Whileall these discussions were going on in Berkeley Square, Edgar was preparing in the most leisurely and easy-minded way for his return home. He had forgotten the urgency of Clare’s letter, but he was glad to emancipate himself from the social treadmill which he did not understand, and set his face again towards the fair green country and his duties and his home. It seemed so rational a life in comparison that he had even a higher opinion of himself when he turned his back upon town and its amusements. Not for anything bad he had encountered there; the wickedness had not thrust itself upon him—his own temper and thoughts leaving him out of harmony with it; but the foolishness had struck him with double force. Wickedness itself is better than no meaning, at least it is less contemptible, less bewildering, more comprehensible. He was not only going home, but he was about to change the fashion of his life, to begin who could tell what alterations in everythingabout him; and a little gentle excitement was in his mind; not any impassioned sentiment, not any whirlwind of fear and hope. He could not even say to himself that the happiness of his life depended on Gussy’s reply, or on the chance whether or not she would share the rest of his life with him. But still the thought of so sweet a companion moved him with a little thrill of pleasurable emotion. There was still the chance that he should meet them the next day, a chance which Lady Augusta did not take into consideration; and as the shopping occupied the girls and withdrew them from the usual regions of society, the fact was that he did not meet them anywhere, and found the day hang very heavy on his hands in consequence. When he fell suddenly upon Ada late in the afternoon, returning accompanied by her maid from a visit to some “Sisters” with whom she was allied, Edgar brightened up instantly. He came to her side, and insisted on walking with her across the Park. She had very little to say, except at moments when her sympathy was in forcible requisition, and was not in the least an amusing companion. But he did his best to talk to her, and showed her clearly how glad he was to see her. “I was told I was not wanted at Berkeley Square to-day,” he said, “which has been very doleful forme. I shall ride over to Thorne on Tuesday and bid you welcome home.” “I am sure mamma will be pleased to see you,” said gentle Ada; and she, too, went home a little excited by the encounter. “He said he would ride over on Tuesday to bid us welcome,” she repeated to Lady Augusta the moment she entered. “So, perhaps, mamma, you will not require to send that invitation which troubles Gussy so much. It is best when these things come of themselves.” “So it is, my dear,” said Lady Augusta. “I knew he was the nicest fellow! he shall stay to dinner if he comes.” And so that matter was settled. Gussy even made up her mind what dress she would put on to meet him on that eventful afternoon, which probably would decide her fate. Her mother liked her best in blue, and so she decided did he, for had he not once said—— So Gussy made a mental memorandum, and felt a warm little thrill of tender kindness at her heart for the man who loved her. Of course he loved her. She might have other inducements to marry him. The charm of Arden, the necessity of being provided for, the trade, as Helena called it, of getting married, would all weigh consciously or unconsciously with her. But with him there could be but one reason—love; and Gussy’s heart swelled with that tender gratitude and kindness and halfpity with which a woman whose affections are quite free and disengaged often regards the man who has (as people say) fallen in love with her. Pity, she could not tell why, a soft half regret that she could not give him so much as he gave her. “Poor, dear boy!” she said to herself; and then shyly peeping, as it were, behind a veil, found out that she might love him too, could be very fond of him after—when—— And she caressed her blue dress with a smile and a little emotion, and looked that the ribbons were fresh that must be worn with it, before Angelique packed it away. “Mamma likes me in blue,” she said with a conscious smile. Alas!—But nobody knew nor suspected how little the blue dress would be thought of, or how different the reality and the imagination would be!
Edgar went down next morning to his nearest railway station with an absolute absence of every exciting incident. The groom was waiting with his dogcart, the western sun threw a slanting line on the country, everything looked like home-coming and peace. “Is all right at the Hall?” he asked for mere custom’s sake, as he took the reins. “Yes, sir, so far as I know, sir, but Mrs. Fillpot, she thinks there’s something to do with Miss Arden,” said the groom. “Something to do?” Edgar echoed, unfamiliar with the homely phrase. “Poorly, sir, shethinks, does Mrs. Fillpot,” said the man. A headache, I suppose, Edgar thought to himself, and drove on without alarm. How fresh the country was, how green the trees, how restful all those houses, the villagers at their doors, the village patriarchs working leisurely in their little gardens. Even the Red House as he passed it blinked and shone in the sunshine, offering him a certain welcome. Was Arthur Arden there still, he wondered, and how was his suit progressing, and what did Alice Pimpernel think of it? Had she said, “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” to his kinsman’s wooing? All these things passed through Edgar’s mind as he drove along with a smile upon his face, and the pleasant confidence of a man going home. He was glad to recognise the very trees, much more the familiar faces; glad to think of his sister’s welcome which awaited him—full of natural satisfaction and content.
