“I have heard so much about you,” said Miss Somers, eagerly. “I am so glad to have met you. The Doctor is always so busy he never gives me any answer when I speak; and you know when one is helpless and can’t budge—— I should have been in my room for ever but for Edgar, you know—I mean Mr. Arden—the dearest fellow!—who has sent me—— I don’t know if you understand such things; but look at it. This is the first time I have been out for two years. Such a handsome chair! the very best, you may be sure, that he could get to buy. And I know he is so interested in both—— Which is your grandchild? Goodness gracious me? Are not you frightened to death to leave her? She might catch cold; she might have something go up her ear—lying right down in the grass.”
“She’ll take no harm,” said the old woman, “and it’s kind, kind of you to ask——”
“Oh, I am always asking,” said Miss Somers; “but people are so very impatient. ‘How you dorun on!’ is all my brother says. I hear your child is so pretty; and I am so fond of seeing pretty people. Once, when I was young myself—but that is such a long time ago, and, of course, you would not think it, and I don’t suppose any traces are left—but people did say—— Well, well, you know, one ought never to be vain. She lies dreadfully still; are you not frightened to see her like that—so pale, you know, and so still? It always frightens me to see any one lie so quiet.”
“She is sleeping, poor bairn,” said Mrs. Murray. “She has had a fright, and a bit little attack—and now she’s sleeping. The Doctor has been real kind. I canna say in words how kind he has been—and Mr. Arden. You’re fond of Mr. Arden? I do not wonder at that, for he’s a fine lad.”
“There can’t be anything wrong in saying I am fond of Edgar. No; I am sure there can’t be anything wrong,” said Miss Somers: “he is the dearest fellow! We were brought up so very strict, I always feel a little difficulty, you know, in saying, about gentlemen—— But then at my age, and so helpless as I am—— I have him up to my room to see me, you know, and I can’t think there is any harm, though I would not for the world do anything that was considered fast, or that would make any talk. Why, I have known him from a baby—orrather I ought to have known him. The Doctor was not here then. When one thinks of such a while ago, you know, everything was so very different. I was going to balls and parties and things, like other young people. Five and twenty years ago!—there was a gentleman that had a post out in India somewhere—but it never came to anything. How strange it would have been, supposing I had been all these five and twenty years in India! I wonder if I should have been helpless as I am now?—but probably it would have been the liver—it would have been sure to have been the liver. Poor dear Edgar, he never was like the Ardens. That was why they were so unkind.”
“Unkind!” said Mrs. Murray, with a sudden start.
“Oh, you must not say anything of it now,” said the invalid, frightened. “He is the Squire, and there is no harm done. The old Squire was not nice; he was that sort of hard-hearted man—and poor dear Edgar was never like an Arden. My brother has his own ways of thinking, you know, and takes things into his head; and he thinks he understands: he thinks it was something about Mrs. Arden. But that is all the greatest wickedness and folly. I knew her, and I can say—— He was so hard-hearted—not the least like a father—and that made him think, you know——”
Mrs. Murray, who was not used to Miss Somers, and could not unravel the maze, or make out whichhimwas the Squire and which the Doctor, gazed at her with wondering eyes. She was almost as much moved as Edgar had been. Her cheeks grew red, her glance eager. “I have no right to be asking questions,” she said, “but there’s a cousin of mine here that has long been in their service, and I cannot but take an interest in the family. Thomas Perfitt has told us a’ about the Ardens at home. If I was not presuming, I would like to know about Mr. Edgar. There’s something in his kind eyes that goes to the heart of the poor. I’m a stranger; but if it’s no presuming——”
“Yes; I suppose you are a stranger,” said Miss Somers, who was too glad to have any one to talk to. “But I have heard so much about you, I can’t think—— Oh, dear, no, you are not presuming. Everybody knows about the Ardens; they were always a very proud sort of stiff people. The old Squire was married when I was a young lady, you know, and cared for a little attention and to be taken notice of; though I am sure why I should talk of myself! That is long past—ever so long past; and his wife was so nice and so sweet. If she had been a great lady I am sure Ishould never have loved her so—— And the baby—but somehow no one ever thought of the baby—not even his mamma. She had always to be watching her husband’s looks, poor thing. On the whole, I am not sure that one is not happier when one does not marry. The things I have seen! Not daring to call their souls their own; and then looking down upon you, as if you were not far, far—— But poor dear Edgar never was petted like Clare. One never saw him when he was a child; and I do believe his poor dear papa hated him after—— I ought not to talk like this, I know. But he has come out of it all like—like—— Oh, he is the dearest fellow! And to be sure, he is the Squire, and no one can harm him now.”
“Maybe the servants should not hear,” said Mrs. Murray, whose face was glowing with a deep colour. The red was not natural to her, and seemed to burn into her very eyes. And she did not look at Miss Somers, but stood anxiously fingering the apron of the little carriage. John and Mercy were both close by—perhaps out of hearing, but no more.
“Oh, my dear woman, the servants know all about it,” said Miss Somers. “They talk more about it than we do; that is always the way with them. I might give a hint, you know; but they speak plain. No; he was not happy when he was a boy; he went wandering all about and about——”
“But that was for his education,” said the anxious inquirer, whose interest in the question did not astonish Miss Somers. To her it seemed only natural that the Ardens should be prominent in everybody’s horizon. She shook her head with such a continuous shake, that Mercy was tempted to interfere.
“You’ll have the headache, Miss, if you don’t mind,” said Mercy, coming forward; “and me and John both thinks that it ain’t what the Doctor would like, to see you a-sitting here.”
