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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fcb9ead --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54108 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54108) diff --git a/old/54108-0.txt b/old/54108-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7a0a190..0000000 --- a/old/54108-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7090 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 4, 2017 [EBook #54108] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SQUIRE ARDEN; VOLUME 1 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - SQUIRE ARDEN. - - VOL. I. - - - - - SQUIRE ARDEN. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” - “SALEM CHAPEL,” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,” - ETC., ETC. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. I. - - LONDON: - HURST & BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, - 13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - 1871. - - _The Right of Translation is Reserved._ - - PERTH: - SAMUEL COWAN & CO., PRINTERS. - - - - - SQUIRE ARDEN. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -“What are the joy bells a-ringing for, Simon?” said an old woman, coming -briskly out to the door of one of the pretty cottages in the pretty -village of Arden, on a pleasant morning of early summer, when all the -leaves were young, and the first freshness of the year was over the -world. “There’s ne’er a one married as I knows on, and it aint -Whitsuntide, nor Holmfirth fair, nor----” - -“It’s the young Squire, stoopid,” said the old clerk, gruffly, leaning -his arms upon the little paling of the tiny garden and looking at her. -“He’s come home.” - -What he really did say was “he’s coom whoam;” but the reader will be so -kind as take it for granted that Simon Molyneaux was an old Lancashire -man, and talked accordingly, without giving a pen not too familiar with -the dialect the trouble of putting in all the o’s that are necessary. -Simon said coom, and he said loove, and moother; but as there is no -moral meaning in the double letter, let us consent to leave it out. - -“The young Squire!” said the old woman, with a start. - -She was a tidy fresh old woman, with cheeks of a russet colour, half -brown half red, yet soft, despite all their wrinkles--cheeks that -children laid their little faces up to without feeling any difference of -texture; and eyes which had stolen back during these years deeper into -their sockets, but yet were bright and full of suppressed sunshine. She -had a little shawl pinned over her print gown, and a great white apron, -which shone in the sun, and made the chief light in the little picture. -Simon’s rugged countenance looking at her was all brown, with a deep -dusky red on the tops of the cheekbones; his face was as full of -cross-hatching as if he had been an old print. His eyes were deeper than -were hers, but still at the bottom of the wrinkled caves they abode in -had a spark of light in each of them. In short, there was sufficient -resemblance between them still to show that Simon and Sarah were brother -and sister. A young woman of four and twenty came to the door of the -next cottage at the sound of his voice, and opening it, went in again, -as if her duty was done. She was Simon’s daughter and housekeeper, who -was not fond of gossip, and the two kindred households were next door -to each other. It was a very pretty village, much encouraged to keep -itself tidy, and to cultivate flowers, and do everything that is proper -in its condition of life, by the young lady at the Hall. The houses had -been improved, but in an unobtrusive way. They were not painfully -white-washed, but showed here and there a gleam of red brick in a thin -place. The roses and the honeysuckles were not always neatly trained, -and there was even an old shawl thrust into a broken pane in the window -of Sally Timms, who was so much trouble to Miss Arden with her untidy -ways. Old Simon had nothing but wallflower and southernwood (which was -called lad’s love in that region), and red and white daisies in his -garden. But next door, if you came at the proper season, you might see -picottees that were exhibited at the Holmfirth flower show, and floury -auriculas, such as were the height of the fashion in the floral world a -good many years ago. In short there was just that mixture of perfection -and imperfection which kept the village of Arden a natural spontaneous -village, instead of an artificial piece of luxury, cultivated like any -other ornament, in consequence of the very close vicinity of the Hall -gates. - -“The young Squire!” said old Sarah again, who had been shaking her head -all the time we have taken to interpolate this bit of description; and -she did it still more emphatically now when she repeated her words, -“Poor lad--poor lad! Eh, to think the joy bells should be rung in Arden -Church along o’ _him_! He never came home yet that I hadn’t a good cry -for’t afore the day was done. Poor lad!” - -“Thee needn’t cry no more,” said Simon, “along of him. He’s come to his -own, and ne’er one within twenty miles to say him nay. He came home last -night, when folks were a’ abed; but he’s as bright as a May morning to -look at him now.” - -“He was allays bright,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes with her apron, an -action which disturbed the whole picture, breaking up the lights, “when -he was kepp like the lowest in the house, and ’ad the nose snapped off -his face, he’d cry one minute and laugh the next, that’s what he’d do. -He never was long down, wasn’t Mr. Edgar. Though where he got that, and -his light hair, and them dancing eyes of his, it’s none o’ us that can -say.” - -“It was off his mother he got ’em, as was natural,” said the old clerk. -“I saw her when old Master he brought her home first, and she was as -fair as fair. But, Squire or no Squire, I’m going to my breakfast. Them -bell-ringing boys they’re at the Arden Arms already, drinking the -Squire’s sovereign, the fools, instead of laying it up for a rainy day. -If they had the rheumatiz as bad as me they’d know what it was to have a -penny laid by; but I don’t know what young folks is coming to, I don’t,” -said Simon, opening his own gate, and hobbling towards the open door. He -had a large white handkerchief loosely tied about his shrivelled brown -throat, and an old black coat, which had been an evening coat of the old -Squire’s in former days. Simon preferred swallowtail coats, chiefly -because he thought they were more dignified, and became his position; -but partly also because experience had taught him that coats which were -only worn in the evening by their original proprietor had a great deal -more wear in them than those which the Squire or the Rector walked about -in all day. - -Sarah went in also to her own cottage, where for the moment she was all -alone. She spread down her white apron, and smoothed out the creases -which she had made when she dried her eyes; but, notwithstanding, her -eyes required to be dried again. “Poor lad,” she said at intervals, as -she “tidied” her already tidy room, and swept some imperceptible dust -into the fireplace. The fire was made up. The cat sat winking by it. The -kettle feebly murmured on the hob. It was not the moment for that -kettle to put itself in evidence. It had made the breakfast, and had -helped in the washing of the solitary cup and saucer, and it was only -just now that it should retire into the background till the afternoon, -when tea was again to be thought of. Its mistress was somewhat in the -same condition. She walked round the room two or three times, trying -apparently to find some piece of active work which required to be done, -and poked into all the corners. “I done my scouring only yesterday,” she -said to herself in a regretful and plaintive tone; but, after a little -interval, added energetically, “and I cannot settle down to plain -sewing, not to-day.” She said this as if somebody had commanded her to -take to her plain sewing, which lay all ready in a basket on the table, -and the command had roused her to sudden irritation. But it was only the -voice of duty which gave that order. Even after this indignant protest, -however, Sarah took her work, and put in three stitches, and then picked -them carefully out again. “I think I’m a losing of my seven senses,” she -said to herself plaintively. “It aint no use a struggling.” And with -that the old woman rose, tied on her big old bonnet, and set out through -Arden village in the sunshine on her way to Arden Hall. - -To see that pretty rural place, you would never have supposed it was -within a dozen miles of the great, vulgar, bustling town of -Liverpool--nay, within half a dozen miles of the straggling, dreary -outskirts of that big beehive. But yet so it was; from the tower of -Arden Church you could see the mouth of the Mersey, with all its crowds -of ships; and, but for the haughty determination of the old Squire to -grant no building leases on his land, and the absence of railway -communication consequent thereupon, no doubt Arden would have been by -this time full of villas, and would have sent a stream of commercial -gentlemen every morning out of its quiet freshness by dint of a ten -o’clock train. But there was no ten o’clock train, and no commercial -gentlemen, and no bright shining new villas; but only the row of houses, -half whitewash half red brick, with lilac bushes all in flower, and -traveller’s joy bristling over their porches, and all the little gardens -shining in the sun. The Church was early English; the parsonage was red -brick of Queen Anne’s time. And there was a great house flush with the -road, disdaining any petty interposition of garden between it and the -highway, with white steps and a brass knocker, and rows upon rows of -brilliant dazzling windows, which was the doctor’s house. The parson and -the doctor were the only gentlemen in Arden village; there was nobody -else above the rank of an ordinary cottager. There was a little shop -where everything was sold; and there was the post office, where -stationery was to be had as well as postage stamps; and the Arden Arms, -with a little green before it, and a great square sign-post standing out -in the midst. A little way beyond the Church, which stood on the other -side of the road, opposite but higher up than the Arden Arms, were the -great Hall gates. They had a liberal hospitable breadth about them which -was suggestive somehow of guests and good cheer. Two carriages could -pass, the village folks said, with natural pride, through those wide -portals, and the breadth of the great splendid old avenue, with its elms -and limes, was in proportion. There were two footpaths leading on either -side of the avenue, like side aisles in a great cathedral, under the -green-arched splendour of meeting trees; and so princely were the -Ardens, with all their prejudices, that not only their poor neighbours, -but even Liverpool folks pic-nicing, had leave to roam about the park, -and take their walks even in the side aisles of the avenue. The Squire, -like a great monarch, was affable to the populace--so long as it allowed -that it was the populace, and kept in its right place. - -Up one of these side walks old Sarah trudged, with her white apron -disturbing all the lights, and with many homely musings in her old head, -which had scarcely a right to the dignified title of thoughts. She was -thinking to herself--“Eh, my word, but here’s changes! Master o’ all, -him that was never made no more of nor a stranger in his own father’s -house; nor half so much as a stranger. Them as come on visits would get -the best o’ all, ponies to ride, and servants to wait upon ’em, and -whatever they had a mind for:--and Mr. Edgar put into that bit of a room -by the nursery, and never a horse, nor a penny in his pocket. I’d just -like to know how it was. Eh, my word, what a queer feel it must have! -You mind me, he’ll think he hears oud Squire ahind him many and many a -day. And an only son! And I never heard a word against Madam, and Miss -Clare always the queen of all. Bless him! none on us could help that; -but I was allays one as stood up for Mr. Edgar. And now he’s master o’ -all! I wonder is she glad, the dear? Here’s folks a coming, a man and a -maid; and I canno’ see who they are with my bad eyes. Eb, but I could -once see as good as the best. I mind that time I was in Cheshire, afore -I came home here--Lord bless us, it’s Miss Clare and the young Squire!” - -The young pair were coming down under the trees on the same path, and -Sarah stopped short in her thinkings with a flutter, as if they must -have divined the subject of them:--Two young people all in black, not -lighting up the landscape as they might have done had their dress been -as bright as their faces. The first thing that struck the observer was -that they were utterly unlike; they had not even the same little family -tricks of gait or gesture, such as might have made it apparent that they -were brother and sister. The young lady was tall and slight, with a -great deal of soft dignity and grace; dignity which might, however, grow -imperious on occasion. Her face was beautiful, and regular, and full of -sweetness; but those fine lines could set and harden, and the light -young figure could erect itself, if need were, into all the severity of -a youthful Juno. Her hair was very dark, and her eyes blue--a kind of -beauty which is often of the highest class as beauty, but often, also, -indicates a character which should attract as much fear as love. She was -soft now as the opening day, leaning on her brother’s arm with a certain -clinging gesture which was not natural to her, lavishing upon him her -smiles and pretty looks of affection. Old Sarah, looking on, divined her -meaning in a moment. “Bless her!” the old woman said to herself, with a -tear in the corner of her eye, which she dared not lift the apron to -dry. Hard injustice and wrong had been Edgar’s part all his life. His -sister was making it up to him, pouring upon him all the sunshine she -could collect into her moist eyes, to make him amends for having thus -lived so long in the dark. - -Clare Arden might have stepped out of one of the picture frames in the -hall, so entirely was her beauty the beauty of her family; but her -brother was as different as it is possible to imagine. He was scarcely -taller than she was, not more than an inch or two, instead of towering -over her as her father had done. He had light brown, curly, abundant -hair, frizzing all over his well-shaped, well-poised head; and brown -eyes, which sparkled, and danced, and laughed, and spoke, and defied you -not to like them. They had laughed and danced in his worst days, -irrepressibly, and now, notwithstanding the black band on his hat, they -sent rays about like dancing fauns, all life, and fire, and active -energy. He looked like one whom nobody could wrong, who would disarm the -sourest critic. A stranger would have instantly taken it for granted -that he was the favourite child of the house, the one whose gay vagaries -were always pardoned, and whose saucy ways no father or mother could -well withstand. How such a being could have got into the serious -old-world house of Arden nobody could make out. It was supposed that he -was like his mother; but she had been in delicate health, poor lady, -and had lived very little at Arden Hall. The village folks did not -trouble their head with theories as to the cause of the old Squire’s -dislike to his only son, but the parson and the doctor had each a very -decided opinion on the subject, which the reader shall learn further on, -and make his own conclusions from. For, in the meantime, I cannot go on -describing Edgar Arden. It is his business to do that for himself. - -“Who is coming?” he said. “Somebody whose face I know; a nice old woman -with a great white apron. But we must go on to see the village, and all -your improvements there.” - -“There are no improvements,” said his sister. “Oh, Edgar, I do hope you -hate that sort of thing as I do. Let us keep it as it was. Our own -people are so pleasant, and will do what we want them. The only thing I -was afraid of you for was lest you should turn radical, like the rest of -the young men. But then you have not been in the way of it--like the -Oxford men, you know.” - -“I don’t know about the Oxford men,” said Edgar, “but I am not so sure I -haven’t been in the way of it.” He had the least little touch of a -foreign accent, which was very quaint from those most Saxon lips. He was -just the kind of young man whom, anywhere abroad, the traveller would -distinguish as an undeniable Briton; and yet his English had a touch of -something alien in it--a flavour which was not British. He laughed as he -spoke, and the sound startled all the solemn elms of Arden. The Ardens -did not laugh much; they smiled very sweetly, and they liked to know -that their smile was a distinction; but Edgar was not like the Ardens. - -“How you laugh,” said Clare, clinging a little closer to his arm, “It is -very odd, but somehow I like it. Don’t you know, Edgar, the Ardens were -never people to laugh? We smile.” - -“So you do,” said Edgar, “and I would rather have your smile than ever -so much laughing. But then you know I am not half an Arden. I never had -a chance. Here is our old woman close at hand with her white apron. Why, -it is old Sarah! You kind old soul, how are you? How does it go?” And he -took both her hands into his and shook them till old Sarah lost her -breath. Then a twinkle like a tear came in to Edgar’s laughing eye. “You -gave me half-a-crown when I left Arden last,” he said, still holding her -hands, and then in his foreign way he kissed her first on one brown -cheek and then on the other. “Oh, Master Edgar!” cried old Sarah, out of -breath; while Clare looked on very sedately, not quite knowing what to -say. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -“It was kind of you to come and see my brother,” said Clare at length, -with something of that high and lofty sweetness which half implies--“it -was kind, but it was a piece of presumption.” She meant no harm to her -old nurse, whom she was fond of in her heart, and who was besides a -privileged person, free to be fond of the Ardens; but Edgar had been -badly used all his life, and his sister was more proud on his behalf -than if he had been the worshipped heir, always foremost. She drew -herself up just a little, not knowing what to make of it. In one way it -was right, and she approved; for even a king may be tender to his -favoured dependents without derogation--but yet, certainly it was not -the Arden way. - -“Miss Clare, you don’t think that, and you oughtn’t for to say it,” said -old Sarah, with some natural heat; “but I’ve been about the house ever -since you were born: and staying still to-day in my little place with my -plain-sewing was more nor I could do. If there had been e’er a little -maid to look to--but I ain’t got none in hands now.” - -“I beg your pardon, Sarah,” said Clare promptly; “and Mrs. Fillpot has -something to say to you about that. If you will go up to the house and -speak to her, now that you have seen Edgar, it will be very nice of you. -We are going down to the village to see some of his old friends.” - -“The young master don’t know the village, Miss Clare, as he ought to -have done,” said old Sarah, shaking her head. She had said such words -often before, but never with the same result as now; for Clare was -divided between allegiance to the father whom she loved, who was dead, -and whom she could not now admit to have ever done any wrong--and the -brother whom she loved, who was there by her side, and of whose injuries -she was so keenly sensible. The blood rushed to her cheek--her fine blue -eyes grew like steel--the lines of her beautiful face hardened. Poor old -Sarah shrank back instinctively, almost as if she expected a blow. -Clare’s lips were formed to speak when her brother interrupted her, and -probably the words would not have been pleasant which she was about to -say. - -“The more reason I should know it now,” he said in his lighthearted way. -“If it had not been so early, Sarah, you should have come back and made -me some tea. What capital tea she used to make for you in the nursery, -Clare, you lucky girl! It is Miss Arden’s village I am going to see, -Sarah. It shall always be hers to do what she likes with it. You can -tell the people nothing is changed there.” - -“Edgar, I think we should go,” said Clare, restraining him with once -more that soft shade of possible haughtiness. “Stay till we come back, -Sarah;” and with a little movement of her hand in sign of farewell, she -led her brother away. “You must not tell your plans to that sort of -person,” she said with a quick breath, in which her momentary passion -found relief. - -“What! not your old nurse, Clare?” he cried. “You must not snub the old -woman so. We had better make a bargain in time, we who are so different. -You shall snub me when you please for my democratic ways, but you must -not snub the others, Clare.” - -“What others?” - -Edgar made no direct answer. He laughed and drew his sister’s arm close -within his own. “You are such a pretty picture with those great-lady -looks of yours,” he said; “they make me think of ruffs and hoops, and -dresses all covered with pearls. What is a farthingale? I am sure that -is what you ought to wear.” - -“You mean it is out of fashion to remember that one is well born, and of -an old family,” said Clare with energy, “but you will never bring me to -see that. One has enough to do to keep one’s proper place with all those -encroachments that are going on, without one’s own brother to take their -part. But oh! forgive me, Edgar; I forgot: I will never say another -word,” she said, with the tears rushing to her eyes. - -“What did you forget?” he said gently--“that I have been brought up as -never any Arden was before me, and am not an Arden at all, so to speak? -Perhaps on the whole it is better, for Arden ways are not the ways of -our time. They are very splendid and very imposing, and, in you, dear, I -don’t object to them, but----” - -“Oh, Edgar, don’t speak so!” said his sister, with a certain horror. - -“But I must speak so, and think so, too,” he said. “Could not you try to -imagine, Clare, among all the many theories on the subject, that this -was what was meant by my banishment? It is as good a way of accounting -for it as another. Imagine, for instance, that Arden ways were found to -be a little behind the generation, and that, hard as it was, and, -perhaps, cruel as it was----” - -“Edgar---- I don’t say it is not true; but oh, don’t say so, for I can’t -bear it!” - -“I shall say nothing you can’t bear,” he said softly, “my kind sister! -you always did your best for me. I hope I should not have behaved badly -anyhow; but you can’t tell what a comfort it is that you always stood by -me, Clare.” - -“I always loved you, Edgar,” she cried, eagerly; “and then I used to -wonder if it was my fault--if I got all the love because I was like the -family, and a girl--taking it from you. I wish we had been a little bit -like, do you know--just a little, so that people should say--‘Look at -that brother and sister.’ Sometimes one sees a boy and a girl so -like--just a beard to one and long hair to the other, to make the -necessary difference; and then one sees they belong to each other at the -first glance.” - -“Never mind,” said Edgar with a smile, “so long as we resemble each -other in our hearts.” - -“But not in our minds,” said Clare, sorrowfully. “I can see how it will -be. You will always be thinking one thing when I am thinking another. -Whatever there may be to consider, you and I will always take different -views of it. You are for the present, and I am for the past. I know only -our own Arden ways, and you know the ways of the world. It is so hard, -Edgar; but, dear, I don’t for a moment say it is your fault,” she said, -holding his arm clasped between her hands, and looking up with her blue -eyes at their softest, into his face. He looked down upon her at the -same time with a curious, tender, amused smile. Clare, who knew only -Arden ways, was so sure they must be right ways, so certain that there -was a fault somewhere in those who did not understand them--but not -Edgar’s fault, poor fellow! He had been brought up away from home, and -was to be pitied, not blamed. And this was why her brother looked down -upon her with that curious amused smile. - -“No,” he said, “it was not my fault; but I think you should take my -theory on the subject into consideration, Clare. Suppose I had been sent -off on purpose to inaugurate a new world?” - -Clare gave a little shudder, but she did not speak. She was troubled -even that he could joke on such a matter, or suggest theories, as if it -had been a mere crotchet on the part of her father, who was incapable of -anything of the kind; but she could not make a direct reply, for, by -tacit mutual consent, neither of them named the old Squire. - -“Let us think so at least,” he answered gaily, “for the harm is done, I -fear; and it would not be so bad to be a deserter from Arden ways, if -one had been educated for that purpose, don’t you think? So here we are -at the village! Don’t tell me anything. I remember every bit of it as -well as if I had been here yesterday. Where is the old lathe-and-plaster -house that used to stand here?” - -“To think you should recollect it!” said Clare, her eyes suddenly -lighting up; and then in an apologetic tone--“It was so old. I allow it -was very picturesque and charming to look at; but oh, Edgar, you would -not blame me if you knew how dreadfully tumble-down and miserable it was -inside. The rain kept coming in, and when the brook was flooded in -winter it came right into the kitchen; and the children kept having -fevers. I felt very much disposed to cry over it, I can tell you; but -you would not have blamed me had you seen how shocking it was inside.” - -“I wonder if Mistress Arden, in a ruff and a farthingale, would have -thought about the drainage,” he answered, laughing. “Fancy my blaming -you, Clare! I tell you it is your village, and you shall do what you -like with it. Is that Mr. Fielding at his gate? Let us cross over and -shake hands with him before we go any further. He is not so old, surely, -as he once was.” - -“It is we who are old,” said Clare, with the first laugh that had yet -come from her lips. “He is putting on his gloves to go and call on you, -Edgar. The bell-ringers must have made it known everywhere. Mr. Fielding -and Dr. Somers will come to-day, and the Thornleighs and Evertons -to-morrow, and after that everybody; now see if it does not happen just -as I say!” - -“Let us stop the first of these visits,” said Edgar, and he went forward -holding out his hand, while the parson at the gate, buttoning his grey -gloves, peered at him through a pair of short-sighted eyes. “It will be -very kind of you to name yourself, Sir, for I am very short-sighted,” -the Rector said, looking at him with that semi-suspicion which is -natural to a rustic of the highest as well as the lowest social -position. The newcomer was a stranger, and therefore had little right -and no assignable place in the village world. Mr. Fielding, who was -short-sighted besides, peered at him very doubtfully from the puckered -corners of his eyes. - -“Don’t you know me?” said Edgar; and “Oh, Mr. Fielding, don’t you know -Edgar?” came with still greater earnestness from the lips of Clare. - -“It is not possible!” said Mr. Fielding, very decidedly; and then he let -his slim umbrella drop out of his fingers, and held out both his hands. -“Is it really you, my dear boy!” he said. “Excuse my blind eyes. If you -had been my own son I would not have known you. I was on my way to call. -But though this is not so solemn or so correct it will do as well. And -Clare: Will you come in and have some breakfast? It cannot be much past -your breakfast hour.” - -“Nor yours either,” said Clare; “it is so naughty of you and so wrong of -you to sit up like that, when you might just as well read in daylight, -and go to bed when everybody else does. But we don’t follow such a bad -example. We mean to have breakfast always by eight o’clock.” - -Mr. Fielding gave a little sigh, and shook his venerable head. “That is -all very pretty, my dear, and very nice when you can do it; but you know -it never lasts. Anyhow, don’t let us stand here. Come in, my dear boy, -come in, and welcome home again. And welcome to your own, Edgar,” he -added, turning quickly round as he led them into his study, a large low -room, looking out upon the trim parsonage garden. He put out both his -hands as he said this, and grasped both those of Edgar, and looked not -at all disinclined to throw himself upon his neck. “Welcome to your -own,” he repeated fervently, and his eyes strayed beyond Edgar’s head, -as if he were confronting and defying some one. And then he added more -solemnly, “And God bless you, and enable you to fill your high position -like a man. Amen. I wonder what the old Doctor will say now.” - -“What should he say?” said Edgar, fun dancing in his bright brown eyes; -“and how is he? I suppose he is unchangeable, like everything here.” - -“Not unchangeable,” said Mr. Fielding, with a slight half-perceptible -shake of his head at the levity, one of those momentary assumptions of -the professional which most old clergymen indulge in now and then; -“nothing is unchangeable in this transitory world. But old Somers is as -steady as most things,” he added, with a responsive glance of amusement. -“We go on quarrelling, he and I, but it would be hard upon us if we had -to part. But tell me about yourself, Edgar, which is more interesting. -When did you get home?” - -“Late last night,” said Edgar. “I came straight through from Cologne. I -began to get impatient as soon as I had settled which day I was to reach -home, and came before my time. Clare was in bed, poor child; but she got -up, fancy, when she heard it was me.” - -“Of course she did; and she wants a cup of chocolate now,” said the old -parson, “when her colour changes like that from red to white, you should -give her some globules instantly, or else a cup of chocolate. I am not a -homœopathist, so I always recommend the chocolate. Mrs. Solmes -please, Miss Clare is here.” - -“Shall I make two, sir?” said the housekeeper, who had heard the -unusual commotion, and put her head in softly to see what was the -matter. She did not quite understand it, even now. But she was too -highly trained a woman, and too good a servant to take any notice. The -chocolate was her affair, while the identity of the new comer was not. - -“Don’t you know my brother, Mrs. Solmes?” cried Clare. “He has come -home. Edgar, she takes such good care of dear Mr. Fielding. I don’t know -how he managed without her before she came.” - -Edgar was not failing in his duty on the occasion. He stepped forward -and shook hands with the radiant and flattered woman, “as nat’ral as if -I had known him all his life,” she said in the kitchen afterwards; for -Mrs. Solmes was a stranger and foreigner, belonging to the next parish, -who could not but disapprove of Arden and Arden ways, which were -different from the habits of Thornleigh parish, to which she belonged. -Edgar made her quite a little speech as he stood and held her -hand--“Anybody who is good to Mr. Fielding is good to Clare and me. He -has always been so kind to us all our lives.” - -“He loves you like his own children, sir,” said Mrs. Solmes, quickly; -and then she turned and went away to make the chocolate, not wishing to -presume; while her master walked about the room, rubbing his hands -softly, and peering at the young man from amid the puckers of his -eyelids with pleased and approving satisfaction. “It is very nicely -said,” cried Mr. Fielding, “very nice feeling, and well expressed. After -that speech, I should have known him anywhere for an Arden, Clare.” - -“But the Ardens don’t make pretty speeches,” said Clare, under her -breath. She never could be suite sure of him. Everything he did had a -spontaneous look about it that puzzled his sister. To be in Arden, and -to know that a certain hereditary course of action is expected from you -is a great advantage, no doubt, yet it sometimes gives a certain -sobriety and stiffness to the external aspect. Edgar, on the contrary, -was provokingly easy, with all the spontaneousness of a man who said and -did exactly what he liked to do and to say. Clare’s loyalty to her race -could not have permitted any such freedom of action, and it puzzled her -at every turn. - -“We must send for old Somers,” said Mr. Fielding. “Poor old fellow, he -is very crotchety and fond of his own notions; but he’s a very good -fellow. We are the two oldest friends you have in the world, you young -people; and if we might not get a little satisfaction out of you I don’t -know who should. Mrs. Solmes,” this was called from the study door in a -louder voice, “send Jack over with my compliments to Dr. Somers, and -ask him to step this way for a minute. No, Edgar, don’t go; I want to -surprise him here.” - -“But no one says anything about Miss Somers,” said Edgar; “how is she?” - -“Ah, poor thing,” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head, “she is confined -to bed now. She is growing old, poor soul. For that matter, we are all -growing old. And not a bad thing either,” he added, pausing and looking -round at the two young figures so radiant in life and hope. “You -children are sadly sorry for us--but fading away out of the world is -easier than you think.” - -Edgar grasped Mr. Fielding’s hand, not quite knowing why, with the -compunction of youth for the departing existence to which its own -beginning seems so harsh a contrast, and yet with a reverential sympathy -that closed his lips. Clare, on the contrary, looked at him with -something almost matter-of-fact in her blue eyes. “You are not so old,” -she said quietly. “We thought you looked quite young as we came to the -door. Please don’t be angry, but I used to think you were a hundred. You -have grown ever so much younger these last three years.” - -“I should be very proud if I were a hundred,” said Mr. Fielding, with a -laugh; but he liked the grasp of Edgar’s hand, and that sympathetic -glance in his eyes. Clare was Clare, the recognised and accustomed -princess, whom no one thought of criticising; but her brother was on his -trial. Every new look, every movement, spoke for or against him; and, so -far, everything was in his favour. “Of course, he is like his mother’s -family,” the old Rector said to himself, “more sympathetic than the pure -Ardens, but with all their fine character and best qualities. I wonder -what old Somers will think of him. And here he comes,” he continued -aloud, “the best doctor in the county, though he is as crotchety as an -old magician. Somers, here’s our young squire.