The first shadow that crossed him was at the corner of the road which led to the Red House. There he paused for a moment, hearing behind him a sudden rush and din upon the road, the sound as of horses that had run away. Then they appeared in sight, tearing onward, coming full speed towards him, making his own horse plunge and struggle between the shafts. Edgar flung the reins to hisgroom, and jumped down instantly to see if he could be of use—but had not touched the ground when they rushed past him—Mr. Pimpernel’s bays, a high-spirited, high-fed, excitable pair. The reins were flying loosely about their necks, the horses were half-mad with fright and agitation, and a succession of screams proved, if the gleam of feminine dress had not been enough to do so, that the light waggon had not its ordinary passengers, but was driven by a lady. It swept round the corner like a whirlwind, and Edgar with hopeless horror rushed after. As he did so, he perceived two figures running wildly across a field, in advance, to cut off their progress. It was Mr. Pimpernel and Arthur Arden. Edgar stopped, seeing how hopeless was an idea of being of use, and watched with breathless interest the course of the two men who might yet be in time. Then there was a plunge—a shriek—the appearance as of something falling, like the flight of a bird or an arrow, from the high seat to the ground. Edgar shut his eyes involuntarily with a movement of sympathetic pain. When he opened them again, the horses were standing trembling and panting, with the groom at their heads, who had appeared, he could not tell how or whence; and Mr. Pimpernel and Arthur Arden were standing each by a little particoloured heap on the roadside. A suddenwild fancy that Clare might have been one of the sufferers came into Edgar’s mind, and he called to his man to follow him, and hastened up to the scene of the accident. When he reached it, he found Mr. Pimpernel, pale as death and trembling, lifting up his daughter, who had been thrown upon a mossy bank at the foot of the hedge. Alice was ghastly, with little streams of blood trickling down her forehead; but she was conscious, and not apparently severely injured. “It is nothing, papa; I am only scratched and shaken, that is all,” she was saying, while her father, too much agitated to understand, dragged her up in his arms and overwhelmed her with incoherent questions. Edgar ran and brought her water from a pool close by, which was not of the clearest, and yet sufficed to wash the trickling drops off her forehead, and lessen her father’s apprehensions. And then he produced his travelling flask of sherry, which revived her still more completely. It did not occur to him even that there was another sufferer, nor that his cousin whom he had seen a moment before was lending no assistance here. “See, I can stand—I am not hurt, papa; I am only shaken,” Alice was repeating, till Edgar almost loved her for her pertinacity. The father was totally helpless and overcome. “My girl, my child!” he was repeating, with whitelips, drawing her into his arms. “I do not think she is hurt, sir,” said Edgar, whose impressionable heart was touched. “Let us put her into my dogcart, and my groom will drive her gently home.” “Yes, yes, that is best,” said Alice. “Papa, you hurt me; but, oh! I am not injured—I am only aching and shaken—and, oh, papa!——”
“What is it?” cried Edgar, seeing her anxious glance round.
“Jeanie!” The name sounded like a cry; and then, all at once, the whole party were aware of Arthur Arden making his way towards the nearest cottage with something in his arms. Even Mr. Pimpernel grew silent in his anxiety. Alice shivered violently, and fell back upon Edgar, who put out his arm to support her with a sudden spasm of pain and terror in his heart. No moan nor cry came from the thing in Arthur Arden’s arms. Was it Jeanie who lay thus, in a heap, silent, undistinguishable? Alice shuddered more and more, and fell down on her knees, and began to cry; while old Pimpernel, in his excitement, rose and said—“If anything has happened to her, I will shoot those d—d horses, and that d—d fool. But for him, curse him, it would never have happened.” Edgar felt as if he had been suddenly turned to stone. What was Jeanie to him that her peril should so move him?It was the horror of it, done as it were before his eyes. And then her grandmother—— While Alice wept and her father stormed, Edgar felt his very heart grow sick. “Take her home,” he said peremptorily to Mr. Pimpernel, who, stilled in his excitement by any sudden voice of authority, humbly obeyed. Between them they lifted Alice, still weeping and moaning, into the dogcart, and slowly and steadily she was driven home to the Red House. Edgar drew a long breath of relief when she was gone; and then he turned with the silent speed of excitement after Arthur Arden to the cottage door.