“It’s only for a minute,” said the invalid, humbly, “I want a little breath, after being so long shut up. You may think what it would be if you were shut up for two years. Would you tell John to go and gather me some may, there’s a dear good creature? I am so interested in these nice people; and my brother says—— Some may, please, John; not the brown branches that are going off—— I think I saw some there. Mercy, you have such good eyes, go and show him, please. There, now they are gone, one can talk. Old servants are a great blessing, though sometimes—— But it is all their interest in one, you know. His education was theexcuse. I remember when I was young, Mary Thorpe—— They said it was to learn Italian; but if that young man had not been so poor—— It is such a strange, strange world! If people were to think less of money, don’t you think it would be happier, especially for young girls? I hope it is not anything of that kind with your poor little grandchild; but then she is so young——”
“You were speaking of Mr. Arden,” said Mrs. Murray, with a sigh; and then she added—“But he is the only heir, and all’s his now.”
“Oh, yes, all is his—the dear fellow; but he is not the only heir; there is Clare, you know—— Don’t you hate entails, and that sort of thing, that cut off the girls? We may not be so clever, though I am sure I don’t know—— But we can’t live without a little money, all the same. I say to my brother sometimes—but then he is so impatient. And Clare is wonderfully superior—equal to any man. I think, though I have seen her every day for years, I get on better with Edgar. It makes my poor head ache, I am such a helpless creature, not good for anything. If you could have seen me a few years back you would not know me. I was always running about: the ‘little busy bee;’ when I was young that is what they always used to call me. There was a gentleman that used to say—a Mr.Templeton, of the Royal Navy—— but there were difficulties, you know—— Oh, yes; I remember, about Arden—— I do run on, I know; my brother is always telling me I lose the thread, but why there should be a thread—— Yes, there is another Arden—Arthur Arden; you must have seen him pass just now.”
“The man that was so like——” said Mrs. Murray; and then she stopped, and shut up her lips tight, as if to establish even physical safeguards against the utterance of another word.
“He is very like his family—just the reverse of poor dear Edgar,” said Miss Somers; “but I don’t like him at all, and he is such a dear fellow—— If there had been no son, Arthur would have succeeded, and poor dear Clare would have been cut off, unless they were to marry. I sometimes think if they were to marry—— Was that your daughter stirring? I can’t think how you don’t die of fright to see her lying there so still. Do bring her to see me, please. I am never out of my room—except now, in this fine new chair, of course, I shall be going out every day. But it is so dreadful to have to be carried, and not to put your foot to the ground. Mercy says it is a judgment; but, you know, I cannot believe—— Of course, you must be a Calvinist, I suppose?”
“There’s many a judgment that never shows,” said the Scotchwoman; “you feel it deep in your heart, and you ken how it comes, but nobody inthis world is any the wiser. Of that I am well aware.”
Miss Somers was a little frightened by the gravity of her companion’s tone, and did not quite understand what she meant, and was alarmed by the sight of Jeanie lying still and white in the grass. She gave a little cough, which was an appeal to Mercy, and was seized with a sudden flutter of nervousness and desire to get away.
“Yes, yes; I have no doubt you know a great deal better,” she said; “if one was to do anything very wicked—— I say to my brother sometimes—— I am on my way to Arden, you know, to show Edgar—— And Clare passed just now; did you see her? I mean Miss Arden, but it comes so natural to say Edgar and Clare. Oh, yes, I must go on; my brother might think—— And then Mercy does not like to be kept—— and John’s work—— Good-bye. Please come and see me. If there was any room, I should offer to take your grandchild home, but a chair, you know—— I am so glad to have seen you. And do you think you should let her sleep there in the grass? Earwigs is the thing that frightens me; they might creep up, you know, and then—— Yes, Mercy, I am quite ready; oh, yes,quite ready. I am so sorry—— Please come to see me—— and the grass, and the earwigs—— Oh, John, gently! Good-bye, good-bye!”
With these fragmentary words Miss Somers was drawn away, looking behind her, and throwing her good-byes after her with a certain guilty politeness. This Scotchwoman was superior, too, she said to herself, with a little shudder, and made her head ache almost as much as Clare did. Mrs. Murray, for her part, went back and sat down by Jeanie, who still slept, but began to move and stir with the restlessness of waking. The grandmother did not resume her work. She let her hands drop on her knees, and sat and pondered. The sound of the wheels which slowly carried the invalid along the path grew less and less, the air sank into quietness, the bees hummed, and the leaves stirred, murmuring in that stillness of noon, which is almost greater than the stillness of night. But the old woman sat alone with another world about her, conscious of other times and other things. She was in the woods of Arden, with the unseen house near at hand, and all its history, past and present, floating about her, as it were, an atmosphere new and yet old, strange yet familiar, of which she knew more and knew less than any other in the world. How and what she knew was known to nobody but herself; yet this very conversation hadopened to her a mass of unsuspected information, and new avenues of thought, each more painful than the other. She had to bring all the powers of her mind to bear upon the new questions thus set before her, and it was with a doubly painful strain that she brought herself back when the young creature at her feet opened her bright eyes, and with a confused gaze, slowly finding out where she was, came back to the life of dreams, which was her portion in this world so full of care.
WhileMiss Somers was discoursing thus with Mrs. Murray under the trees, Arthur Arden had pursued Clare to the village. He had lost the best possible opportunity, he felt. Just as he had been beginning to make an impression! He sped after her between the long lines of trees, swearing softly under his breath at the intruders. “Confound them!” he was saying; and yet in his secret thoughts there was a lurking determination to see that pretty little thing again, although the pretty little thing was nothing to him in comparison with Clare. He skimmed along, devouring the way, planning to himself how he should recover the ground he must have lost by his benevolent errand. “Putting one’s self out of the way for other people is a deuced mistake,” he said to himself. It was not a habitual weakness of his, so that he could identify the moment and recognise the results with undoubting accuracy, and a clear perception of the weakness and folly which had produced them. He must getover this kind of impulse, he thought, and prove himself superior to all such frivolous distractions. A mere pretty face! with probably nothing in it. Arthur Arden remembered Clare, who was not pretty, but beautiful; whose face had a great deal in it, not to speak of her purse; who was to have Old Arden, the cradle of the race. If he could but secure Clare everything would come right with him; and accordingly no pretty face—nothing frivolous or foolish—must be allowed to intercept or block up his way.