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Dr. Somers came in, with a pair of eagle eyes going before him, as it -seemed, like pioneers, to warn him of what was in his way. The Rector -peered and groped with the short-sighted feeble orbs which lurked amid a -nest of wrinkles, but the Doctor’s brilliant black eyes went on before -him and inspected everything. He was a tall, straight, slim, but -powerful old man, with nothing superfluous about him except his beard, -which in those days was certainly a superfluity. It was white, and so -was his hair; but his eyes were so much darker than any human eyes that -were ever seen, that to call them black was not in the least -inappropriate. He had been the handsomest man in the county in his -youth, and he was not less so now--perhaps more, with all the imposing -glory of his white hair, and the suavity of age that had softened the -lines in his face--lines which might have been a little hard in the -fulness of his strength. It was possible to think of the Rector as, -according to his own words, fading away out of the earth, but Dr. -Somers stood like a strong tower, which only a violent shock could move, -and which had strength to resist a thousand assaults. He came into the -sober-toned rectory, into that room which was always a little cold, -filled with a soft motionless atmosphere, a kind of abiding twilight, -which even Clare’s presence did not dispel--and filled it, as it seemed, -swallowing up not only the Rector, but the young brother and sister, in -the fulness of his presence. He was the light, and Mr. Fielding the -shadow in the picture; and, as ought always to be the case, the light -dominated the shadow. He had taken in every thing and everyone in the -room with a devouring glance in the momentary pause he made at the door, -and then entered, holding out his hand to the newcomer--“They meant to -mystify me, I suppose,” he said, “and thought I would not recognise you. -How are you, Edgar? You are looking just as I thought you would, just as -I knew you would. When did you come home?” - -“Last night, late,” said Edgar, returning cordially the pressure of his -hand. - -“And did not wait to be waited on, like a reigning monarch, but came to -see your old friends, like an impatient good-hearted boy? There’s a fine -fellow,” said the Doctor, patting him on the shoulders with a caress -which was quite as forcible as it was affectionate. “I ought to like -you, Edgar Arden, for you have always justified my opinion of you, and -done exactly what I expected you would do, all your life.” - -“Perhaps it is rash to say that I hope I shall always justify your -opinion,” said Edgar, laughing, “for I don’t know whether it is a good -one. But I don’t suppose I am very hard to read,” he added, with a warm -flush rising over his face. He grew red, and he stopped short with a -certain sense of embarrassment for which he could scarcely account. He -did not even try to account for it to himself, but flushed all over, and -felt excessively hot and uncomfortable. The fact was, he was a very -open-hearted, candid young fellow, much more tempted to wear his heart -upon his sleeve than to conceal it; and, as he glanced round upon his -three companions, he could see that there was a certain furtive look of -scrutiny about all their eyes: not furtive so far as the Doctor was -concerned, who looked through and through him without any concealment of -his intention. But Mr. Fielding had half-turned his head, while yet he -peered with a tremulous scrutiny at his young guest; and Clare’s pretty -forehead was contracted with a line of anxiety which Edgar knew well. -They were all doubtful about him--not sure of him--trying to make him -out. Such a thought was bitter to the young man. His colour rose higher -and higher, and his heart began to beat. “I do not think I am very -difficult to read,” he repeated, with a forced and painful smile. - -“Not a bit,” said the Doctor; “and you are as welcome home as flowers in -May: the first time I have said that to you, my boy, but it won’t be the -last. Miss Clare, my sister would be pleased if you told her of Edgar’s -return. She will have to be prepared, and got up, and all sorts of -things, to see him; but, if you were to tell her, she would think it -kind. Ah, here’s the chocolate. Of course in this house everything must -give place to that.” - -“I will go over to Miss Somers for ten minutes,” said Clare, “thank you, -Doctor, for reminding me; and, dear Mr. Fielding, don’t let Edgar go -till I come back.” - -“I should like to go too,” said Edgar. “No? Well, I won’t then; but tell -Miss Somers I will come to-morrow, Clare. Tell her I have brought her -something from Constantinople; and have never forgotten how kind she -used to be--how kind you all were!” And the young man turned round upon -them--“It is a strange sensation coming back and feeling myself at home -among the faces I have known all my life. And thank you all for being -so good to Clare.” - -Clare was going out as he spoke, with a certain shade of reluctance and -even of pride. She had been told to go, and she did not like it; it had -been implied that she had forgotten a duty of neighbourship, and to Miss -Somers, too, who could not move about, and ascertain things for herself; -and Clare did not like to be reminded of her duties. She turned round, -however, at the door, and looked back, and smiled her acknowledgment of -what her brother said. These two old men had been very kind to her. They -had done everything that the most attached old friends could do at the -time of her father’s death. That was a whole year ago; for old Squire -Arden had made a stipulation that his son was not to come back, nor -enter upon the possession of his right, till he was five-and-twenty--a -stipulation which, of course, counted for nothing in the eye of the law, -but was binding on Edgar, much as he longed to be at his sister’s side. -Thus, his father oppressed him down to the very edge of his grave. And -poor Clare would have been very forlorn in the great house but for her -old friends. Miss Somers, who was not then so great an invalid, had gone -to the Hall, to be with the girl during that time of seclusion, and she -had been as a child to all of them. A compunction smote Clare as she -turned and looked round from the door, and she kissed her hand to them -with a pretty gesture. But still it was with rather an ill grace that -she went to Miss Somers, which was not her own impulse. Compulsion -fretted the Arden soul. - -“I brought Clare into the world, and Fielding has been her head nurse -all his life,” said the Doctor, “no need for thanking us on that score. -And now all’s yours, Edgar. I may say, and I’m sure Fielding will say, -how thankful we both are to see you. You could not have been altogether -disinherited, as the property’s entailed; but I never was easy in my -mind about it during your father’s lifetime. The old Squire was a very -peculiar man; and there was no telling----” - -“Doctor,” said the young man, once more with a flush on his cheek, -“would you mind leaving out my father’s name in anything that has to be -said?--unless, indeed, he left any message for me. He liked Clare best, -which was not wonderful, and he thought me a poor representative of the -Ardens, which was natural enough. I have not a word to say against him. -On the whole, perhaps, I have got as much good of my life as if I had -been brought up in England. I have never been allowed to forget hitherto -that my father did not care for me--let me forget it now.” - -“Exactly,” said the Doctor, looking at him with a certain curious -complacency; and he gave a nod at Mr. Fielding, who stood winking to get -rid of a tear which was in the corner of his eye. “Exactly what I said! -Now, can you deny it? By Jove! I wish he had been my son! It is what I -knew he would say.” - -“Edgar, my dear boy,” said the Rector, “every word does you credit, and -this more than all. Your poor father was mistaken. I say your poor -father, for he evidently had something on his mind just before he died, -and would have spoken if time had been allowed him. I have no doubt it -was to say how sorry he was. But the Ardens are dreadfully obstinate, -Edgar, and he never could bring himself to do it. It is just like you to -say this. Clare will appreciate it, and I most fully appreciate it. It -is the best way; let us not dwell upon the past, let us not even try to -explain. Your being like your mother’s family can never be anything -against you--far from it. I agree in every word you say.” - -This speech, flattering and satisfactory as it was, took the young man a -little by surprise. “I don’t know what being like my mother’s family has -to do with it,” he said, with momentary petulance; but then his brighter -spirits gained the mastery. “It is best never to explain anything,” he -continued, with a smile. “There is Clare calling me. I suppose I am to -go to Miss Somers, notwithstanding your defence, Doctor.” And he waved -his hand to Clare from the window, and went out, leaving the two old men -behind him, following him with their eyes. He was glad to get away, if -truth must be told; they were fighting some sort of undisclosed duel -over his body, Edgar could see, and he did not like it. He went across -the village street, which was very quiet at that end, to the Doctor’s -great red brick house, and as he did so his face clouded over a little. -“They have got some theory about me,” he said to himself; “am I never to -be rid of it? And what right has any one to discuss me and my affairs -now?” Then the shade gradually disappeared from his face, and in spite -of himself there glided across his mind a sudden comparison between the -last time he had been at Arden and the present. Then he had a boy’s keen -sense of injustice and unkindness eating into him. It had not cut so -deeply as it might have done if his temperament had been gloomy; but -still it had galled him. He had felt himself contemned, disliked, thrust -aside--his presence half clandestine--his wishes made of no account--his -whole being thrust into a corner--a thing to hide, or at least to -apologise for. Now, he was the master of all. The bells had rung for -his home-coming; everything was changed. The thought made his head swim -as he walked along in the serene stillness, with the swallows making -circles about, and the bees murmuring round the blossomed trees. He had -been living an uncertain wandering life, not always well supplied with -money, not trained to do anything, an innocent vagabond. Now there was -not a corner of his life upon which some one interest or another did not -lay a claim. He had the gravest occupations on his hands. He might make -for himself a position of high influence and importance in his county; -and could scarcely be insignificant if he tried. And all this had come -to him without any training for it. His very habits of mind were not -English; even in the midst of these serious thoughts the village green, -which was at his left hand, beyond the Church and the Rectory, caught -his eye, and a momentary speculation came across him, whether the -village people danced there on Sundays? whether the fairs were held -there, or the tombola, or something to represent them? and then he -stopped and laughed at himself. What would Mr. Fielding say? Thus Edgar -had come to be Squire Arden without even the habit of being an -Englishman. The sense of injustice which had weighed upon him all his -life might have embittered his beginning now, had his mind been less -elastic. But nature had been so good to him that he was able to toss -these dreary thoughts aside, as he would have tossed a ball, before he -went in to see Miss Somers. “Things will come right somehow,” he said to -himself. Such was his light-hearted philosophy; while Clare stood grave -and silent at the door to meet him, with a seriousness which would have -been more in accordance with his difficulties than with hers. What -troubled her was the question--Would he be a radical, and introduce -innovations, ignore the mightiness of his family, conduct himself as if -his name were anything else than Arden? This sufficed to plant the -intensest seriousness, with almost a cast of severity in it, upon the -brow of Clare. - -“Didn’t I tell you exactly how it would happen?” said the Doctor, when -Edgar was gone; “no sentiment to speak of--utter absence of revengeful -feelings: settling down as if it was the most natural thing in the -world--bygones to be bygones, and a fair start for the future. Didn’t I -tell you? That boy is worth his weight in gold.” - -“You certainly told me,” said Mr. Fielding, faltering, “something very -like what has come to pass; but I don’t receive your theory, for all -that. No, no; depend upon it, the simplest explanation is always the -best. One can see at a glance he is like his mother’s family. Poor -thing! I don’t think she was too happy; and that must have intensified -old Arden’s remorse.” - -“Old Arden’s fiddlestick!” said the Doctor. “I wouldn’t give _that_ for -his remorse. He had his reasons you may be sure. Character has been my -favourite study all my life, as you know; and if that frank, -open-hearted, well-dispositioned boy ever came out of an Arden’s nest, I -expect to hear of a dove in an eagle’s. He has justified every word I -ever said of him. I declare to you, Fielding, I am as fond of him as if -he were my own boy.” - -“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head, as if that was not -so great a compensation as might have been desired. “He will get into -dozens of scrapes with these strange ways of thinking; and he knows -nothing and nobody--not a soul in the county--and probably will be -running his head against some stone wall or other before he is much -older. If I had been twenty years younger I might have tried to be of -use to him, but as it is----” - -“As it is we shall both be of use to him,” said the Doctor, “never fear. -Of course, he will get into a hundred scrapes; but then he will struggle -out again, and no harm will come of it. If he had been like the Ardens -he might have escaped the scrapes, but he would have missed a great -deal besides. I like a young man to pay his way.” - -“It appears to me, Somers, that you are a radical yourself,” said the -Rector, shaking once more his feeble old head. - -“On the contrary, the only real Tory going. The last of my race,--the -Conservative innovator,” said Dr. Somers. “These old races, my dear -Fielding, are beautiful things to look at. Clare, for instance, who is -the concentrated essence of Ardenism--and how charming she is! But that -order of things must come to an end. Another Squire Arden would have -been next to impossible: whereas this new-blooded sanguine boy will make -a new beginning. I don’t want to shock your feelings as a clergyman: but -the cuckoo’s egg sometimes comes to good.” - -“Somers,” said the Rector, solemnly, “I have told you often that I knew -Mrs. Arden well. She was a good woman; as unlikely to go wrong as any -woman I ever knew. You do her horrible injustice by such a supposition. -Besides, think: he was always with her wherever she went--there could -not have been a more devoted husband; and to imagine that all the while -he had such a frightful wrong on his mind--it is simply impossible! -besides, she was the mother of Clare.” - -“That covers a multitude of sins, of course,” said the Doctor, “but you -forget that I know all your arguments by heart. I don’t pretend to -explain everything. It is best never to explain, as that boy says--wise -fellow! Half the harm done in the world comes of explanations. But to -return to our subject. I never said he found it out at once; -perhaps--most likely--it was not discovered in her lifetime. Her papers -might inform him after her death. It is curious that when there is -anything to conceal, people do always leave papers telling all about it. -If you will give me any other feasible explanation I don’t stand upon my -theory. Like his mother’s family--bah! Is that reason enough for a man -to shut his heart against his only boy? Besides, he is not like any one -I know. I wish I could light upon any man he was like. It might furnish -a clue----” - -“When you are on your hobby, Somers, there is no stopping you,” said the -Rector, with a look of distress. - -“I am not alone in my equestrian powers,” retorted the Doctor, “you do -quite as much in that line as I do; but my theory has the advantage of -being credible, at least.” - -“Not credible,” said Mr. Fielding, with gentle vehemence. “No, certainly -not credible. Nothing would make it credible--not even to have heard -with your ears, and seen with your eyes.” - -“I never argue with prejudiced persons,” answered the Doctor, with equal -haste and heat; and thus they parted, with every appearance of a -quarrel. Such things happened almost daily between the two old friends. -Dr. Somers took up his hat, gave a vague nod of leave-taking, and issued -forth from the rectory gate as if he shook the dust from his feet; but -all the same he would drop in at the rectory that evening, stalking -carelessly through an open window as if, Mrs. Solmes said, who was not -fond of the Doctor, the place belonged to him. He went across the street -with more than his usual energy. His phaeton stood at his own door, with -two fine horses, and the smartest of grooms standing at their heads. Dr. -Somers was noted for his horses and the perfection of his turn-out -generally, which was a relic of the days when he was the pride of the -neighbourhood, and, people said, might have married into the highest -family in the county had he so willed. He was still the handsomest man -in the parish, though he was no longer young; and he was rich enough to -indulge himself in all that luxury of personal surroundings which is -dear to an old beauty. Edgar, who was standing at one of the twinkling -windows, watched the Doctor get into his carriage with a mixture of -admiration and relief. On the whole, the young man was glad not to have -another interview with his old friend; but his white hair and his black -eyes, his splendid old figure and beautiful horses, were a sight to -see. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -“I am not quite in a state to receive a gentleman,” Miss Somers was -saying when Edgar went in, with a little flutter of timidity and -eagerness. “But it is so kind of you to let me know, and so sweet of -dear Edgar to want to come. I told my brother only last night I was -quite sure---- But then he always has his own way of thinking. And you -know why should dear Edgar care for a poor creature like me? I quite -recognise that, my dear. There might be a time in my young days when -some people cared---- but as my brother says---- And just come from the -Continent, you know!” - -“May I come in?” said Edgar, tapping against the folding screen which -sheltered the head of the sofa on which the invalid lay. - -“Oh, goodness me! Clare, my love, the dear boy is there! Yes, come in, -Edgar, if you don’t mind---- But I ought to call you Mr. Arden now. I -never shall be able to call you Mr. Arden. Oh, goodness, boy! Well, -there can’t be any harm in his kissing me; do you think there can be -any harm in it, Clare? I am old enough to be both your mothers, and I am -sure I think I love you quite as well. Of course, I should never speak -of loving a gentleman if it was not for my age and lying here so -helpless. Yes, I do feel as if I should cry sometimes to think how I -used to run about once. But so long as it is only me, you know, and -nobody else suffers---- And you are both looking so well! But tell me -now how shall you put up with Arden after the Continent and all that? I -never was on the Continent but once, and then it was nothing but a -series of fétes, as they called them. I was saying to my brother only -last night----; for you know you never would visit the Pimpernels, -Clare----” - -“Who are the Pimpernels? and what have they to do with it?” said Edgar. -“But tell me about yourself first, and how you come to be on a sofa. I -never remember to have seen you sitting still before all my life.” - -“No, indeed,” said Miss Somers, her soft pretty old face growing -suddenly grey and solemn, “that is what makes old Mercy think, it’s a -judgment; but you wouldn’t say it was wicked to be always running about, -would you now? It’s wrong to follow one’s own inclinations, to be sure, -but so long as you don’t harm anybody---- There are the Pimpernel -girls, who play croquet, from morning till night--not that I mean it’s -wicked to play croquet--but poor Mr. Denbigh gets just a little led away -I fear sometimes; and if ever there was a game intended for the waste of -young people’s time----” - -“Never mind the Pimpernels,” said Clare, with a slightly imperative note -in her voice. “It is Edgar who is here beside you now.” - -“Oh, yes--dear fellow; but do you know I think my mind is weakened as -well as my body? Do I run on different from what I used, Edgar? I was -talking to my brother the other night--and he busy with his paper--and -‘how you run on!’ was all he said when I asked him---- You know he might -have given me a civil answer. I fear there is no doubt I am weakened, my -dear. I was speaking to young Mr. Denbigh yesterday, and he says he said -to the Doctor that if he were him he would take me to some baths or -other, which did him a great deal of good, he says; but I could not take -him away, you know, nor give anybody so much trouble. He is such a nice -young man, Edgar. I should like you to know him. But, then, to think -when I ask just a quiet question, ‘how you do run on!’ he said. Not that -I am complaining of him, dear----” - -“Of young Mr. Denbigh?” said Clare. - -“Now, Clare, my love--the idea! How could I complain of young Mr. -Denbigh, who is always the civillest and nicest---- Of course, I mean my -brother. He says these German baths are very good; but I would not -mention it to him for worlds, for I am sure he would be unhappy if he -had to leave home only with me.” - -Edgar and Clare looked at each other as Miss Somers, to use her own -expression, ran on. Clare was annoyed and impatient, as young people so -often are of the little follies of their seniors; but Edgar’s brown eyes -shone with fun, just modified by a soft affectionate sympathy. “Dear -Miss Somers,” he said, half in joke half in earnest, “don’t trouble -yourself about your mind. You talk just as you always did. If I had -heard you outside without knowing you were here, I should have -recognised you at once. Don’t worry yourself about your mind.” - -“Do you think not, Edgar?--do you really think not? Now that is what I -call a real comfort,” said Miss Somers; “for you are not like the people -that are always with me; you would see in a moment if I was really -weakened. Well, you know, I could not make up my mind to take him -away--could I? For after all it does not matter so much about me. If I -were young it would be different. Dear Edgar, no one has been civil -enough to ask you to sit down. Bring a chair for yourself here beside -me. Do you know, Clare, I don’t think, if you put it to me in a -confidential way, that he has grown. He is not so tall as the rest of -you Ardens. I was saying to my brother just the other day--I don’t care -for your dreadfully tall people; for you have always to stoop coming -into a room, and look as if you were afraid the sky was falling. And oh, -my dears, what a long time it is since we have had any rain!” - -“Any rain?” said Edgar, who was a little taken by surprise. - -“What the farmers will do I can’t think, for you can’t water the fields -like a few pots of geraniums. That last cutting you sent me, Clare, has -got on so well. Do you mean to keep up all the gardens and everything as -it used to be, Edgar? You must make her go to the Holmfirth flower show. -You did not go last year, Clare, nor the year before; and I saw such a -pretty costume, too, in the last fashions-book--all grey and black--just -the very thing for you. You ought to speak to her, Edgar. She has worn -that heavy deep mourning too long.” - -“Don’t, please,” said Clare, turning aside with a look of pain on her -face. - -“My dear love, I am only thinking of your good. Now is it reasonable, -Edgar? She looks beautiful in mourning, to be sure; but it is more than -a year, and she is still in crape. I would have put on my own light silk -if I had known you were coming. I hate black from my heart, but it is -the most useful to wear, with nice coloured ribbons, when you get old -and helpless. I don’t know if you notice any change in my appearance, -Edgar? Now how odd you should have found it out! I have plenty of hair -still--it is not that; but one gets so untidy with one’s head on a -pillow without a cap. Mrs. Pimpernel has quantities of hair; but a -married lady is quite different--they can wear things and do things---- -Did you observe, Edgar, if ladies wear caps just now abroad?” - -“They wear a great many different things,” said Edgar, “according to the -different countries. I brought Clare a yashmak from Constantinople to -cover her head with, and an Albanian cap----” - -“My dear,” said Miss Somers, sitting upright with horror, “the idea of -Clare wearing a cap at nineteen! That shows one should never speak to a -man about what is the fashion. Just look at her lovely hair! It will be -time enough for that thirty years hence. I cannot think how you could -like to live among the Turks. I hope you did not do as they do, Edgar. -It may be all very nice to look at, but having a quantity of wives and -that sort of thing must be very dreadful. I am sure I never could have -put up with it for a day; and then it goes in the very face of the -Bible. I hope you are going to forget all that sort of thing now, and -settle down quietly here.” - -“Miss Somers,” said Edgar, with mock solemnity, “if I had left a -quantity of wives at Constantinople, is it possible that you could -calmly advise me to forget them, and marry another here?” - -Miss Somers sat up still more straight on her sofa, and showed signs of -agitation. “I am sure I would not advise you to what was wrong for all -the world,” she said. “Oh, Edgar, my poor boy, what a dreadful position! -You might ask the Rector---- But if they were heathens, you know, in a -Christian country do you think it would be binding? Clare, dear, suppose -you step into the drawing-room a minute, till we talk this dreadful, -dreadful business over. Oh, you poor boy! It seems wicked for me, an -unmarried lady, even to think of such things; but if I could be of any -use to you---- Edgar! that kind of poor creatures,” said Miss Somers, -putting her face close to his, and speaking in a whisper, “people buy -them in the market, you know, as we read in books. Listen, my dear boy. -It is not nice, of course, but----” - -“What?” said Edgar, bending an eager ear. - -“You could sell them again, don’t you think? Poor souls, if they are -used to it, they wouldn’t care. Good gracious, how can you laugh, with -such a burden on your mind? I am thinking what would be the best, Edgar, -for you.” - -The old lady was so anxious that she put her soft wrinkled old hand upon -his, holding him fast, and gazing anxiously into his face. “You young -men have such strange ways of thinking,” she said, looking -disapprovingly at him; “you treat it as if it was a joke, but it is -very, very serious. Clare, my love, just go and speak to old Mercy a -moment. I cannot let him leave me, you know, until we have settled on -something to do.” - -“He is only laughing at you,” said Clare, with indignation. “How can -you, Edgar? Dear Miss Somers, do you really believe he could be so -wicked?” - -“Wicked, my dear?” said Miss Somers, with a look of experience and -importance on her eager old face, “young men have very strange ways. The -less you know about such things the better. Edgar knows that he can -speak to me.” - -“But Clare is right,” said Edgar, smothering his laugh. “I did not mean -to mystify you. I brought nothing more out of Constantinople than pipes -and embroideries. I have some for you, Miss Somers. Slippers that will -just do for you on your sofa, and a soft Turkish scarf that you might -make a turban of----” - -“What should I do with a turban, my dear boy?” said the invalid at once -diverted out of her solemnity, “though I remember people wearing them -once. My mother had a gorgeous one she used to wear when she went out to -dinner--you never see anything so fine now--with bird of paradise -feathers. Fancy me in a turban, Clare! But the slippers will be very -nice. There was a Mr. Templeton I once knew, in the Royal Navy, a very -nice young man, with black hair, like a Corsair, or a Giaour, or -something---- That was in my young days, my dears, when I was not -perhaps quite so unattractive as I am now. Oh, you need not be so -polite, Edgar; I know I am quite unattractive, as how could I be -otherwise, with my health and at my age? He was a very nice young man, -and he paid me a great deal of attention; but dear papa, you know--he -was always a man that would have his own way----” - -Here Miss Somers broke off with a sigh, and the story of Mr. Templeton, -of the Royal Navy, came to an abrupt conclusion, notwithstanding an -effort on the part of one of the listeners to keep it up. “Was Mr. -Templeton at Constantinople?” Edgar asked, bringing the narrator back -to her starting-point; but it was not to be. - -“Oh, what does it matter where Mr. Templeton was?” said Clare. “Edgar -has come down to see the village, Miss Somers, and all the poor people; -and I must take him away now. Another time you can tell us all about it. -Edgar, fancy, it is nearly twelve o’clock.” - -“It is so nice of you to come and chatter to me,” said the invalid. She -was a little fatigued by the conversation, the burden of which she had -taken on herself--by Edgar’s (supposed) difficulties about the wives, -and by that reference to Mr. Templeton of the Royal Navy. “You may send -old Mercy to me,” she said with a sigh as she kissed Clare; for old -Mercy was the tyrant whom Miss Somers most dreaded in the world. It was -a sad change from the presence of the young people to see that despot -come into the room, in the calm confidence of power. “Now, lie down a -bit, do, and rest yoursel’,” Mercy said, peremptorily, “or we’ll have a -nice restless night along o’ this, and the Doctor as cross as cross. Lie -down and rest, do.” - -Meanwhile the brother and sister went downstairs, she relieved, he much -softened, and full of a tender compassion. “If that would do her any -good, you and I might take her to the German baths some day,” said the -soft-hearted Edgar, “if she is able to go. Such a restless little being -as she was, it is hard to see her lying there.” - -“I hope I am not hard-hearted,” said Clare, “but I think she is very -well where she is. It is not as if she suffered much. We have lost -almost an hour with her chatter. We shall never get back in time for -luncheon if we talk to other people as long.” - -“But there are not many other people like Miss Somers,” said Edgar, with -a passing shade of gravity. He in his turn was grieved now and then by -something Clare did or said. But in a few minutes they returned to their -interrupted stream of talk, and began to discuss the village, and the -plans for the new cottages, and the enlargement of the schools, and the -restoration of the Church, and many other matters of detail. The two -went from house to house, the village gradually becoming aware of them, -and turning out to all the doors and the windows. The women stopped in -their cooking and the men, jogging home for their early dinners, ranked -themselves in rows here and there, and stood and gaped; the children -formed themselves into little groups, and looked on awestricken. Such -was Edgar’s first entry as master into the hereditary village. He made -himself very “nice” to all the bystanders, and was as cordial as if he -had been canvassing for their votes, Clare thought, who stood by in her -position as domestic critic, and noted everything. It was odd to see -what trifles he remembered, and what a memory he had for names and -places. If he had been canvassing he could not have been more -ingratiating, more full of that grace of universal courtesy which, in a -general way, is only manifest at such times. And yet, it was not as a -candidate for their favour, but as their sworn hereditary sovereign, -that he came among them. Clare, her mind already in a tumult with all -the events and all the talk of the morning, could not but acknowledge to -herself that it was very strange. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Edgar Arden had lived hitherto, as we have said, a very desultory -wandering sort of life. He had been at school in Germany during his -earlier years, and afterwards at Heidelberg, at the University, where he -had seen a great many English afar off, and vaguely found out the -difference between their training and ways of thinking and those in -which he had himself been brought up. When he had first come to the age -when a boy begins to inquire into his own position, and when it no -longer becomes possible to take everything for granted, he had been told -first that it was for his health that he had been sent away from home; -and when he had fully satisfied himself that his health could no longer -be the reason, other causes had been suggested to him equally -unsatisfactory. It was his father who was in bad health, and could not -be troubled with a lively boy about him; but then there were schools in -England as well as in Germany, which would have settled that matter: or -the German education was superior, which was a theory his tutor -strongly inclined to, but which did not seem to Edgar’s lively young -intelligence quite justified by the opinion visibly entertained by the -English travellers whom he met. His first visit to England, after he was -old enough to understand, made matters a great deal more clear to him. -Injustice and dislike are hard to conceal from a young mind, even under -the most specious disguises--and here no disguise was attempted. The -Squire received his boy with a coldness which chilled him to the heart, -saw as little of him as he possibly could, endured his presence with -undisguised reluctance, and made it quite apparent to poor Edgar that, -unlike all the other sons he had ever seen in his life, he was only a -vexation and trouble to his father. The fact that his father was his -enemy dawned vaguely upon him at a much later period; for it is hard in -extreme youth to think that one has an enemy. A vague sense of being -hustled into corners, and shut out of the life of the family, such as it -was, had been the cloud upon his earlier days. He had felt that only in -Clare’s nursery did he hold that position of chief and favourite to -which surely the only son of the house was entitled. And little Clare -accordingly became the one bright spot in the house which he still by -instinct called home. - -He had returned when he was seventeen, and again after he came of -age--though not to be received with any rejoicings at that later period, -as became the birthday of the heir. His birthday was over when he came -home, and Clare, a girl of sixteen, thrust her little furtive present -into his hand with a full sense that her brother was not to the Squire -what he was to her. But at this period something occurred which -enlightened Edgar as to his father’s feelings towards himself in the -cruellest way; it enlightened him and yet it threw a confusion darker -than ever over his life. The day after his arrival Mr. Arden sent for -him, and elaborately explained to him that he wished for his aid in -breaking the entail of certain estates, of which the young man knew -nothing. It was the longest interview that had ever taken place between -the two; and the Squire made very full explanations, the meaning of -which was but indistinct to the youth. Edgar had all the impatient and -reckless generosity which so often accompanies a buoyant temperament; -his sense of the sweets of property was