There, there was nothing but excitement and commotion. One neighbour had gone already for Dr. Somers; another was carrying water to bring the sufferer to herself. One woman shook her head and said—“I saw her face, and it’s the face of death; she’ll never come round.” “Hold your tongue,” said another; “she’s as like life as you or me; she’ll come round fast enough if you’ll hold your noise and look after the children.” “Little the children’s din will hurt her,” said a third. Was Jeanie killed? All in a moment, the harmless, gentle little creature, had she been dashed into the unknown world? As this thought went through Edgar’s mind, he heard a little stir among the gossips—a silence, and rustle of all their dresses as they stood back instinctively.“It is her grandmother,” they said; and immediately after Mrs. Murray, very pale and steadfast, suddenly passed through the crowd. How Edgar’s heart yearned over the old woman whom he knew so little of—who was nothing to him! Admiration, pity, something more deep than either, swept over him. This poor woman who had done so much, who had taken upon her so many burdens, was this the reward God was about to give for all her toils and trials?—her child snatched from her in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. The other was safe, who, herself and all belonging to her, had thought of nothing but their own pleasure and profit, all their lives. And it was this woman who had suffered and toiled, and spent her life for others, who was to open her breast again and receive the cruellest blow. Strange compensation, reward, and encouragement! Edgar attempted to enter two or three times, but was kept back by the crowd. “Lord bless you, sir, you can’t do no good,” they said to him. “There’s one gentleman there already, and better they’d be without him.” Somehow it was a kind of comfort to think that Arthur Arden was in the way, and of no use. It made even Edgar more patient as he stood without, waiting for his dogcart, and brooding over those strange imperfections of life. One taken, and the other left. Butwhy Jeanie—why the old mother’s one comfort and consolation? When the dogcart arrived he sent it off in search of the doctor. He forgot all about Clare and her anxiety, and thought of nothing but the dead or dying girl.
After a while Arthur Arden came out, very pale, with a tremor and suppressed agitation that was pitiful to see. His mind was not even sufficiently disengaged to be surprised at this sudden appearance of his cousin. He put out his hand to Edgar unconsciously, with a certain appeal to his sympathy. “It was my fault,” he said hoarsely. And thus the two stood, almost clinging together till the dogcart rattled past over the bit of causeway, bringing the doctor. Arthur put his arm within Edgar’s in the excitement of the moment. “If she dies,” he repeated hoarsely, with large drops standing on his forehead, “it will be my fault.”
Howdid it happen?—a question so easy to ask—recalling so often in the midst of the most tragic seriousness a moment of utter levity, gaiety, and carelessness—a light impulse for which never all his life long will some one forgive himself. “It was my fault,” Arthur Arden explained, with a voice choked and broken. “I had driven Miss Pimpernel to the station to meet her father, and we met and stopped to talk to Jeanie on the way. We talked to her, and offered her carelessly a drive when we came back. On the way back we found her still on the same spot. I got down to speak to her, and so did old Pimpernel—Heaven knows why! Then there was some talk about this drive. She did not understand us—she had no intention of coming. It was I who almost lifted her into the carriage. I had my foot on the step to mount after her, when Alice seized the reins, and dashed on. Don’t ask me any more. And now, God help us, that innocent creature is dying—and it is my fault——”
“It is more Miss Pimpernel’s fault,” said Edgar, but he turned from his kinsman with a dislike and sense of repulsion which he could hardly explain. Arthur, on the contrary, clung to him with painful anxiety. “Don’t leave me until we hear,” he cried. He kept his arm within Edgar’s, holding him fast, feeling him to be a defence against the Pimpernels, against Mrs. Murray, against even the sour looks of Dr. Somers, when he should come. No doubt, Arthur felt, the whole world would blame him, and consider Jeanie as his victim. The Pimpernels would forsake him, and Clare——“Arden,” he said, with sudden weakness, “I have had a great deal to annoy me since you went away. These people, the Pimpernels, invited me after a while, and I stayed, thinking—I don’t hesitate to say, for you know—thinking I should be near your sister. And Clare has behaved to me——”
“Hush, for Heaven’s sake,” said Edgar, angrily. “I will have nothing said of Clare. Let us see what comes of this business in the first place—it is enough for the moment.”
“You blame me,” said Arthur; “of course I knew you would blame me. But, as you have said yourself, it was that fool of a girl who was to blame. Good God! how could she drive these fiery brutes—I told her it was impossible. If it had only beenherself she had killed, and not poor Jeanie—little Jeanie.”