Clare was going towards the village school when Arthur overtook her. She had been walking very fitfully, sometimes with great haste, sometimes slow and softly, losing herself in thought. He came up to her when she had fallen into one of these lulls of movement, and Arthur was satisfied to see that he was recognised with a start, and that the little shock of thus suddenly perceiving him brought light to her eyes and colour to her face.
“You, Mr. Arden!” she said, with a kind of forced steadiness. “I thought you were still occupied about—that—girl. I am so sorry, it seems uncivil, but I don’t really know her name. Was she better? It was good of you to interest yourself so much.”
“I did no more than any man must have done,” said Arthur. “Your maid promised to go, and gaveme salts, &c. But she was better, I think. The old woman seemed quite used to it. She was lying asleep in the grass—a very pretty picture. But the old woman is an old dragon. She fairly drove me away.”
“Indeed!” said Clare feebly, with white lips, feeling that the crisis of her fate might be near.
“I only looked at the child—pretty she is, you know, but a little dwarf—when the mother got up and drove me away. I dared not stay a moment longer; and she gave me my orders, to turn my head away if I met them, and never to show my face again. Droll, is it not? One surely should be permitted a little property in one’s own head and face.”
“Yes; but it is not every head and face that have the same effect.” And then Clare paused a little to collect her energy. She had the fortitude of a young princess and ruling personage, accustomed (for their good) to speak very freely to the persons under her, and even to ask questions which would have covered her with confusion had she looked at them in another point of view; but the queen of a community, however small, is not permitted to blush and hesitate like other girls. She made a pause, and collected all her energies, and looked her cousin in the face, not with any shyness,but pale, with a passionate sense of her duty. She was so simple at bottom, notwithstanding all her stateliness, that she thought she could assume over him the same authority which she had over the lads of the village. “Mr. Arden,” she said, with tremulous firmness, “you may think it is a matter with which I have nothing to do—you may think even that it is unwomanly in me to ask anything about it,” and here a sudden violent blush covered her face; “but I have always considered myself responsible for the village, and—and entitled to interfere. One’s position is of no use unless one can do that. I wish to know what you have to do with these people—what is—your business—with that poor girl?”
Clare’s courage almost gave way before she concluded. She faltered and stumbled in her words; her face burned; her courage fled. If she could have sunk into the earth she would gladly have done it. This was very different from a village lad. She felt his eye upon her; she imagined the curious gleam that was passing over his countenance; she was almost conscious of putting herself in his power. And yet she made her speech, going on to the end, though her excitement was such that she felt quite incapable of paying any attention to the answer. She did not look at him, and yet shedivined the look of mingled wonder and offence and partial amusement that was in his face. There was something else besides—a look of less innocent meaning—the significant glance which such a man gives to the woman who has committed herself; but Clare was too innocent, too void of evil thought to divine that.
“My dear Miss Arden, you surprise me very much,” he said. “What could be my business with the girl? What could I have to do with such people? Your imagination goes more quickly than mine. I do not know what connection there could possibly be between us. Do you? I am at a loss to understand——”
Poor Clare felt herself ready to sink to the ground with shame and mortification; and then her pride blazed up in sudden fury. “Howcanyou ask me? How dare you ask me?” she said, at the height of passion; and he was so quiet, so entirely in command of himself.
“Why should not I dare?” he said softly. “My cousin has always been very good to me, except once, when she mistook my meaning, as she does now. There is nothing I dare not tell you about myself at this moment.” He winced a little when he had said this, not intending to make so explicit a declaration; but yet went on courageously.“About these poor people, there is really nothing in the world to say. I never saw them in my life before. The old woman said so, if you remember. I was like somebody who had disturbed their peace—very unlucky indeed for me, for I feel I shall be subject to all manner of false construction. But my cousin Clare can understand me, I think. Should I be likely to venture into her presence while carrying on a vulgar—— Such things should never so much as be mentioned in her hearing. I am ashamed to seem to imply——”
Clare had been driven to such a pitch of shame and passion that she could no longer endure herself. “I did not imply,” she said, “I asked—plainly—— I am the protector of everybody here. It is not for me to shut my eyes to things, though they may be a horror and shame to think of. I asked you—plainly—what you had been doing—why the sight of you had such an effect upon that poor girl?”
“I will answer the Princess, not the young lady,” said Arden, with mocking calm. “Your young subject has taken no scathe by me. I never saw her until this morning in your presence. I never should have known of her existence but for you; is that enough? or shall I appear in your Highness’s Court and swear to it? Such a question could scarcely be put by you to me; but from a Sovereign to astranger is a different matter. Have I cleared myself to the Princess Clare of Arden? Then let me be acquitted, and let it be forgotten. It wounds me to suppose——”
“You are to suppose nothing,” said Clare, with averted face. “I have asked you because I thought it was my duty, Mr. Arden, in my position—— I have spoken quite plainly—and—— I am going to visit the school. You will not find it at all amusing. I am sorry to have said anything—I mean I am sorry if I have been unjust. I am grieved—— Good morning. I will not trouble you more just now——”
“Mayn’t I wait for you?” said Arthur, in his gentlest tone. “If you could know how much higher I think of you for your straightforwardness, how much nobler—— No, please don’t stop me; there are some things that must be said——”
“And there are some things that cannot be listened to,” said Clare, waving her hand as she entered the porch. She escaped from him without another word, plunging into the midst of the children and the monotonous hum of their lessons with a sense that everything about it was simply intolerable, that she could bear no more, and must fall down at his feet or their feet, it did not much matter which. She could not see the trim little schoolmistress, herown specialprotegéeand pupil, who came forward curtesying and smiling. A haze of agitation and bewilderment was about her. The rows of pinafored children rising and bobbing their little curtseys to the young lady of the manor were visible to her as through a mist. “My head aches so,” she said faintly. “Let me sit down for a little in the quiet; and oh, couldn’t you keep them quite still for two minutes? The sun is so hot outside.”