small; and he knew next to -nothing about the estates. Had he known much there is little doubt that -he would have done exactly as he did; but, however, he had not even that -safeguard; and the consequence was that he took his father’s word at -once, responded eagerly and promptly to the proposal, and gave his -consent to denude himself of the property which had been longest in the -family, the little estate from which the name of Arden first came, and -which every Arden acquainted with his family history most highly prized. -Edgar, however, knew very little about his family history; and with the -foolish disinterestedness of a boy he acquiesced in all his father -suggested. But after the necessary arrangements in respect to this were -concluded Edgar caught a glance from his father’s eye which went to his -heart like an arrow. It was in the hunting-field, where, untrained as he -was, he had acquitted himself tolerably well; and he was just about to -take a somewhat risky fence when he saw that look which he never forgot. -The Squire had reined in his own horse, and sat like a bronze figure -under a tree watching his son. And as plain as eyes could tell Edgar -read in his father’s look a suppressed inappeasable enmity, which it was -impossible to mistake; his father was watching intently for the -spring--was it possible he was hoping that a fall would follow? How it -was that Edgar got over the fence he never could tell; for to his -hopeful, all-believing temper such a sudden glimpse into the darkness -was like a paralysing blow. He kept steady on his saddle, and somehow, -without any conscious guidance on his part, the horse accomplished the -leap; but Edgar turned straight back, and went home with such a sense of -misery as he had never experienced before. He was too wretched to -understand the calls sent after him--the questions with which he was -assailed. He could not even reply to Clare’s wondering inquiries. His -father hated him--that was the discovery he had made. To suspect that -anybody hated him would have given Edgar a shock; but to know it beyond -all doubt, and to feel that it was his father who regarded him with such -fierce enmity, made his very heart sink within him. He went away next -day, giving no explanation of his desire to do so. Nor did the Squire -make any inquiries. It was a mutual relief to them to be free of each -other. Before his departure his father informed him that he would -henceforward receive a much more liberal allowance--an intimation which -Edgar received without thinking what it meant--without caring what sense -was in the words. And that was the last he had seen of the Squire. -Nobody but himself knew of this incident. It was nothing--an -impression--a fancy; but in all Edgar’s life nothing had happened that -was so bitter to him. The effect had not lasted, for his mind was -essentially elastic, and he was young, and free to amuse himself as he -would. Fortunately, the kind of amusements he preferred were innocent -ones; for he had no guide, no one to control or restrain him, and not -even the shadow of parental authority. His father hated him--a horrible -freedom was his inheritance--nobody cared if he were to die the next -day--nay, on the contrary, there was some one who would be glad. - -This impression, which had been swept out of his mind by years and -changes, came back upon him with singular force as all at once his eye -fell on the great portrait of old Squire Arden, painted when he was -Master of the Hounds, in sporting costume, which hung in the hall. He -stopped short before it as he went in with his sister on the first day -of his return, and felt a shudder come over him. Perhaps it was the -costume and attitude which moved his memory; but there seemed to lurk in -his father’s face, as he entered the house of which that father had been -unable to deprive him, the same look which once had fallen upon him like -a curse. He stopped short and grew pale, in spite of all his attempts to -control himself. “Would you think it cruel, Clare,” he said suddenly in -his impulsive way, “if I were to ask you to transfer that portrait to -some other place? It has a painful effect upon me there.” - -“This is your house, Edgar,” answered Clare. On this point her sweetness -abandoned her. She knew he had been badly used; but she knew at the same -time that her father had been all love and kindness to herself. -Therefore, as was natural, Miss Arden took it for granted that somehow -it must be Edgar’s fault. - -“That is not the question,” he said. “I can understand by my own what -your feelings must be on the subject. But it cannot harm him to remove -it, and it does harm me to have it stay. If you will make this sacrifice -to me, Clare----” - -“Edgar, I tell you this is your house,” she said, with the tears rushing -to her eyes; and ran in and left him there, in a sudden passion of grief -and anger. Her brother, left alone, looked somewhat sadly round him. He -was very destitute of those impulses of self-assertion which come so -naturally to most young men; on the contrary, his impulse was to yield -when the feeling of anyone he loved ran contrary to his own: he was a -little sorrowful at Clare’s want of sympathy, but it did not move him to -act as master. “What harm can it do me now?” he said, going up and -looking closely at the portrait. It came natural to him to reason -himself out of his own fancies, and to give place to those of others. -“It would be wounding her only to satisfy my caprice,” he added after a -while; “and why should I be indulged in everything, I should like to -know?” Poor boy! up to this moment he had never been indulged in -anything all his life. He stayed a long time in the hall, now walking -about it, now standing before the portrait. It haunted him so that he -felt obliged to face it, and defy the look; and he could not but think -with a sigh what a comfort it would be to get quit of it, to take it -down and turn it somewhere with its face to the wall. But then he -remembered that though he was the master he was more a stranger in the -house than any servant it contained; and what right had he to cross his -sister, and go in the face of every tradition, and offend every soul in -the place, by taking down that picture, which looked malevolent to -nobody but him? “God forgive you!” he said at last, shaking his head at -it sorrowfully as he went slowly upstairs. He could not feel himself -free or safe so long as it remained there. If anything happened to -him--supposing, for instance (this grim idea crossed his mind in spite -of himself)--supposing it might ever happen that he should be carried -into that hall, wounded or mangled by any accident, would the painted -face smile at him, would the eyes gleam with a horrible joy? And it was -his father’s face. Edgar shuddered, he could not help it, as he went -slowly up the great stairs. As he went up, some one else was coming -down, making a gleam of reflection in the still air. It was old Sarah, -with her white apron, making a curtsey at every step, and finding that -mode of progress difficult. Edgar’s mobile countenance dressed itself -all in smiles at the appearance of this old woman. Clare would have -thought it strange, but it came natural to her brother; though, perhaps, -on the whole, it was Clare, her own special charge and nursling, who was -most fond of old Sarah, as, indeed, it became her to be. - -“Have you been waiting for us?” he said. “My sister has gone to look for -you, I suppose.” - -“Not gone to look for me, Mr. Edgar,” said Sarah, petulantly; “run -upstairs in one of her tantrums, as I have seen her many a day. You’ll -have to keep her a bit in hand, now you’ve come home, Mr. Edgar.” - -“_I_ keep her in hand!” cried Edgar, struck with the extreme absurdity -of the suggestion; and then he tried hard to look severe, and added--“My -dear old Sarah, you must recollect who Miss Arden is, and take care what -you say.” - -“There’s ne’er a one knows better who she is,” said old Sarah, “she’s my -child, and my jewel, and the darlin’ of my heart. But, nevertheless, -she’s an Arden, Mr. Edgar. All the Ardenses as ever was has got -tempers--except you; and for her own good, the dear, you should keep her -a bit in hand; and if you say it was her old nurse told you, as loves -her dearly, it wouldn’t do no harm.” - -“Am I the only Arden without a temper?” said Edgar, gaily; “it’s odd how -I want everything that an Arden ought to have. But my sister is queen at -Arden, Sarah; always has been; and most likely always will be.” - -“Lord bless you, sir, wait till you get married,” said Sarah, nodding -her head again and again, and beaming at the prospect. “Eh! I’d like to -live to see that day!” - -“It will be a long day first,” said Edgar, with a laugh, meaning nothing -but a young man’s half-mocking, half-serious denial of the coming -romance of his existence; “though I promise you, Sarah, you shall dance -at my wedding--but at Clare’s first, which is the proper arrangement, -you know.” - -“If he was a good gentleman, Sir, and one as was fond of her, I -shouldn’t care how soon it was,” she said. “Eh, my word, but I’ll dance -till I dance you all off the floor!” - -“But you must not go without something to remind you of your first visit -to us,” he said; and he took out his purse from his pocket with the -lavish liberality of his disposition. “Look, there is not very much in -it. Buy something you like, Sarah, and say to yourself that it is given -you by me.” - -“No, Mr. Edgar; no, Sir. Oh, good Lord, not a purse full of money, as if -that was all I was thinking of! I didn’t come here, not for money, but -to see Miss Clare and you.” - -“It is because it is your first visit to us,” repeated Edgar, and he -gave her a kind nod, and went lightly past to his rooms. All his gloomy -thoughts and superstitions had been driven out of his mind by this -momentary encounter. His light heart had risen again like a ball of -feathers. The glooms and griefs that lay in his past he shook off from -him as lightly as thistledown. He thought no more of his father’s grim -face in the hall--did not even look at it when he went downstairs. Was -it that his mind was a light mind, easily blown about by any wind? or -that God had given him that preservative which He gives to those whom He -has destined to bear much in this world? At so early a moment, when his -life lay all vague before him, this was a question which nobody could -answer. There was one indication, however, that his elasticity was -strength rather than weakness, which was this--that he had not forgotten -what had moved him so strongly, but was able, his sunny nature helping -him, to put it away. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The first day at Arden had been play; the second, work began again, and -the new life which was so unfamiliar to the young Squire came pouring in -upon him like a tide. In the morning he had an appointment with the -family solicitor, who was coming, full of business, to lay his affairs -before him, and to inaugurate his curiously changed existence. In the -evening, his old friends in the village were coming to dine with this -equally old friend, and Edgar felt that he would, without doubt, have a -great deal of good advice to encounter, and probably many reminiscences -which would not be pleasant to hear. None of these very old friends knew -in the least the character of the young man with whom they had to do. -They saw, as everybody did, his light-heartedness, his cheerful oblivion -of all the wrongs of the past, and quiet commencement of his new career; -but they did not know nor suspect the thorns that past had left in his -mind--the haunting horror of his father’s look, the aching wonder as to -the meaning of treatment so extraordinary, which had never left him -since he caught that glance, coupled with a strange consciousness that -some time or other he must find out the secret of this unnatural enmity. -Edgar, though he was so buoyant as almost to appear deficient in feeling -to the careless observer, kept this thought lying deep down in his -heart. He would find it out some time, whatever it was; and though he -could not frame to himself the remotest idea what it was, he felt and -knew that the discovery, when it came, would be such as to embitter if -not to change his whole existence. No one had any clue to the cause of -the Squire’s behaviour to his son. To Clare it had seemed little more -than a preference for herself, which was cruel to her brother, as -shutting him out from his just share in his father’s heart, but not of -any great importance otherwise; and at least one of the theories -entertained on the subject outside the house of Arden was such as could -not be named to the heir. Therefore, he had not a single gleam from -without to assist him in resolving this great question; yet he felt in -the depths of his heart that some time or other it would be resolved, -and that the illumination, when it came, could not but bring grief and -trouble in its train. - -“I never saw this Mr. Fazakerley,” he said, as Clare and he sat alone -over their breakfast on that second morning. Already it had become -natural to him to be the master of the great house, of all those silent -servants, the centre of a life so unlike anything that he had known. His -mind was very rapid, went quickly over the preliminary stages, and -accustomed itself to a hundred novelties, while a slower fancy would but -have been having its first gaze at them; but the absolutely New startled -him to a greater degree than it ever could have startled a more -leisurely imagination. “I don’t know him a bit,” he repeated, with a -half laugh, in which there was more nervousness than amusement. “What -sort of a man is he? I always like to know----” - -“Mr. Fazakerley!” said Clare, with a soft echo of wonder, “why, all the -Ardens have known all the Fazakerleys from their cradles. He must have -had you on his knee a hundred times, as I am sure he had me.” - -“I don’t think so,” said Edgar, suppressing, because of the servants, -any other question, “or, if I ever saw him I have forgotten. Why must we -have business breaking in upon us at every turn? I am afraid I like -play.” - -“I am afraid you have had too much play,” Clare said, looking at him -with those eyes of young wisdom, utterly without experience, which look -so soft yet judge so hardly; “but, Edgar, you must remember you are not -a wanderer now. You have begun serious life.” - -“I wonder if life is as serious as you are, Clare,” he said, looking at -her with that half-tender, half mocking look, which Clare did not quite -understand nor like; “or whether this lawyer and his green bag will be -half as alarming as those looks of yours. I may satisfy him; but I fear -I shall never come up to your mark.” - -“Don’t speak so, please,” said Clare. “Why shouldn’t you come up to my -mark? I like a man to be very high-minded and generous, and that you -are, Edgar; but then I like people to have proper pride, and believe in -their own position, and feel its duties. That is all--and I like people -to be English----, and it would be so nice to think you were going to -show yourself a true Arden, in spite of everything.” This was said at a -fortunate moment, when Wilkins, the butler, was at the very other end of -the great room, fetching something from the sideboard, and could not -hear. She leant across the table hastily, before the man turned round, -and added, in a hurried tone, “Don’t discuss such things before the -servants, Edgar; they listen to everything we say.” - -“I forgot,” he said; “I never had servants before who knew English. You -don’t recollect that English has always been a grand foreign language to -me.” - -“The more’s the pity!” said Clare, with a deep sigh. This sentiment made -her beautiful face so long, and drooped the corners of her mouth so -sadly, that her brother laughed in spite of himself. - -“But it is possible to live out of England for all that,” he said; “and -I know people in Germany that would have the deepest sympathy with you. -The Von Dummkopfs think just the same of themselves as the Ardens do, -and look down just as much upon outsiders. I wonder how you would like -the Fraulein Ida? They have twenty quarterings in their arms, and blood -that has been filtered through all the veins worth speaking of in -Germany for ever so many centuries; but then the Von Dummkopfs are not -so rich as we are, Clare.” - -“As if I ever thought of that!” she said. “Who is Fraulein Ida? I have -no doubt I shall like her--if she is nice. But, Edgar, though I would -not say a word against your German friends, it would be so much nicer if -you would marry an English girl. I should be able to love her so much -more.” - -“Softly,” said Edgar; “don’t go so fast, please. I have not the least -intention of marrying any one; and I don’t admire the Fraulein Ida. I -want nobody but my sister, as long as she will keep faithful to me. Let -us have the good of each other for a little now, without any one to -interfere.” - -“Edgar, no one can interfere,” said Clare hurriedly. “Now that man is -gone, oh, Edgar! I must say one word for poor papa. I know he was hard -upon you, dear; but he never interfered--never said a word--never tried -to keep me from loving you. Indeed, indeed, he never did! I know I was -cross yesterday about that picture. If you don’t like it, it shall come -down; it is only right it should come down. But oh, Edgar, he was so -kind, he was so good to me!” - -Edgar had risen before the words were half said, and stood by her, -holding her tenderly in his arms. “My dear little sister!” he said, “you -have always been the one star I had to cheer me. You shall hang all the -house with his picture if you like. I forgive him all my grievances -because he