half running, for he was not without natural sympathy and feeling. “Is she better?” he asked. “MissArden’s maid is coming, and the carriage to take her home; and, in the meantime, here is something.” And he hastily produced a bottle of smelling-salts and some eau-de-cologne.
“She is better,” said Mrs. Murray, stiffly. “I thank ye, sir, for all your trouble; but there’s no need—no need! She is resting, poor lamb, after her attack. It’s how she does always. But I would fain be sure that she would never see you again. Dinna think I’m uncivil, Mr. Arden; for I know you are Mr. Arden by your looks. You are like one that brought great pain and trouble to our house a year or two since. I would be glad to think that she would never see ye more.”
“But that is a little hard,” said Arthur Arden. “To ask me to go away and make a martyr of myself, without even telling me why. I must say I think that harsh. I would do a great deal for so pretty a creature,” he added, carelessly drawing near the pretty figure, and stooping over her. Mrs. Murray half rose with a quick sense of the difference in his tone.
“My poor bairn is subject to a sore infirmity,” she said, “and for that she should be the more pitied of all Christian folk. A gentleman like you will neither look at her nor speak to her but as you ought. I am asking nothing of you. It’s mypart to keep my own safe. All I pray is that if you should meet her in the road you would pass on the other side, or turn away your face. That’s little to do. I can take care of my own.”
“My good woman, you are not very complimentary,” said Arthur; and then he went and gazed down once more upon the sleeping figure in the grass. His gaze was not that of a pure-minded or sympathetic spectator. He looked at her with a half smile, noting her beauty and childish grace. “She is very young, I suppose?” he said. “Poor little thing! What did the man who was like me do to frighten her so? And I wonder who he was? The resemblance must be very great.”
“He brought grief and trouble to our house,” said Mrs. Murray, who had risen, and stood screening her child with a jealous mother’s instinct. “Sir, I am much obliged to you. But, oh! if you would be kinder still, and go on your way! We are complaining of nothing, neither my bairn nor me.”
“Your ‘bairn,’ as you call her, is mighty pretty,” said Arthur Arden. “Look here, buy her a ribbon or something with this, as some amends for having frightened her. What, you won’t have it? Nonsense! I shall probably never see her again. You need not be afraid of me.”
“I am no afraid of any man,” said Mrs. Murray;“if you would leave us free in this spot, where we’re harming nobody. Good day to you, sir. Give your siller to the next poor body. It’s no wanted by me.”
“As proud as Lucifer, by Jove!” said Arthur Arden, and he put back his half-sovereign in his pocket, perhaps not unwillingly, for he had not many of them; and then he stood still for a minute longer, during which time the old woman resumed her knitting, and went on steadily, having dropped him, as it were, though she still watched him keenly from under her eyelids. He waited for some other opportunity of speech, but at length, half amazed half annoyed, swore “by Jove!” once more, and turned on his heel with little courtesy. Then he began to bethink himself of Clare, who had gone down the avenue, and whom he had missed. He was a man used to please himself, used to turn aside after every butterfly that crossed his path, and it was so long since he had engaged in the warm pursuit of anything that he had forgot the amount of perseverance and steadiness necessary for it. He had been almost, nay quite glad, when he saw that Clare was gone, and felt himself free for the moment to find out something about the pretty creature who lay in the grass like a Sleeping Beauty; but now that the careful guardian of thesleeping beauty had sent him away, his mind returned to its original pursuit. Would Clare be angry; would she consider his desertion as a sign of indifference, an offence against herself? He chafed at the self-denial thus made necessary, and yet he was as anxious to secure Clare’s good opinion as any man could be, and not entirely on interested motives. She was very dignified and Juno-like and stately. She would condemn him and all his ways did she know them. She would be intolerant of his life, and his friends, and his habits; and yet Clare attracted him personally as well as pecuniarily. He would be another man if he could succeed in persuading her to love him. It would make him rich, it would give him an established position in the world—and it would make him happy. Yes, there could not be any doubt on that subject, it would make him happy; and yet he was ready to be led astray all the same by any butterfly hunt that crossed his path.