“Won’t you go and sit down in my room, Miss Clare?” said the schoolmistress. “The children will be moving and whispering. It is so cool in my room. You have never been there since you had it built for me; and the jasmine has grown so, you would not know it. Please come into my room.”
Clare followed mechanically into the little sitting-room, a tiny cottage parlour, with jasmine clustering about the window, and some monthly roses in a little vase on the table. “It is so sweet and so quiet here. I am so happy in my little room,” said the schoolmistress; “and it is all your doing, Miss Clare: everything is so convenient. And then the garden. I am so happy here.”
“Are you, indeed?” said Clare, sitting down in the little wickerwork chair, covered with chintz, which creaked under her, but which was at once soft and splendid in the eyes of her companion.“Never mind me, please; go on with your work, and as soon as I am rested I will follow you to the school. Please leave me by myself, I want nothing now.”
And there she sat for half an hour all alone in that little homely quiet place. The window was open, the white curtain fluttered in the wind, the white stars of the jasmine gleamed—just one or two early blossoms—among the darkness of the foliage. And the roses were faintly sweet, and the atmosphere warm and balmy; and in the distance a faint hum like that of the bees betrayed the neighbourhood of the school. Clare, who had all Arden at her command, and to whom the great rooms and stately passages of her home were a matter of necessity, felt grateful for this balmy, homely stillness. She took off her hat, and pushed her hair off her forehead, and gradually got the mist out of her eyes, and saw things clearly. Oh, how foolish she had been! She, who prided herself upon her good sense. Edgar would not have committed himself so, she thought, though she was continually finding fault with him; but she, who had so good an opinion of her own wisdom, she who was so proudly pure, and above the breath of evil, that she should have thus betrayed and made apparent her evil suspicions and wicked thoughts! What must anyone think of her?“Your imagination goes faster than mine;” that was what he had said. And her imagination had jumped at something which should never be named in maidenly ears. Clare’s confusion and self-horror were so great that the longer she mused over them the more insupportable they grew. Her cheeks blazed with a hot permanent blush, though she sat alone. What could he think of her? what could anybody think of her? Such thoughts would never have entered Miss Budd’s head, whose life was spent between the noisy school and this quiet parlour, who was a good little creature, never interfering with anybody, doing her work and smiling at the world. “Why cannot I do that?” Clare said to herself, with the wild shame of youth, which feels its little sins to be indelible. She, Clare, did not seem to be able to help interfering with her brother, who knew better than she did—with everybody, down to this little Scotch girl, and even with Arthur Arden! Oh, how she hated herself, and what a fool she had been!
Clare was very lowly in her tone when she went into the school, with a bad headache and a pale face, and a spirit more subdued probably than it had ever been in her life before. It is very dreadful to make one’s self ridiculous, to show one’s self in a bad light, when one is young. The senseof shame is so intense, the certainty that nobody will ever forget it. She passed a great many false notes in the singing, and big stitches in the needlework, and was altogether so subdued and gentle that Miss Budd was filled with astonishment. “She must be going to be married,” sighed the schoolmistress, with a glow of sympathy and admiration in her eyes; for she was romantic, like so many young persons in her position, and full of interest, and a wistful, half-envying curiosity what that state of mind could be like. Miss Budd had seen a gentleman lingering about the school door; she had seen him pass and repass when she came back from the little parlour in which she had left Clare. She could not but volunteer one little timid observation, when Miss Arden’s duties were over, and she attended her to the door. “The gentleman went that way, Miss Clare,” said the schoolmistress, timidly stealing a glance from under her eyelashes. “What gentleman?” said Clare, with a start; and her self-control was not sufficient to keep the telltale blush from her cheeks. “Oh, my cousin, Mr. Arden,” she went on, coldly. “He has gone back to the Hall, I suppose.” And she pointedly went the other way when she left the school, taking a path which could only lead to Sally Timms’ cottage, a woman who was quite out of Clare’s good graces.“Can it be a quarrel?” Miss Budd asked herself anxiously, as she went back to her scholars. And Clare went hurriedly, seeing there was nothing else for it, to visit Sally Timms. Nothing could well be imagined more utterly unsatisfactory than Sally Timms’s house, and her children, and her personal character. She was the favourite pest of the village, though she did not originally belong to it, or even to the neighbourhood. Her boys thieved and played tricks, and took every malady incident to boys, and were generally known to have brought measles and whooping-cough, not to say small-pox, into Arden. The two former maladies had passed through all the children of the place, in consequence of the wandering propensities of Johnny and Tommy, and their faculty for catching everything that was going. And the latter had been only kept off by the prompt removal of Sally herself to the hospital in Liverpool, from whence she had come back white and swollen, and seamed and scarred, to the utter destruction of the remnant of good looks which she had once possessed. She was a widow, as such people always manage to be, and had no established means of livelihood. She took in washing when she could get it. She would go messages to Liverpool when her boys were doing something else, always ready for any piece of variety. She hadsome boxes of matches and bunches of twigs in her window for lighting fires, by which she sometimes turned a penny. Now and then she had been seen with a basket furnished with tapes and buttons, which she sold about the country, enjoying that, too, as a relief from the monotony of ordinary existence. In short, she was one of those wild nomads to be met in all classes of society, who cannot confine themselves to routine—who must have change and movement, and hold in less than no estimation the cleanliness and good order and decorums of life. She was very fond of gadding about, not very particular as to the laws of property, and utterly indifferent to ordinary comfort. It would be impossible for one person to disapprove more entirely of another than Clare disapproved of Sally Timms. And yet she was on her way to see her—there being only her cottage at the end of the village street which could lead her in an opposite direction from that taken by Arthur Arden—which was only too clear a sign, had she but known it, how important Arthur Arden was becoming to Clare.