was good to you. But, Clare, he hated me.” - -“No, Edgar, not hated,” cried Clare, raising to him her weeping face. -“Oh, not hated; but he loved mamma so, and you were so like her, he -never could bear----” - -Her voice faltered as she spoke. It was all she could say, but she did -not believe it. As for Edgar, he shook his head with a smile that was -half bitter half sad. - -“I know better,” he said; “but it is a question we need not discuss. -Believe the gentle fiction, dear, if you can. But I will never say a -word again about any picture. Let it be. It would be hard if your -brother could not put up with anything that was dear to you. Now tell me -about Mr. Fazakerley, and what he is going to say.” - -“Edgar, it all belongs to the same subject,” said Clare, drying her -eyes. “I am glad you have spoken. I should not have had the courage to -begin. There is something about the Old Arden estate; they told me, but -I would not listen to them--would not hear anything about it till you -came back. They said it was your doing as well as his; I don’t -understand how that can be. They said you wanted it to be settled on me; -but why, Edgar, should it be settled on me? It is neither right nor -natural,” said Clare, her blue eyes lighting up, though tears still hung -upon the eyelashes. “Arden, that gave us our name--that was the very -beginning of the race--why should you wish to give it to me?” - -“Is it given to you?” said Edgar, with a certain sense of bewilderment -creeping over him. “I am afraid I have been like you--I have not -understood, nor thought on the subject indeed for that matter. There was -something about breaking the entail between him and me; but I did not -understand anything about it. I never knew--Clare, I can’t make it out,” -he said, suddenly sitting down and gazing at her. “Why did he hate me?” - -Then they looked at each other without a word. Clare’s great blue eyes, -dilated with grief and wonder, and two big tears which filled them to -overflowing, were fixed upon her brother’s face. But she had no -elucidation to give. She only put out her hands to him, and took his, -and held it close, with that instinctive impulse to tender touch and -contact which is more than words. She followed her brother with her eyes -while he faced this new wonder. “Well,” he was saying to himself, “of -course you must have known he meant something by breaking the entail. Of -course it was not for your sake he did it. What could it be for? You -never asked--never thought. Of course it could only be to take it from -you. And why not give it to Clare? If not to you, of course it must go -to Clare; and but for that she could not have had it. It is very well -that it should be so. It is best; is it not best?” Thus he reasoned -according to his nature, while Clare sat watching him with wistful -dilated eyes. While he calmed himself down she was rousing herself. Her -agitation rose to the intolerable pitch, while his was slowly coming -down to moderation and composure. The sudden cloud floated away from -him, and the light came back to his eyes. “I begin to see it,” he said -slowly. “Don’t be vexed, Clare, that I did not see it all at once. It is -not that I grudge you anything; he might have given you all, and I don’t -think I should have grudged it. It is the mistrust--the preference. It -is so strange. One wonders what it can mean.” - -“Yes,” said Clare, impulsively, “I wonder too. But, more than that, -Edgar; you did not know--you did it in ignorance; and I will never, -never, take advantage of that! I was bewildered at first; but it is your -right, and I will never take it from you----” - -Then it was he, who had been robbed of his birthright, who had to exert -himself to reconcile her to his loss. “Nay, that is nonsense,” he said. -“It is done, and it cannot be done over again. The will must not be -interfered with: it is my business to see to that. No, Clare; don’t try -to make me do wrong. Nothing we can say will change it, nor anything you -can do either. What has been given you is yours, and yours it must -remain.” - -“But I will not accept it,” said Clare; “I will give it all back the -moment I come of age. What! rob you and your children, Edgar--all the -Ardens that may come after you! That is what I will never do.” - -“It is time enough to think of the Ardens who may come after me,” said -Edgar, with an attempt at a laugh. But Clare was not to be pacified so -easily. He drew closer to her side, and sat down by her, and took her -hand, and spoke softly in her ear, arguing it out as if the question had -not been a personal one. “It startled me at first,” he said; “it was -strange, very strange, that he should think of taking this, as you say, -Clare, not only from me, but from all the Ardens to come; but then you -were the dearest to him, and that was quite natural. And it must have -been my fault that he did not tell me. I never asked any questions about -it--never thought of inquiring. He must have taken me for a kind of -Esau, careless of what was going to happen. If I had shown a little more -interest, no doubt he would have told me. Of course, he must have felt -it would have been for your advantage had I known all about it, and been -able to stand by you. I am so glad you have told me now. You may be sure -he would have done so had I behaved myself properly. So, you see, it was -my fault, Clare. I must have been ungracious, boorish, indifferent. It -is clear it was my fault.” - -“Mr. Fazakerley, sir, is in the library,” said Wilkins, opening the -door. There was a certain breath of agitation in the air about the two -young people which the servants had scented out; and the eager eyes of -Wilkins expressed not only his own curiosity, but that of the household -in general. “He was a patting of her and a smoothing of her down,” was -the butler’s report downstairs, “and Miss Clare in one of her ways. I -daresay they have quarrelled already, for she is her father’s daughter, -is Miss Clare.” The brother and sister were quite unconscious of this -comment; but though they had not quarrelled, the conflict of feeling had -risen so high that Mr. Fazakerley’s arrival was a relief to both. “I -must go and see him,” Edgar said, loosing his sister’s hand, and laying -his own tenderly upon her bowed head. “Don’t let it trouble you so much. -You will see it as I do when you think of it rightly, Clare.” - -“Never!” Clare cried among her tears. Edgar shook his head, with a soft -smile, as he went away. Of course, she would come to see it. Reason and -simple sense must gain the day at last. So he thought, feeling perfectly -persuaded that such were his own leading principles--calm reason and -sober sense. Edgar rather prided himself upon their possession; and thus -fortified with a conviction of what were the leading characteristics of -his own mind, went to meet the family lawyer, and hear all about it in a -sober and business-like way. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Mr. Fazakerley was a little brown man, with a wig--a man who might have -appeared on any stage as the conventional type of a crafty solicitor. He -was very much like a fox, with little keen red-brown eyes, and whiskers -which were grizzled, yet still retained the reddish colour of youth. His -wig, too, was reddish-brown, and might have been made out of a foxskin, -so true was it to the colour and texture of that typical animal. As may -be divined from the fact of his outward appearance, he was not in the -very least like a fox or a conventional solicitor, but was a good, -little, kind, respectable sort of man, chiefly distinguished for his -knowledge of Lancashire families--their intermarriages, and the division -of their properties and value of their land; on which points he was an -infallible guide. He came forward to meet the young Squire with both his -hands extended, and a smile beaming out of every wrinkle of his brown -face. “Welcome home, Mr. Edgar,” he said; “welcome home, welcome to your -own house,” with a warmth and effusion which betrayed that there was -more than the usual occasion for such a welcome. He shook the young -man’s hand so long, and so energetically, swaying it between both of -his, that Edgar felt as if it must come off. “You don’t remember me, I -can see,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “I never happened to be at home while you -were at Arden; but I know you well, and how nobly you have behaved. So -you must think of me as your old friend, and one always ready to serve -you--me and everybody belonging to me--you must indeed.” - -“Thanks,” said Edgar, taken by surprise; “a thousand thanks. I never -knew how rich I was in friends till now. Clare has just been telling me -I ought to have known you all my life.” - -“So you ought, and so you should, but for--ah--circumstances, Mr. -Edgar,” said the lawyer, “circumstances of a painful character--over -which we had no control. Miss Clare said that, did she? And quite right -too. Your sister is a very sweet young lady, Mr. Edgar. You may be proud -of her. I don’t know her equal in Lancashire, and that is saying a great -deal, for we are proud of our Lancashire witches. I have two daughters -of my own, pretty girls enough, and I am very proud of them, I can tell -you; but I don’t pretend that they come within a hundred miles of Miss -Arden. You must not think me an impudent old fellow to talk of her so, -for, as she says, I have known her all her life.” - -In this way Mr. Fazakerley chatted on, doing, as it were, the honours of -his own house to Edgar, inviting him to sit down, and gradually -beginning to arrange before him on the table a mass of papers. Then he -changed the subject; gave up Clare, whose trumpet he had blown for about -half-an-hour; and began a disquisition upon “your worthy father,” at -which Edgar winced. And yet there was nothing in it to hurt him; it was -not full of inferences which he could not understand, like the sayings -of Mr. Fielding and Dr. Somers. It had not a hidden meaning, like so -much that Clare said on the same subject. Mr. Fazakerley was in his way -very straightforward. “I won’t attempt to disguise either from myself or -from you that there was much in his conduct that was very -extraordinary,” said the lawyer, “very extraordinary--so much so, that -monomania is the only word that occurs to me. Monomania--that is the -only explanation, and I don’t know that it is a satisfactory -explanation; but it is the best we can make. We need not enter into that -matter, Mr. Edgar, for it is very unintelligible; but the question -is--Why did you give in to any arrangement about breaking the entail -without my advice?” - -“I did what my father wished me to do,” said Edgar, with a deep colour -rising over his face. “It appeared to me that in so doing I could not -but be right.” - -“You were very wrong, Mr. Edgar,” said the lawyer. “What! rob your -children because it pleased your father! Your father was a very worthy -man--an excellent landlord--a good staunch Tory--everything a country -gentleman need wish to be; but he was only one of the family, Mr. Edgar, -only the head of it in his time, as your son will be. You had no more -right to consult the one than the other. I don’t want to hurt your -feelings, but you were wrong.” - -“My son is not born yet, nor, so far as I can see, any chance of him,” -said Edgar, laughing, “so he could scarcely be consulted.” - -“That is all very well,” said Mr. Fazakerley, bending over his papers. -“I do not object to a laugh; but at the same time it was very foolish, -and worse than foolish--wrong. I don’t blame you so much, for of course -you were taught to be generous, and magnanimous, and all that; but your -worthy father, Mr. Edgar, your worthy father--it was more than wrong.” - -Mr. Fazakerley shook his head for at least five minutes while he -repeated these words; but Edgar made no reply. If he could have found -the shadow of an excuse for the old Squire, or even perhaps if it had -not been for that look which he remembered so distinctly, he would have -said something in his defence. But his mouth was closed, and he could -not reply. - -“If it had been any other part of the estate, or if Miss Clare had not -been well provided for already, I could have understood it,” the lawyer -continued; “but she is very well provided for. Monomania, Sir, it could -be nothing but monomania; and to give up Old Arden was quite -inconceivable--permit me to say it, Mr. Edgar--on your part.” - -“I did not know much about old Arden,” said Edgar, shyly putting forth -this excuse for himself, almost with a blush. It was not his fault; but -he looked much as if it had been a voluntary abandonment of his duty. - -“The more shame to--ah,” said Mr. Fazakerley, with a frown, feeling that -his zeal had led him too far; and then he paused, and coughed, and -recovered himself. “The thing to be done now is to set it right as far -as possible,” he went on. “We may be quite sure that Miss Clare, as soon -as she knows of it, will be but too eager to aid us. She is only a -girl, but she has a fine spirit, and hates injustice. What I would -suggest to you would be to effect an exchange. Old Arden lies in the -very centre of the property, besides being the oldest part of it, and -all that. I don’t insist upon the sentimental reasons; but the -inconvenience would be immense--especially when Miss Clare marries, as -of course she will soon do. I advise you to offer her an equal portion, -by valuation, of some other part of the estate--say the land between -this and Liverpool--which she could make untold wealth of----” - -“I don’t think we must interfere with the existing arrangement,” said -Edgar. “Pray don’t think of it. My father must have had some reason. I -can’t divine it, nor perhaps any one; but some reason he must have had.” - -“Reason--nonsense! Caprice, monomania,” said Mr. Fazakerley, getting -excited. “That was the reason. He indulged himself so that at the last -every impulse became irresistible. That is my theory. I don’t ask you to -accept it, but it is my way of explaining the matter. One day or other -he looked at Miss Clare, and perceived how like she was to the family -portraits (she is an Arden all over, and you are like your mother’s -family), and he said to himself, no doubt, ‘Old Arden must be hers.’ -Some such train of ideas must have passed through his mind. And nobody -ever opposed him. You did not oppose him, not knowing any better. He had -come to take it for granted that he must have his own way. It is very -bad for a man, Mr. Edgar, to have everything his own way. It led your -worthy father on to a great piece of injustice and even folly. But, now -that the time has come when the folly of it is apparent--if we give her -acre for acre of the land near Liverpool----” - -“Why should you take so much trouble?” said Edgar. “If such was his -desire, it is my duty to see it carried out. And I do not insist on the -compactness of the property. Why should I? I who am the one who knows -least about it. If this division pleased my father----” - -“Tut, tut,” said the lawyer, “pleased a man who was a monomaniac and had -a fixed idea! I had formed a higher opinion of your good sense and -judgment; but to stand out for a piece of nonsense like this! Miss Clare -herself would be the first to say otherwise. When dead men do justly and -wisely by those they leave behind them, I am not the man ever to -interfere. I hold a will sacred, Mr. Edgar, within fit bounds; but when -a dead man’s will wrongs the living----” - -“He is dead, and cannot stand up for it,” said Edgar, who was very -pale; “and it was his own to do as he liked.” - -“There’s the fallacy,” cried Mr. Fazakerley triumphantly, “there is just -the fallacy. It was not his own. He had to get you to help him, and -cheated you in your ignorance. Besides, even had he not required your -help, which convicts him, it still was not his own. He was but one in -the succession. What is the good of an old family but for that? Why, it -is the very bulwark and defence of an aristocracy. I ought to know, for -I see enough of the reverse. You may say the money these fellows make in -Liverpool is their own--they may do what they like with it; and so they -do, and the consequences are wonderful. But Squire Arden, good heavens, -what was the good of him, what was the meaning of him, if he dismembered -his property and broke it up! My dear Mr. Edgar, you are a charming -young fellow, but you don’t understand----” - -“Well,” said Edgar, warming under the influence of the lawyer’s -half-whimsical vehemence, “perhaps you are right, but it does not matter -entering into that now. Before Clare marries----” - -“There is no time like the present,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “When she -marries she will have other things in her mind, and her husband, that -is to be, might interfere. Besides, that land near Liverpool is the -most valuable part of the property. You have nothing to do but build -villas upon it, or let other people build villas, and you will make a -fortune. Your worthy father would never hear of it; but it really was a -prejudice, and a waste of opportunity----” - -“Do you want me to fly in his face in everything, and do just what he -did not wish to be done?” said Edgar, with a smile, which he tried to -suppress. - -Mr. Fazakerley shrugged his narrow brown shoulders. “New monarchs, new -laws,” he said. “I don’t see why you should be bound by his fancies. He -did not show much respect for yours, if you had any. No, I mean to -suggest very important modifications, if you will permit me, in the -management of the estate. Perhaps, if we were to have up Tom Perfitt and -the map, and go over it----” - -Edgar consented with a sigh, which he also suppressed. It was not that -he disliked the initiation into