“For Heaven’s sake, be silent!” cried Edgar, furiously, trying to shake off the hand on his arm. Excitement and apprehension had produced upon Arthur the effect of wine. His nerves were so shaken that he almost wept as he repeated Jeanie’s name. Remorse, and anxiety, and pity, which were as much for himself as for any of the others, unmanned him altogether. He was deeply distressed for the girl whom his folly had helped to place in such jeopardy, but he was also distressed for himself, wondering and asking himself what he should do, how he should ever free himself from the consequences of such a misfortune. Clare was lost unless her brother interposed; and though he was innocent, surely, in respect to Alice Pimpernel, she was lost too, with her thirty thousand pounds. And Jeanie, poor little innocent victim, was probably dying. No gratification to himself or his vanity could be got out of further pursuit of her. This selfish compunction was but the undercurrent, it is true. Above that was a stream of genuine grief and distress for the suffering creature; but he had thought of himself too long to be able altogether to dismiss the consideration now.
Half the village had gathered about the doorwhen the dogcart which played so large a part in the scene dashed up again, bringing Dr. Somers. Of all houses in the world it was the cottage of Sally Timms, the one nearest the end of the village, into which Jeanie had been carried. Sally was as prompt and ready of resource as she was thriftless and untidy; but the surrounding villagers did not respect her house sufficiently to keep out of it, or to keep silent. The Doctor dispersed them with a few sharp words. “Take those children away instantly, and keep the place quiet, or I’ll bring Perfitt down upon you,” he said emphatically. Perfitt’s name did what Perfitt’s master had not thought of doing. And Edgar immediately bestirred himself to second the Doctor. He partly coaxed, partly frightened the crowd away; while Arthur stood gloomily leaning against the little garden gate chewing the cud of very bitter reflections. Then there was a long pause, a pause of intense expectation. The women who had been sent away watched from the corner and from their own doors for the reappearance of the Doctor. The children slunk away into distant groups, now and then seduced into a shout or gambol, which was instantly put a stop to by some indignant spectator. The very birds and insects seemed to pause, the leaves rustled less loudly. A stranger seeing so many silent spectators all with their eyesturned towards the cottage door, all in such a stillness of suspense, would have found the scene very difficult to interpret. The dogcart stood at the corner of the road with the groom in it gathering up the reins close in his hands, and ready to rush anywhere for whatever might be wanted. Edgar stood in the middle of the dusty road with a sense that if he approached a step nearer the very sound of his step might disturb the patient. And Sally Timms’ youngest child, awe-stricken and silent, sat in the dust and gazed up with wide-open eyes at Arthur Arden leaning upon the garden gate.
At length Dr. Somers came out, and everybody made one sudden step forward. He held out his hands warning them off. “No noise,” he said; “no excitement. Silence—quiet is everything. Come with me and I will tell you what to do.”
She will live if all this care has to be taken, was the thought that past like lightning through Arthur Arden’s mind, and he recovered his courage a little. The two cousins followed the Doctor towards the little conclave of women at the corner. “Now, look here,” he said, making an address to the community in general, “that poor child is lying between life and death. She may go any moment; but if you will keep everything quiet, and those confounded children of yours, and keep away from the house,and stop all noises, we may bring her through yet.”
“God bless you, sir!” cried old Sarah, who was present with her girls, crying and curtseying. The other women were silent, and perhaps not so much impressed. They were ready to give any amount of wondering attentive sympathy, but to keep their children quiet was another matter. One rushed away out of the circle with a baby which was beginning to cry; another administered a private box on the ear to an urchin who had no thoughts of making any noise. But yet they murmured a little in their hearts.
“The Doctor means,” said Edgar, “that the poor girl is a stranger, and that all you Arden folks are too friendly and kind to mind a little trouble. You shall send the children to play in the park, and the men will help me to have straw put over the causeway at once. Where is John Hesketh? I know you will all do your very best.”
“And that we will, Squire,” cried the women. There was nothing in this speech about “confounded children.” But the results to the children were more terrible than anything proposed by the Doctor. The mothers made a general rush at them, and put them to bed. “Bless you, it’s the only place they’re quiet,” cried one and another; andEdgar, hurrying to the house of the most respected inhabitant of Arden, got a little party organised at once to lay down straw upon the road. He went with them himself, eager and busy, while Arthur stood at the corner with the Doctor. “Just like him,” Dr. Somers said, “and very unlike the Ardens. Was it he that helped on this catastrophe, that he is so anxious and busy now?”
“No,” said Arthur, without seeing the full meaning of the question; “he had nothing to do with it. It was I who was to blame.”
“Ah! I thought so,” cried Dr. Somers, rubbing his hands together with a suppressed chuckle. His professional gravity was over for the moment, having lasted as long as was necessary; and now he was at leisure to indulge in his ordinary speculations.