How long the conversation lasted Miss Arden could not have told any one—nor indeed what it was about. Sally was saucy and she was penitent; but she was not hopeful; and Clare shook her head as she went away. She gave a little nod to JohnHesketh’s wife, who was the model woman of the village, as she passed her cottage. “I have been talking to Sally Timms, but I fear there is nothing to be done with her,” she said, stopping a second at the garden gate. “She’s a bad one, Miss Clare, is Sally Timms,” said Mrs. Hesketh, disapprovingly. But neither of them were aware that Clare’s visit was totally irrespective of Sally’s welfare, spiritual or bodily; and was only a pretext to avoid Arthur Arden, who, nevertheless, was patiently waiting for her all this time at the great gate.
Theconversation which Arthur Arden thrust upon Clare by persistently waiting for her in the avenue was not a satisfactory one. Though she could not refuse to accept his explanation that he knew nothing about the strangers, yet a sense of uneasiness and discomfort remained in her mind. When once it is suggested that such secrets exist in a world which looks all fair and straightforward, it is difficult for a young mind to throw off at once the shock of the suggestion. Clare looked at her cousin, who was so much older than herself, and who had been so much in the world, acquiring, no doubt experiences of which she knew nothing, and shrank just a little aside, closing herself up, and putting on all her defences. “How do I know what his life has been, what things may have happened to him?” she said to herself. With a certain mingling of attraction and repulsion, she glanced at him from under her eyelashes. He had lived a man’s life, which is so different from a woman’s; he had beenabroad in the world, swept along in the great current, driven from one place to another, from one society to another. And Clare felt that she could never tell what recollections he might have brought out of that great ocean in which he had been sailing, which was so unknown to her, and doubtless so distinct and clear to him. He might have left cares and sorrows behind him—nay, was it not certain that he must have left many a trace behind him, being such a man as he was? As she walked on beside him this feeling came over her so strongly that it swallowed up all other sentiments. She too had a little line of memories, innocent recollections, pangs of childish suffering, unjust reproofs, wounded self-love, and one great natural grief. It was like a little rivulet running under the bushes, hiding only the softest blameless secrets. But his must be like the sea, full of sunny islands and dark cliffs, with calms and storms in it, and havens and shipwrecks—things she could not possibly know of, except by some chance word now and then, and never could fully enter into. A certain admiration grew unconsciously in her mind, along with a great deal of dread and shrinking. What a fine thing it would be to be such a man! How wide his horizon in comparison with hers! How extended and varied his knowledge! Poor Clare! she shrank witha chilled sense that she never could partake or share this vast extent of experience; but it never occurred to her to inquire what kind of knowledge of the world is acquired at German gaming-tables. Clare’s imagination was utterly ignorant of the Turf, and thecoulisses, and the Kursaal. She had an idea much more elevated than reality of the Clubs, and took it for granted that a man who was an Arden, even though he was poor, must have entrance always into the best society. He for his part walked by her side with the real recollections bubbling in his mind of which she formed so flattering a vision. He was remembering various things that would not have borne telling, even to ears much less innocent than those of Clare. The girl, who knew nothing about it, surrounded him with a bright and wide and noble world, swelling higher and greater than her unassisted thoughts could penetrate—with tragedies in it, no doubt, and sins, but all on so large a scale; whereas the meanest matters possible haunted Arthur’s mind, the narrow stifling atmosphere of commonplace dissipation, the “Life” which is a round of poor amusements, varied only by the excitement of gain or loss, with now and then a flavour of vice, the only piquant element in the poor mixture. Thus Imagination and Fact went side by side, unable to divine eachother; and Clare shrank, yet wondered, secretly inclining towards the man who was so little known to her, painfully attracted and repelled, averting her face for the moment, but drawing near in her heart.
Lord Newmarch could only spare three days to the Ardens, one of which was a Sunday. And he walked dutifully to church, carrying Clare’s prayer-book, and placing himself by her side. “This is what I like,” he said. “The only real remnant of anything worth preserving in the feudal system. Here are your brother and yourself, Miss Arden, at the head of your people, to take their part or plead their cause, or redress their wrongs; here they can see you, and pay their homage; they have the advantage of feeling that you too worship God in the same place; they have the benefit of your example. This is the beautiful side of a country gentleman’s life.”
“But they see us, I assure you, on other days besides Sunday,” said Clare.
“That I do not doubt. Forgive me, Miss Arden, but it is very charming to see your sense of duty. Women seem to me generally to be deficient in that point. I see it in my sisters. They will be wildly charitable whenever their feelings are touched, and that is easily enough done, heaven knows. Any cottager on the estate—or off the estate, for thatmatter—who has a story to tell can accomplish it. But they have not that sense of duty to all, which is more or less impressed upon men who have dependents. Allow me to pay my tribute of admiration to one who is an exception to the rule.”