his real work in life, or objected to -throw off the idleness in which he had spent all these years. On the -contrary, he had chafed again and again over the inaction--the wretched -aimlessness of his existence. But there was something in this sudden -plunge into all its new responsibilities and trials, and, more than -all, in this posthumous conflict with the will and inclinations of the -father who had hated him, which sent a thrill through his mind, and -moved his whole being. And in this life which was about to begin there -was a mystery concealed somewhere--the secret of his own existence, -which some time or other would have to be found out. Nobody seemed to -feel this, not even those who were the most fully conscious that an -explanation was wanted of the old Squire’s ceaseless enmity to his son. -They all took it for granted that it was over; that the Squire’s death -had ended everything; and that the heir who had succeeded so tranquilly -would reign in peace in his unkind father’s stead. But Edgar’s mind was -not so easily satisfied. It seemed to him that on this road which he was -entering there stood a great signpost, with a shadowy hand pointing to -the secret, and he shrank, knowing that secret would bring him trouble. -However, to oppose this visionary sense of risk and danger to Mr. -Fazakerley and his papers or to Perfitt and his map would have been -folly indeed. So Perfitt, who was the Scotch steward, came, and the -young Squire was drawn unconsciously within the charmed circle of -property, and began to feel his heart beating and his head throbbing -with a certain exhilarated sense of importance and responsibility. When -he heard of all that was his, he, who never up to this moment had -possessed anything but his personalities, a curious feeling of power -came over him. He was young, and his mind was fresh, and the emotions of -nature were still strong in him. He had seen a great deal of the world, -but it had not been that phase of the world which makes a young man -_blasé_. He sat and listened to the discussion of rents and boundaries, -of what ought to be done with one farm and another, of the wood that -ought to be cut, and the moor that ought to be reclaimed, with a puzzled -yet pleasant consciousness that, discuss as they liked, they could not -decide without him. He knew so little about it that he had to content -himself with listening; but the talk was as a pleasant song to him, -pleasing his newborn sense of importance. “You’ll understand fine, Sir, -when once you’ve been over the estate with me,” said Perfitt, with a -certain condescension which amused Edgar mightily. They seemed to him to -be playing at government, suggesting so many things which they had no -power to carry out, which must wait for his approval. All his graver -anticipations floated away from him in his sense of the humour of the -situation. He made mental notes in his mind as they settled this and -that, saying to himself, “Wait a little; I will not have it so” with a -boyish delight in the feeling that he could put all their calculations -out by any sudden exercise of his will. If this was very childish in -Edgar, I don’t know what excuse to make for him. It was so amusing to -him to feel himself a great man, with supreme power in his hands--he who -had never been master of anything all his life. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -That day was a long day. Just before luncheon the Thornleighs called, as -Clare had expected. The Thornleighs were next neighbours to the Ardens -in the county; and in the general estimation they were more fashionable -than the Ardens, in so much that Mr. Thornleigh had married Lady Augusta -Highton, a daughter of the Duke of Grandmaison; whereas the late Mr. -Arden had married a wife whose antecedents were very little known, and -who had been dead for years. So that while the Thornleighs had a house -in town, and went a great deal into society, the Ardens had not budged -for years from Arden Hall, and were very little known in the great -world. This, however, was counterbalanced by the fact that while Clare -was quite fresh and unworn, the five Thornleigh girls were rather too -well known, and were talked about with just that shade of _ennui_ which -so speedily creeps over a fashionable reputation. “One sees them -everywhere,” said the fastidious rulers of that capricious world; and as -there were five of them, it was not easy to invite them to those -choicest little gatherings in which Fashion is worshipped with the most -perfect rites, and distinctions are granted or withdrawn. None of the -Thornleigh girls were yet married, and many people were disposed to -censure Lady Augusta for bringing out little Beatrice, who was just -seventeen, while she had still Ada, and Gussy, and Helena, and Mary on -her hands. How could she ever expect to be able to take them all -out--people said?--which was very true. - -But, however, the thing was done, and could not be mended. Lady Augusta -was not a matchmaker, in the usual sense of the word; neither were her -daughters trained to the pursuit of elder sons or other eligible members -of society, as it is common to suppose such young women to be. But it -cannot be denied that as a reasonable woman, much concerned about the -wellbeing of her children, Lady Augusta now and then allowed, with a -sigh, that if Gussy and Ada were comfortably married it would be a very -good thing, and a great relief to her mind. “Not to say that they could -take their sisters out,” she would sometimes say to herself, with a sigh -reflecting upon all the cotillions to which little Beatrice, in the -fervour of seventeen, would no doubt subject her mother. And it would be -vain to attempt to deny that a little thrill of curiosity was in Lady -Augusta’s mind as she drove up the avenue to Arden. Edgar was their -nearest neighbour, he was young and “nice,” so far as anybody knew--for, -of course, he had been met abroad from time to time by wandering sons -and cousins, and reports of him had been brought home--and just a -suitable age for Gussy, or, indeed, for any of the girls, should the -young people by any chance take a fancy to each other. I cannot see why -Lady Augusta should be condemned for having this speculation in her -mind. If she had been quite indifferent to the future fate of her -daughters she would have been an unnatural woman. It was her chief -business in the world to procure a happy life for them, and provide them -with everything that was best; and why--a good husband being placed, by -common consent, foremost in the list of those good things--a mother’s -efforts towards the securing of him should not be thought the very -highest and best of her occupations, it is very hard to say. As a matter -of fact, everywhere but in England it is her first and most clearly -recognised duty. And I for one do not feel in the least disposed to -sneer at Lady Augusta. She went with her husband to look at this young -man with a sense that one day he might be very important to her. It is -possible that Edgar might not have liked it had the idea occurred to -him that he was thus already a subject of speculation, and that his -tenderest affections--the things which belong most exclusively to a -man’s personal being--were already being directed, whether potentially -or not, by the imagination of another, into channels as yet totally -unknown to him. I believe such a thought is not pleasant to a young man. -But still it was quite natural--and, indeed, laudable--on the part of -Lady Augusta, and demands neither scorn nor condemnation. She had made -Mr. Thornleigh give up a morning’s consultation with the keeper on some -interesting young moorland families and the general prospects of the -game, in order that no time might be lost in making this call. Of -course, she said nothing to him as he sat rather sulkily by her side, -thinking all the time of the young pheasants; but on the whole, perhaps, -the mother’s were not the least elevated thoughts. - -“I am so very glad to be the first to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” she -said. “We don’t know each other yet--at least we two individuals don’t -know each other; but the Ardens and the Thornleighs have been friends -these hundreds of years. How many hundreds, Clare? You girls are so -dreadfully well-informed now-a-days, I never dare open my lips. And I -hope now your sister will go out a little more, and come to us a little -more. She has been such a little hermit all her life.” - -“She shall not be a hermit now, if I can help it,” said Edgar. And he -was pleased with the kindness of the elder woman, who was still a -handsome woman, and gracious in her manner, as became a great lady. He -sat down by her, as was his duty, but without thinking it was his -duty--another sign of the spontaneousness which puzzled Clare, and gave -Edgar’s simple ways their greatest charm. - -And the fact was that Lady Augusta, without in the least meaning it, was -captivated by the young man. “He is not the least like an Arden,” she -said to her husband, as they drove away; “he has not their stiffness, -any more than their black hair. I think he is charming. There is -something very nice in a foreign education, you know. One would not -choose it for one’s own boys; but it does give a certain character when -you meet with it by accident. Young men in general are so frightfully -like each other,” she added, with a sigh. Mr. Thornleigh gave a half -articulate grunt, being full of calculations about the partridges; -besides, the young men did not trouble him much. He was not called upon -to remember which was which, and to hear them say exactly the same -things to his girls ball after ball. Lady Augusta’s sigh turned into a -half yawn as she glanced back upon all her experiences. He was just -about the age and about the height for Gussy. Gussy was a small, little -thing, and Edgar was not tall. He would not answer at all for the -stately Helena, who was five feet ten. And then, if the mother had a -weakness, it was for little Gussy of all her children. And it would be -so nice to have her settled so near. “But just because it is so nice, -and would be so desirable, of course it will never come to pass,” she -said to herself, with another sigh. She had left an invitation behind -her, and had made up her mind it should not be her fault if it came to -nothing. Thus Edgar was assailed by altogether unexpected dangers the -very day after his return. - -And then there was the dinner in the evening, which was not so pleasant -to think of as the dinner to which the brother and sister had been -invited at Thorne. There were only three gentlemen--the Rector, and the -Doctor, and Mr. Fazakerley--all twice as old as Edgar, and all -patronising and explanatory. They knew his affairs so much better than -he did, that it was not wonderful if they alarmed him. So long as Clare -sat at the other end of the table her brother did not mind, for she was -used to them, and used to having her own way with them; but Edgar felt -it would be hard upon him when he was left to their tender mercies. He -was very anxious to detain Clare, so as to shorten the awful hour after -dinner. “Why should you go away?” he said, “wait till we are all ready. -Are we such bears in England that ladies can’t stay with us for an hour? -We don’t mean to smoke; that is the only thing that need send you away.” - -“Smoke!” said Mr. Fielding, with horror. “Edgar, I hope you don’t mean -to introduce these new-fangled foreign ways. I shall have to retire with -the ladies if you do. I detest smoke, except in the open air.” - -“That is one of his old-fashioned notions,” said Dr. Somers, “but you -must have a smoking-room fitted up: then the ladies can’t object. The -old Squire resisted such an innovation. He was of the antique school, -like Fielding here, and hated everything that was new.” - -“Just the reverse of our young friend,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “I and Tom -Perfitt have been giving him a great many ideas to-day. You will find -Tom a very satisfactory fellow, I am sure. He is broad Scotch, and he is -fond of having his own way, but he knows every inch of the land, and -what is best for it. If you do any amateur farming you could not have a -better man. If that sort of thing ever was anything but ruinous, Tom is -the man to make it pay.” - -“I must take a little time to think what I am going to do,” said Edgar, -“and to make acquaintance with the place. You forget that I don’t know -Arden, though you all do. Clare, why should you go away?” - -“I am going to make you some tea,” said Clare, with a smile, as she went -away. And she took no notice of his appealing look. She was half vexed, -indeed, that he should have suggested such an innovation. It was a bad -symptom for the time to come. Why should not Edgar be content, as -everybody else was, with the usual customs of society? She was annoyed -that he should show his foreign breeding even before his old friends. It -seemed to her that Dr. Somers’ keen eye launched a gleam of mockery at -her as she went out. They would laugh at him, even these old gentlemen; -and of course other people would laugh still more. - -“Let her go,” the Doctor said, as the door closed behind the young -mistress of the house. “Don’t disturb the customs of your country, -Edgar. It is all very well just now when you are young; but the time -will come, my boy, when you will prefer having an hour’s serious talk, -without any women to interfere with it. And they like it themselves, my -dear fellow; they like a moment to put their hair straight and their -ribbons, and have their private gossip. Don’t train Clare into evil -ways.” - -“I think they are much pleasanter ways,” said Edgar; but he was put down -by acclamation. To suggest an innovation in Arden of all places in the -world! the three old men looked at him as if he were a natural -curiosity, and studied his unusual habits with a mixture of amusement -and alarm. - -“I don’t object to young men being fond of ladies’ society,” said Mr. -Fielding, in his gentle voice; “it is a great preservative to them; but -still not too much, not too much, my dear boy. Your sister, of course, -will be a kind of guardian angel to you; but you know there are a great -many Liverpool people about with large families--nice people enough, and -of course they will be very friendly, if you will let them; and pretty -girls, and all that. But you must be careful, you must be very careful. -You must remember a great deal depends on the circle you collect round -you at first.” - -“I don’t see how I can collect a circle round me,” said Edgar, laughing. -“I have always supposed it was the great ladies who did that--Lady -Augusta, for instance, who called here to-day----” - -“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, “take care of that woman. She has -five daughters, and she will play the pretty comedy of the spider and -the fly with you for the amusement of the county, if you don’t mind. If -you let yourself be drawn into her net, you will have to marry one of -the girls, and that is a severe price to pay for a few dinners. You must -take care what you are about.” - -“The Miss Thornleighs are nice girls,” said Mr. Fazakerley, “but they -will have very little money. Young Thornleigh has been dreadfully -extravagant at Oxford. I know for certain that his father has paid his -bills three times. Of course they have so much under the marriage -settlements; but when there are five, and only a certain sum to be -divided, there can’t be very much for each.” - -“She has Edgar booked for one, you may be sure,” said the Doctor, “and a -very nice thing, too--for them. Next neighbours, and a fine old place, -and a nice young fellow. For my part, I think Lady Augusta is quite -right.” - -“If you don’t mind,” said Edgar, “I’d rather not have myself suggested -as the subject of anybody’s calculations. Suppose one of the Miss -Thornleighs should do me the honour to marry me hereafter, do you think -I should like to remember how you talked of it? I am aware I have -ridiculous notions----” - -Dr. Somers laughed; Mr. Fazakerley chuckled, interrupting the young -man’s speech; but Mr. Fielding, who was of a gentler nature, peered at -him through his short-sighted old eyes with kindly sympathy. “Edgar, I -think you are quite right,” he said. “We all talk about women in a most -unjustifiable way. The Miss Thornleighs are very nice girls, and never -gave any one reason to speak of them without respect--nor their mother -either, that I know of; but we all talk as if they were put up to -auction, and you might buy which you please. You are quite right.” - -“I do not know whether I am right or not,” said Edgar, with some -vehemence; “but I know I should punch any man’s head who spoke so of -Clare.” - -“Clare! Ah, that’s different,” said the Doctor; “where Clare is -concerned, I give you full leave to punch anybody’s head----” - -“Miss Clare is an heiress,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “She is as great a -prize in the matrimonial market as her brother. If I took the liberty to -speak on such a subject at all, I should represent her, not as the -huntress, but the hunted. Penniless girls are in a very different -position; and why should we blame them? It is their natural way of -providing for themselves, after all.” - -“Then, money is everything,” said Edgar, “and to provide for one’s self -one’s first duty. I have not been very well brought up, you know, but I -thought I had heard something better than that.” - -“Don’t be too severely virtuous, my boy,” the Doctor said, pushing back -his chair. “You may be sure that, from the savage to the swell (two -classes not so far apart), to provide for one’s self is one’s highest -duty. Love, &c., are very nice things, but your living comes first of -all. Now, come, we are getting metaphysical; let us join Clare.