“Why did you think so?” asked Arthur, coldly.
“Because you are a true Arden, and you are taking no trouble about it,” was the reply; and Dr. Somers went on, after he had discharged this shaft, with an inward satisfaction not unnatural in the circumstances. It was not that he was indifferent to poor Jeanie’s fate; but he was used to danger, and was not awe-stricken by it, as are the inexperienced. Even while he walked up the side-path into the village street he was turning over with professional seriousness and anxiety what measuresit would be best to take—pondering closely which was most suitable; but he could not refuse himself the pleasure of shooting that javelin. It did not do Arthur Arden any great harm, and it relieved him about Jeanie more than a more favourable judgment of her case would have done. In his ignorance he concluded that a doctor could not jibe at other men if his patient was in very great danger; and as for the straw and so forth, that was in Edgar’s way, not his. Edgar was the master, and free to order what he pleased; and, besides, was a commonplace being, who naturally thought of such matters of detail. So long as Jeanie was not going to die, that was all that absolutely affected him. And heaven knows, being relieved of that first dread, he had enough on his hands and his mind. There were the Pimpernels, whom he would have to face with the consciousness that he had been instrumental in risking their daughter’s life, or, at least, in putting her in circumstances to risk it; and—what was still worse—that he had thought nothing of Alice, done nothing for her, had not even inquired if she was badly hurt or in danger. This last reflection disconcerted him wholly. He could not hasten to the Red House, as he had intended, to show a tardy but still eager sympathy, while still he was unaware what had happened to Alice. He had to hastenafter his cousin, who knew all about her, pursuing him to the home-farm and the stacks, where he was loading his volunteer labourers, and losing the precious time which he ought to have spent in smoothing down the Pimpernels. “Wait a little; I have no time to speak to you,” Edgar said to him. “I am busy; watch the road that no carts pass till we are ready——” What were all these ridiculous details to him? The girl was not going to die; and how was he to face the Pimpernels?
“Miss Pimpernel? She is not much hurt. I sent her home in the dogcart; but, Arden, don’t go—look after the road,” Edgar managed to shout to him at last across the farmyard. Arthur took no further thought about keeping Jeanie quiet—except, indeed, that he gave Johnny Timms sixpence to stand and watch at the corner of the road. Edgar, however, was on the spot before he had gone quite away. He saw the work proceeding as he turned in at the gate of the Red House, and asked himself, with a half sneer at his cousin, a half wonder for himself, what made the difference? Edgar had nothing to do with the accident, and yet was taking all this trouble to repair it; whereas he, who was really involved in it, after the first moment, never dreamed of taking any trouble. What was the use, indeed, of thus troubling one’s self about others?He had been weakly, foolishly compunctious at the first moment. Why could he not have left Jeanie to Edgar? Why should he have concerned himself at all about her? Why for her sake, a girl who had never even given him a smile, should he have committed himself thus with the Pimpernels? Arthur Arden cursed his own folly, and the impulse which had made him snatch up Jeanie in his arms instead of Alice. Edgar was there, who would have done it, and taken all the responsibility; and such a piece of Quixotism would not harm Edgar. There was the difference—not in the nature, as that insolent Doctor insinuated, but in the fact that Edgar could afford to be helpful, and liberal, and generous—that it could do him no harm. Whereas he, Arthur, dependent upon circumstances—obliged to keep on good terms with this one, to curry favour with that, to consider how everything would affect his own interests—did not venture to be helpful and sympathetic. That was the true explanation of the whole. A man, when he is rich, can afford to be better, kinder, more self-forgetting than a man who is poor; and, above all, the man who lives by his wits, is the man least capable of sacrifices for others. Arthur Arden was very sorry for himself as he went reluctantly, yet quickly, through the shrubberies of the Red House. He knew he had amauvais quartd’heurebefore him. However eager or anxious he might manage to look, he knew very well that the father and mother would never forgive him for having left their child to take her chance, while he cared for the little village girl. He cursed his unhappy impulsiveness as he approached the house of the Pimpernels. Taking trouble about other people was always a mistake, unless they were people who could repay that care. Could not he have left Jeanie alone to take her chance? Was not Jeanie somehow at the bottom of Clare’s caprice, which had thrown out all his calculations a week ago? And now again, no doubt, she had ruined him with the Pimpernels. Poor Arthur Arden!—if he had been the Squire he would have been above all these miserable calculations—all these apprehensions and regrets. The least sympathetic spectator could scarcely have refrained from a sentiment of pity for the unfortunate schemer as he crossed the threshold of the Red House.
END OF VOL. II.