Clare made him a little curtsey in reply to his elaborate bow, and did not laugh, partly because she was wanting in the sense of humour, and partly because, to tell the truth, she agreed with him, and was so far conscious of her own excellence. And then he had suggested another line of reflection. “But your sisters”—she said, and hesitated, for it was not quite polite to say what she was going to say, that his sisters were young women of no family, with no feudal rights, and very different from a daughter of the house of Arden. It does not answer, however, to make this sort of speech to the son of an Earl, and Clare caught herself up.
“My sisters are comparatively little at Marchfield?” he suggested. “That is what you would say; and no doubt it is quite true; but still there is a deficiency in this point. There is no sense of duty. And I find it common among women. They do things from emotional motives, or because they like to do them, but not from that manly, serious sense—— I am not one of those who sneer at what are called women’s rights. For my part, Ishould be but too happy, for instance, to have the assistance of your fine instincts and administrative powers in public business; but, still, there are characteristic differences which cannot be overlooked——”
“Pray, don’t think I care for women’s rights,” said Clare, with a blush of indignation. “I hate the very name of them. Why should we be jested and sneered at for the sake of two or three here and there who make a talk? Let us alone, please. I would rather suffer a great deal, for my part, than hear all this odious, odious talk!”
“Ah, you feel it in that way?” said Lord Newmarch, impartially. “I cannot say I quite agree with you there, Miss Arden. You at present suffer nothing. You are young and rich, and—— and every one you meet with is your slave,” the young philosopher added gallantly, after a pause. “But that is not the case with all women. Some of them are oppressed by unjust laws, some feel the necessity of a career——”
“Helena Thornleigh, for instance,” said Clare. “I have no patience with her. Thornleigh village is in pretty good order, thanks to Ada; but only fancy a girl wanting a career, and all those dreadful cottages within a mile of her father’s house! Don’t you know Chomely and Little Felton, on the way toThorne? They are frightful places. If the poor people were pigs, they could not be more uncomfortable. And what does Helena ever do to mend them? Why, there is a career ready to her hand.”
“But what could she do to mend them?” said Lord Newmarch, “I don’t suppose she has any money of her own.”
“She has her father’s,” said Clare indignantly, and walked on, elevating her head, her heart swelling with a recollection of all the power her father accorded to her, and all the revolutions she had made.
“Ah,” said Lord Newmarch, shaking his head, “there are fathers and fathers; and besides, Miss Thornleigh probably thinks that to gain a thing by wheedling her father, which her brother could do independently, is but a sign of bondage. She has a fine intellect, and a great deal of energy——”
“Then I would go and build them with my own hands!” said Clare, with that fine mixture of unreasoning Conservatism and Revolutionism which so often distinguishes a woman’s politics. She was the strictest Tory in the world: a change of law or custom was a horror to her. She scorned the idea of a career for Helena Thornleigh with the intensest inconsiderate disdain. But she would have backed her up about the cottages to the fullest extent thatenthusiasm could go, and helped her to work at them had that been needful. Lord Newmarch put his head a little on one side and took a close view of her, which was not without meaning. Strong sense of duty, good fortune, enthusiasm in a certain way which might be most usefully trained, excellent old family, great personal beauty, youth. These were qualities most worthy of consideration. He could not feel that he had encountered any one yet who was quite so well endowed. She would do credit to the choice even of an Earl’s son; she might further even a high political career. He made a mental note in his mind to this effect as they arrived at the church door.
Mr. Fielding was not very much of a preacher. He looked venerable in his surplice, with his white hair, and he read the service with a certain paternal grace, like a father among his children. He had baptised the great majority of his hearers, married them, had some share in all the great events of their life, and had given them all the instruction they had in sacred things. Accordingly, there was no one so appropriate as he to conduct their prayers, to read them the simple lesson of love to God and aid to man. His teaching seldom went any further. His was not the preaching which insists upon the authority of the Church, or the extreme importanceof the divisions of the ecclesiastical year. And though there were one or two points of doctrine which he held very strongly, it was only on very urgent pressure that he preached on them. His audience knew, or, at least, the instructed among his audience knew, that the Rector had been holding a very hot discussion with Dr. Somers when he produced one of his discourses upon Faith or Predestination. On such occasions Dr. Somers would himself be present, with his keen eyes confronting the gentle preacher in an attitude of war, and noting all the flaws in his armour; and it was well for Mr. Fielding that he was short-sighted and could not see his adversary. But on this Sunday there had been nothing to excite him. The June day was soft and balmy, and through the open door the peaceable blue sky and green boughs looked in to cool and lighten the atmosphere. A grave or two outside but made the sense of home more profound. The rustics worshipped with their dead around them, almost sharing their prayers, and eyes that wandered found nothing worse to look upon than the green grassy turf with its pathetic mounds below, and the deep blue, leading their thoughts to the unutterable, above. The line of educated faces in the Squire’s pew, and Dr. Somers, like a humanised eagle, seeing everything,were the only breaks in the usual audience. Here or there a farmer or two, with an ample wife more brilliant than her humble neighbours, headed a row of ruddy boys and girls—but these were as much rustics as the ploughmen round them. At the big door of the church, the west end, sat Perfitt and Mrs. Murray, two faces of a very different type. She looked on, rather than joined in the service, half disapproving, half interested; while he, with a certain matter-of-fact superiority, patronised and initiated the stranger, finding the places in the prayer-book for her, and thrusting it into her hand at every change. No one noted the two thus strangely introduced into a scene foreign and strange to at least one of them, except Edgar, who, perhaps, was not so attentive as he ought to have been to Mr. Fielding’s sermon, and to whom the changes on the old Scotchwoman’s face were interesting, he could not tell why. It seemed to him that he could divine what was passing through her mind, and he looked on with almost affectionate amusement at the listener, who was perhaps Mr. Fielding’s only attentive hearer in all the congregation. The good folks about were dropping asleep in the unaccustomed quiet, or else looking straight before them with complacent composure, hearing the words addressed to them as they heard thebees and insects, which made a slumberous pleasant hum about the place. That sound was natural to church, as the hum of bees and twitter of birds are natural which come so sweetly from the outer world. The hush, the warmth, the stray breath of air, now and then, the Sunday clothes, the hum of parson and bees together, the scent of the monthly rose laid on the prayer-book—all this was pleasant to the simple folk. They were doing their duty, and their hearts were at rest. But Mrs. Murray looked and commented, and sometimes softly shook her handsome Scotch head, and wondered if this was all the spiritual fare vouchsafed to the inhabitants of Arden. Edgar divined her thoughts as if he had known her all his life, and was more interested than if Mr. Fielding had been a much better preacher, though it would have been hard to tell why.