As he hastened down the avenue, he met a little procession which was coming up, and which consisted of an invalid chair, drawn by a man, who paused every ten minutes to speak or be spoken to by the patient within, and followed by an elderly maid, who walked with a disapproving air under a huge umbrella. Arthur Arden was sufficientlyacquainted with the population of Arden to know at once who this was, and the voice which immediately addressed him was one which compelled his attention. “Mr. Arden, Mr. Arden,” said the voice, “do stop and look at this beautiful chair; a present from Edgar. I was saying to my brother just the other day—— Ten minutes in the open air—only ten minutes now and then, if there was any way of doing it! And to think of dear Edgar recollecting. And the handsomest—— Now, is not he a dear fellow? All padded and cushioned, and as easy as a bed—— And the very best temper in the world, Mr. Arden, and always thinking of others. You will think me an old fool, but I do so love that boy.”
“He is very lucky, I am sure, to inspire so warm a feeling,” said Arthur, with mock respect.
“Lucky indeed! he deserves it, and a thousand times more. Of course I would not speak of such a thing as loving a gentleman,” said Miss Somers, with a soft blush stealing over her pretty faded old face, “if it was not that I was so old and helpless. And dear Edgar is so nice and so kind. Fancy his coming to see me the very first day he was at home: a young man you know, that might have been supposed—— and, then this beautiful chair. I was saying to my brother just the other day—— but then some men are so different from others, andnever take the trouble even to give you an answer. To be sure, there are many things that put a gentleman out and try his temper that we ladies have not got to bear; but then, on the other hand—— And, as I was saying, it arrived all at once, two days ago, in a big packing-case—the biggest packing case, you know. My brother said, ‘It is for you, Lucy;’ and ‘Oh, good gracious, is it for me? and what is it, and who could have sent it? and how good of them to think of me;’ and then, when one is in the midst of one’s little flutter, you know, he tells you you are a little fool, and how you do run on!”
“That was unkind,” said Arthur, when she paused to take breath; “but will you tell me, please, have you seen Miss Arden? I left her going down the avenue.”
“Oh, Clare! she’s in the village by this time, walking so quick. I wonder if it is good to walk so quick, especially in the sun. When I was a young girl like Clare—— And then they say it brings illnesses—— She was in such a hurry; not a bit like Clare to walk so fast; and it makes you look heated, and all that. Mr. Arden, you will make me so happy if you will only look. It can draw out, and I can lie all my length when I get tired. The Queen herself, if she were an invalid—but I’m so glad she is not an invalid, poor dear lady; with allthose horrible death warrants to sign, and everything—Don’t you think there should be somebody to do the death warrants when there is a lady for the Queen—I mean, you know, when there is a Queen? But if I were the Queen I could not have anything better. Isn’t he a dear fellow! And the springs so good, and everything so light and nice and so pretty. You have not half seen yet how nice——”
“There is somebody a little in advance who will appreciate it a great deal better than I can,” said Arthur. “I must overtake Miss Arden. Yes—there; just a little further on.”
“Now, I wonder what he can mean by somebody a little in advance,” said Miss Somers, as Arthur went hastily on. “Can it be Edgar, I wonder—the dear fellow! or the Rector? or whom, I wonder? Mercy, please, if you don’t mind the trouble, do you see anybody coming? Not that I mind who I meet. I am sure I should like to show dear Edgar’s present everywhere. I wonder if it is Lady Augusta? I am sure, Mercy, you know I have always thought well of Lady Augusta——”
“I don’t see nobody, mum,” said Mercy, cutting her mistress remorselessly short, “but them Scotch folks as lives in the village, and ain’t no company for the quality; set them up, them and their pride!John, Miss Somers wants to go a little quicker past them tramps and folks; for they ain’t no better, a poking into our parish,” muttered Mercy, under her breath.
“Oh, no, John; please, John—I want so much to see them,” remonstrated Miss Somers. Fortunately, John wanted to see them too, and after a struggle with Mercy, who ruled her mistress with a rod of iron, the procession paused opposite to where Mrs. Murray sat. Mercy herself could not be more unwilling for any colloquy. The old Scotchwoman kept on her knitting, with her eyes steadily fixed upon it, as long as that was possible. She only moved when the invalid’s eager voice had called her over and over again, “Oh, please, come and speak to me. I am Dr. Somers’ sister, and a great invalid, and I have heard so much about you; and just yesterday I was saying to my brother—— Oh, please, do put down your knitting for a moment and come to me. I am so helpless, I cannot put my foot to the ground.”
Mrs. Murray rose slowly at this appeal, and came and stood by the invalid’s chair.