Afterthis Sunday, and the thoughts it awoke in his mind, Lord Newmarch found that he could stay another day, and during that day he sought Clare’s company with great perseverance. And it was not so difficult as might have been expected to secure it. Miss Arden, indeed, found her noble companion tiresome sometimes, but yet she agreed in a good many of his ways of thinking. His Radicalism did not jar upon her as did the Radicalism of other people. For Lord Newmarch was clear as to the duty of the upper classes to head and guide the new movement in which he devoutly believed. He had no desire to lessen the influence of his own order, or withdraw a jot of position or power from them. And Clare did not laugh at the social reformer, as her brother was tempted to do. She was even angry with Edgar for his amusement, and could not understand what called it forth. “He is serious, of course; but a man whose mind is full of such subjects ought to be serious,” shesaid, with a little displeasure. “I don’t know what you find to laugh at in him.” And she did not object to being talked to about the improvement of the country, and how the people could best be guided for their own good. Clare knew, no one better, that the people took a great deal of guiding. She had not the least objection to make their social existence the subject of laws, to condescend to minute legislation, and ordain how often they were to wash, and what clothes they were to wear. Why not? It was all for their own comfort, and not for anybody else’s advantage. Thus Lord Newmarch and she had a good many topics of mutual interest. They squabbled over the question of education, but that only increased the interest of their talk; and it is not to be denied that his position as an actual legislator, a man not discussing an abstract question, but seeking information on a matter he would have personally to do with, increased his importance in her eyes. She battled stoutly against the impression which sometimes forced itself upon her mind that he was a bore, and did not decline to talk to him, nor show any desire to avoid him all through the following Monday. Arthur Arden looking on was dismayed. Even he was not clever enough in his own case to perceive, what he would have perceivedin any other, that Clare’s avoidance of himself was the strongest argument in his favour. She did not avoid Lord Newmarch; and Arthur was in dismay. He took Edgar dolefully to the other end of the terrace, upon which the drawing-room windows opened, that Monday evening. Lord Newmarch had engaged Clare upon some of their favourite subjects, and the other two were thrown out, as people so often are by one animated dialogue going on in a small society. “That Newmarch has plenty to say,” Arthur ejaculated, sulkily; and pulled his moustache, and secretly murmured at Clare, whose presence prevented even the consolation of a cigar.
“Yes; he will not soon exhaust himself I fear,” said Edgar. “Clare will be too much accomplished with all this flood of information poured upon her. It is a triumph of good manners on her part not to look bored.”
“Do you think she is bored?” said Arthur Arden, eagerly. “I fear she is not. See how interested she looks. Confound him! The fellow’s father was a cheesemonger, or his grandfather—it comes to the same thing—and to see him sitting there! If I were you, Arden, I should not stand it. Being as I am, you know, only a poor cousin, it goes against me.”
“Why would not you stand it?” asked Edgar, calmly.
“Because—why, look at your sister. He is a nobody—a prig, and the son of a man who has no more right to be an Earl than Wilkins has. But can’t you see he is making up to Clare? I can’t help saying Clare. Why, she is my cousin, and I have known her all her life. She is rich, and she is handsome, and she has the air of a great lady, as she ought to have. But, mark my words, the fellow is making up to her, and if you don’t mind something will come of it.”
“I suppose he is what people call a very good match,” said Edgar. “If Clare is not to be trusted to refuse the honour—though I think she is quite to be trusted—we shall have nothing to reproach each other with. He is a bore, but if she should happen to like him, you know——”
“Oh, confound your coolness!” said Arthur, between his teeth; and he left Edgar standing there astonished, and made the round of the house, and came back to him. During that round various thoughts and calculations had passed through his mind. Should he tell Edgar of his love for Clare? Should he thus commit himself without knowing in the least whether Clare cared for him or not? It might secure him a powerful auxiliary, and it mightlay him open to a rebuff which he could ill bear. The pause looked like a start of impatience, but it was in reality a most useful and important moment of deliberation. He had decided that boldness was the best policy by the time he came back to his cousin’s side.
“You think me a strange fellow,” he said, “making off from you like this, and showing so much temper about a matter which really does not seem to concern me in the least. But—I may as well make a clean breast of it, Arden—I am in love with Clare myself. Yes, you may well start—a penniless wretch like me, that am twice her age! But these things don’t go by any rule. I don’t ask you to approve of me; but I can’t stand by calmly, and see other people using opportunities which I fear to use. That’s enough. I am glad I have told you. I ought perhaps to have done so before I came into your house; but I thought I had got the better of it. Forgive me; I have no other excuse.”
Edgar stood and looked at his cousin with unfeigned surprise. He watched him as he got through his speech with a wonder which was soon mingled with other emotions. He was not prejudiced either for or against him; but the more he said the less and less favourable became Edgar’s countenance. “Does Clare know of this?” he inquired coldly, ina tone which suffered surprise to be seen under a veil of indifference. Such a sentiment was the very last which Arthur had imagined possible. He could conceive his cousin angry, or he could conceive, what in his superficial eyes seemed equally probable, that Edgar would have embraced his cause at once with the impulsive readiness with which he had invited him to his house. But this chilling calm was utterly unexpected. Notwithstanding all his self-command, he stammered and faltered as he replied—
“No, I don’t suppose she does. She looks on me as an uncle, I have no doubt. Arden, you young fellows are lucky fellows, I can tell you, who know what you are born to. And you don’t know what injury you did me by not coming into the world ten years sooner. The foundations of my education were laid on the principle that I was the heir.”
“I beg your pardon, I am sure, for being born at all,” said Edgar, with a laugh in which there was not much mirth; “I could not help it, you know. But I cannot see how that can have done you much harm at ten years old. However, this is a very useless discussion. I don’t quite know what you expect me to say to you. Am I to make any decision? Is this a confidence that you make to me privately, or am I to consider that my consent is asked?”
“Confound it!” said Arthur Arden, “you look at me as cool as a judge, without a bit of sympathy in you. I did not look for this, at least. Flare up, if you please—treat it any way you like. I was driven to it by my feelings; if yours are so calm——”
“Were you?” said Edgar, gravely. “Perhaps I am wrong. I have no right to make light of any man’s feelings; but naturally it is my sister I must think of, not you. You talk of Newmarch as something not to be supported; but do you really think, Arden, that you yourself would be a better match for Clare?”
“I am a gentleman, at least, though I am not the son of a pasteboard Earl,” said Arthur, angrily. To tell the truth, it was hard upon him. Up to this moment it was he who had held the superior position, as the man of most age, and experience and knowledge of the world. But now he felt that he stood at the bar before this boy, and the change galled him. And then his resentment impaired at once his dignity and judgment, as may be supposed.
“He is a gentleman also, whatever his father may be,” said Edgar; “and though he is a bore he has a great many advantages to offer. He is rich and he has a good position, and some reputation, such as it is. I should not like to marry him myself, if the question were put to me; but Clare hasher own ambitions, and might choose to influence the world as the wife of a statesman. Why shouldn’t she? These are all substantial advantages, whereas——”
“Whereas I am a miserable beggar, twice her age, with not even much to brag of in the way of reputation,” said Arthur Arden. “Say no more about it; I perceive the contrast sufficiently as it is.”
Edgar did not say any more; but looked so serious and unmoved by his cousin’s impatience, that he occasioned Arthur a new sensation. To be set down by this boy, whom he had believed to be a simpleton and enthusiast! To meet the gravity of a look which became penetrating and keen the moment it was roused with such an interest—all this was utterly unexpected. He had feared Clare, but he had said to himself, with the contempt of a man of the world for Edgar’s open temper and liberal heart, that he could twine her brother round his finger. Indeed, there had not seemed any particular credit in so doing. Anybody could do it, even a novice. The young man could be persuaded out of or into anything, and was not in reality worth considering at all. But now Arthur Arden paused, and changed his mind. The tables were turned—the simpleton had seen through the whole question atonce, and had calmly snubbed him, Arthur Arden, and put him back in his proper place. By Jove!—a fellow who had taken his inheritance from him, and who probably had no more real right to it than——. What a drivelling fool old Arden was to put up with it, and how hard a case for himself! All this fermented so strongly in Arthur’s mind that he flung off the restraints which had hitherto confined him. He had been, by way of being very civil to Edgar since he came to the house, deferring to his wishes and consulting all his tastes; but if this was all that was to come of it! Accordingly, he left Edgar abruptly, and went and joined himself to Clare and her supposed admirer. “Here is Frivolity come to the rescue, in case my young cousin should become too wise,” he said. “We don’t want to have her made too wise. She is cleverer than all the rest of us by nature; and, Newmarch, I can’t have her made more dangerous still by your art.”
“Miss Arden instructs instead of needing to be instructed,” said Lord Newmarch. “What astonishes me is the breadth of her views. She does not go into detail, as women generally do, but takes a broad grasp. I assure you, her feeling about the education of the people and the knowledge of their wants is marvellous. She knows the poorer classes as well as I flatter myself I know them, and her knowledgecan only come by intuition, whereas mine is the result of careful study and——”
“You ought to know them better, certainly,” said Arthur, with suppressed insolence. “As a race advances in the world it forgets the sentiments of the common stock it sprang from—and we Ardens are a long way off the original root.”
“Yes, very true,” said Lord Newmarch, with a little bow, “very much what I was saying. I am going to persuade your brother to make a run up to town with me,” he added, turning to Clare, and rising from his seat—into which Arthur threw himself without loss of time.
“Mr. Arden, how could you speak to him so? You wererudeto him,” said Clare, the moment they were left alone.
“I meant to be,” said Arthur Arden, carelessly. “What right had he, I should like to know, to monopolise you? What right had he to cross his legs, and sit here talking to you all the evening? Besides, it is perfectly true; and why should I be expected to eat humble pie, and loiter at a distance, and see you appropriated? You might have a little pity on your kinsman, Lady Clare.”
“My kinsman ought not to be rude,” said Clare. But that was all the punishment she inflicted. Something warped her judgment and blinded herclear eyes. She was not even angry at this piece of incivility, much as she prided herself upon the stateliness of the Arden manners, which Edgar could not acquire. And she sat on the terrace for ever so long after, and let him talk to her, compensating herself for the severity of the morning. And her brother looked on with a grave countenance, wondering much what he could or ought to do.
END OF VOL. I.