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“Tell me something about the Thornleighs,” Edgar said on the morning of -the day they were to dine at Thorne. “I like to know what sort of people -I am about to make acquaintance with. Are they friends of yours, Clare?” - -“Pretty well,” Clare answered, with just that little elevation of her -head which Edgar began to know. “What is the use of describing them when -you will see them to-night, and then judge for yourself? Ada is nice. -She is the eldest of all, and she talks very little. I like her for -that. Gussy is short, with heaps of light hair; and Helena is very tall, -and rather dark, like her father. They are not at all like each -other--not much more like each other than you and me.” - -“That is a consolation,” said Edgar, with a smile. - -“Not so much as you think, for they are like in their ways; and then you -can tell in a moment which side of the house they belong to,” said -Clare, with a shade crossing her face. “Whereas, Edgar--don’t be vexed -with me for saying so--but you are not even--like mamma.” - -“How do you know?” said Edgar, a little sharply; for that he was like -his mother had been one of the established principles of his life. - -“I have a little miniature in a bracelet. Nobody knows of it, I think, -but myself. She must have been fair, to be sure; but you are not _very_ -like her, Edgar. You are not vexed? Of course, you must be like her -family. But Helena Thornleigh is like her father, and Ada and Gussy are -like Lady Augusta. You can’t mistake it; and then they all have little -ways of speaking, and little movements: if you are going to like any of -them, I wish it may be Ada. She is really nice. But Gussy is a -chatterbox, and Helena is superior; and as for Mary and Beatrice----” - -“Is it certain that I must like one more than another?” said Edgar. “I -mean to like them all, as they are our next neighbours. Is there any -reason why I should confine myself to one?” - -“Oh, I suppose not,” said Clare, with a suppressed laugh; “only somehow -one always thinks where there are girls---- Look! Edgar; here is some -one coming up the avenue. Who can it be? The servant is in livery, and I -don’t recognise the carriage, nor anything. It can’t be the Thorpes, or -the Mandevilles, or the Blundells; and it can’t be the Earl, for he is -in town. Look! they don’t see us and I do so want to make them out.” - -“The servants are in purple and green, and there is an astounding coat -of arms on the panel,” said Edgar. “You must know that--arms as big as a -saucer--and somebody very big inside.” The two were in a little morning -room which opened from the great drawing room, where they could see the -avenue and even the flight of steps before which the carriage stopped. -Clare uttered an exclamation of horror as she stood gazing out at the -new comers. She seemed to her brother to shiver with sudden dismay. “It -cannot be possible!” she said. What could she mean? Perhaps it was some -secret enemy whom she recognised but he did not know; somebody, perhaps, -connected with the secret which more or less weighed on Edgar’s life. - -“Who is it?” he said, in serious alarm, coming close to her. “Any one we -have reason to be afraid of? Don’t tremble so. Nobody can harm you while -I am here.” - -“On the contrary, they would never have ventured had not you been here!” -said Clare, with vehement indignation. “They never could have had the -presumption---- Edgar, it is an insult! We ought to send and say we are -not at home. There are some things one ought not to bear----” - -“Who are they?” he asked, beginning to perceive that there was no -serious cause for fear. - -But Clare’s flushed and indignant countenance showed no signs of -softening. “I knew they were presuming, but I never could have imagined -anything so bad as this,” she cried. “Edgar, it is the Pimpernels!” - -“The Pimpernels?” Edgar repeated, confused and wondering; but before he -could ask another question the door was thrown open, and Wilkins -appeared in front of the invading party. Wilkins’ face was a study of -suppressed consternation and dismay. He did his office as if he were -going to the stake, stern necessity compelling him in the shape of those -three solid figures behind. “Mr., Mrs., and Miss Pimpernel,” said -Wilkins, with a voice in which the protest of a martyr was audible -behind the ordinary formality. Edgar did not know anything about the -Pimpernels. He saw before him a large man, made larger by light summer -costume, which magnified his breadth and diminished his height, with -sparkling jewelled studs in his shirt, and a great coil of watch-chain -spreading across his buff waistcoat; and a large lady, enveloped in -black silk and lace, which somehow, though so totally different, seemed -to have the same effect of enlarging and setting forth her amplitude of -form. Behind these two there appeared, seen by intervals, the slim -figure of a tall girl, with a pretty blushing face. Nothing could have -made Edgar uncivil--not even the terrible fact, had he known it, that -Mr. Pimpernel was a Liverpool cotton-broker, such a man as had never -before made his appearance in the capacity of visitor within the stately -shades of Arden. But he was not aware of that awful fact. He knew only -that Clare had been moved by horror at the sight of them, and that she -stood now at as great a distance as possible, and made a very solemn -curtsey, and looked as if she were assisting at a funeral. The -Pimpernels, who had produced this melancholy effect, were themselves so -utterly unlike it, at once in manners and appearance, that the situation -affected Edgar rather with comic than with solemn feelings. - -“I am very glad to see you, and to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” said -Mr. Pimpernel, when they had all sat down in the form of a semicircle, -of which Edgar and Clare formed the base. “I can’t pretend to be an old -neighbour, but we have been here long enough to take an interest in the -county. I have always taken a great interest in the county, as my wife -knows.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said that ample woman. “Since ever we settled here Mr. -Pimpernel has quite thrown himself into Arden ways. We were so very -lucky in getting the Red House--the only one in the neighbourhood. It is -wicked to say so, but I felt so much obliged to poor Mr. Dalton when he -died and let us have it--I did indeed. It was quite obliging of him to -die.” - -Upon this Miss Pimpernel laughed shyly, and Mr. Pimpernel smiled; and -Edgar, seeing it was expected of him, would have smiled too had he not -encountered Clare’s stormy countenance, without a gleam of light upon -it. It embarrassed him sadly, poor fellow; for of course he did not want -to wound his sister, and yet he could not be uncivil. “I am such a -stranger in my own country,” he said, “that I really don’t know where -the Red House is. I know only the village, and nothing more.” - -“It is the sweetest village,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “We were so glad to -hear that there were no building sites to be given, though, of course, -in one way it must have been a sacrifice. It is selfish of us, because -we have been so fortunate as to secure the only house; but the moment -you begin to build villas you spoil the place. It never would have been -the same sweet old place again. Mr. Pimpernel drives over every morning -to Farnham Green, the station. Of course, he could not do it unless he -was able to afford horses; but we _are_ able to afford them, I am glad -to say. I don’t know if you have ever remarked his Yankee waggon, with -two beautiful bright bays? I hope I am not horsey, which is very -unladylike, but I do like to see a fine animal. It is next to a pretty -girl, my husband always says.” - -“The only thing wanting in Arden is a little society,” said Mr. -Pimpernel; “and I hope, Mr. Arden, that your happy return, and the new -life you must bring with you, will change all that. We hoped you would -perhaps dine with us on Monday week? Young Newmarch is coming, the -Earl’s eldest son, a very nice young fellow--quite a man of his century; -but of course you must know him better than I do; and we expect some -young Oxford men with my son, who is at Christchurch. My wife wanted to -write, but I think it is always best to settle such things by word of -mouth.” - -“I am afraid Miss Arden may think all this a little abrupt,” said Mrs. -Pimpernel, taking up the strain when her husband paused. “Of course, if -it had not been for the change, and Mr. Arden coming, as it were, fresh -to the place, it was not our part to call first; but all this last year -I have done nothing but think of you, so lonely as you must have been. I -have said to Alice a hundred times--‘How I wish I could go and call -upon that poor dear Miss Arden.’ But I never knew whether you would like -it. I am sure, many and many a time, when I have seen all my own young -ones so merry about me, I have thought of you. ‘If we could only have -her here, and cheer her up a little,’ I used to say----” - -“It was kind of you to think of my sister. I am very much obliged to -you,” said Edgar, warmly. Clare made a little bow, and after her brother -had spoken murmured something vaguely under her breath. - -“I know what it is to have no mother,” continued the large lady, “and to -be left alone. I was an only daughter myself; and when I looked at all -mine, and me spared to them, and thought ‘Oh, that poor dear girl, all -by herself!’ I could have cried over you; I could, indeed.” - -“You were very kind,” said Edgar once more, and Clare uttered another -faint murmur, as if echoing him, unable to originate any sentiment of -her own. - -“But I fear Miss Arden has poor health,” Mrs. Pimpernel continued, -fixing her eyes, which had been contemplating the company in general, -upon Clare. And Mr. Pimpernel, who had been inspecting the room with -some curiosity, looked too at the young lady of the house; and the slim -daughter gave her a succession of shy glances, so that she was hemmed -in on every side, and could no longer meet with silence, or with her -haughty little bow, those expressions of friendly interest. - -“Indeed I am very well--quite well,” she said. “I must have been getting -sympathy on false pretences. There is no lack of society had I wanted -it. It was my choice to be alone.” - -“Oh, my dear, _that_ I have no doubt of,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; “in your -position, of course, you can pick and choose; but still, when you are -not in good spirits, nor feeling up to much exertion---- However, I do -hope you will waive ceremony, and come in a friendly way with your -brother to dine at the Red House on Monday. It would give me so much -pleasure. And Alice has been looking forward to making your acquaintance -for so long.” - -“Oh, yes; for a very long time,” said pretty Alice, under her breath. -She was as pretty as Clare herself, though in a different way; and sat a -little behind her mother, looking from one to the other of her parents, -like a silent chorus, softly backing them with smiles and sympathy. When -she caught Edgar’s eyes during this little performance, she blushed and -cast down her own, and played with the fringe of her parasol; and with a -certain awe now and then, her looks strayed to Clare’s beautiful, -closed-up, repellent face. She was shy of the brother, but downright -frightened for the sister; and besides these two sentiments, and a faith -as yet unbroken in her father and mother, showed no personal identity at -all. - -“I do not go out at present,” said Clare, looking at her black dress; -upon which Mrs. Pimpernel rushed into remonstrance and entreaty. Edgar -sat looking on, feeling almost as much bewildered as Alice; for, -notwithstanding her black dress, Clare had shown no particular -unwillingness to go to Thorne. - -“For the sake of your health you ought not to shut yourself up,” urged -Mrs. Pimpernel; “a young creature at your age should enjoy life a -little; and for the sake of your friends, who would be so glad to have -you--and for your brother’s sake, my dear, if you will let me say so--I -speak freely, because I have daughters of my own.” - -“Thanks, you are very kind,” said courteous Edgar; while his sister shut -her beautiful lips close. And then there was a pause, which was not -comfortable. Mrs. Pimpernel began to smooth the gloves which were very -tight on her plump hands, and Mr. Pimpernel resumed his inspection of -the room. - -“That is a Turner, I suppose,” he said, pointing to a very poor daub in -a dark corner. “I hope you are fond of art, Mr. Arden. When you come to -the Red House I can show you some rather pretty things.” - -“It is not a Turner; it is very bad,” said Edgar. “We have no pictures -except portraits. I don’t think the Ardens have ever taken much interest -in art.” - -“Never,” said Clare, with a little emphasis. She said so because she had -heard a great deal about Mr. Pimpernel’s pictures, and felt it her duty -to disown all participation in any such plebeian taste; and then she -recollected herself, and grew red, and added hurriedly--“The Ardens have -always had to think of their country, Edgar. They have had more serious -things to do.” - -“But I am not much of an Arden, I fear, and I am very fond of pictures,” -said Edgar carelessly, without perceiving the cloud that swept over his -sister’s face. - -“Then I assure you, though I say it that shouldn’t, I have some pretty -things to show you at the Red House,” said Mr. Pimpernel. Thus it came -to be understood that Edgar had accepted the invitation for Monday week, -and the party rose,--first the mother, then Alice, obedient to every -impulse, and finally Mr. Pimpernel, who extended his large hand, and -took into his own Clare’s reluctant fingers. “I hope we shall soon see -you with your brother,” he said, raising his other hand, as if he was -pronouncing a blessing over her. “Indeed, I hope so,” said Mrs. -Pimpernel, following him with outstretched hand. Alice put out hers too, -but withdrew it shyly, and made a little curtsey, like a school girl, -Clare thought; but to her brother there was something very delicate, and -gentle, and pretty in the girl’s modest withdrawal. He went to the door -with them to put Mrs. Pimpernel in her carriage, and came back to Clare -without a suspicion of the storm which was about to burst upon his -head. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Clare was standing by the table with her hands clasped tightly, her -mouth shut fast, her tall figure towering taller than usual, when Edgar, -all unconscious, returned to her. She assailed him in a moment, without -warning. “Edgar, how can you--how could you?” she said, with an -impatient movement, which, had she been less fair, less delicate, less -young, would have been a stamp of her foot. Her tone and look and -gesture were so passionate that the young man stood aghast. - -“What have I done?” he asked. - -“What have you done? You know as well as I do. Oh, Edgar, you have given -me such a blow! I thought when you came home, and we were together, that -all would be well; but to see you the very first day--the very first -opportunity--throw yourself into the arms of people like these--people -that never should have entered this house----” - -“Who are they? What are they? Have they done us any harm?” said the -astonished Edgar. “If they are enemies you should have told me. How was -I to know?” - -“Enemies!” said Clare, with increasing indignation; “how could such -people be _our_ enemies? They are a great deal worse--they are the -vulgar rich, whom I hate; they are trying to force themselves in among -us because they are rich; they are trades-people, pretending to be our -equals, venturing to ask you to dinner! Oh, Edgar, could not you see by -my manner that they were not people to know?” - -“I saw you were very rude to them, certainly,” he said. “But, Clare, -that goes against me; even--may I say it?--it disappointed me. I do not -understand how a lady can be rude.” - -Once more she repeated his last word with a certain contempt. “Rude! The -man is a tradesman. They have thrust themselves into the village; and -now they have seized an opportunity--which was in reality no -opportunity--to thrust themselves into the house. Edgar, I have no -patience; I ought not to have patience. They have been impertinent. And -you as civil as if they were the best people in the county--and going to -dine with them! I did not expect this.” - -“I am sorry, Clare, if it hurts you,” he said. “They seemed very kind; -and how could I help it? Besides, you made them very uncomfortable, and -I owed them amends. And you know I am but an indifferent Arden; I have -not any horror of trade.” - -“You told them so!” said Clare--“you took people like these into your -confidence, and confessed to them that you were not an Arden like the -rest of us! Oh, please, Edgar, don’t! you might think how unhappy it -makes me. As if it was not enough----” - -“What, Clare?” - -“Oh, can’t you understand?” she cried. “Is it not enough to _see_ that -you are not a thorough Arden; that you don’t care for the things we care -for, nor hate the things we hate. But to have to hear you say so as if -it did not matter!--it is the grief of my life.” - -And she threw herself into a chair, and cried--weeping a sudden shower -of passionate tears, which were so hot and rapid that they seemed to -scorch her, yet dried as they fell. Her brother came and stood by her -chair, putting his hand softly on her bent head. Edgar was sorry, but -not only because she wept. He was grieved, and perplexed, and -disappointed. A half smile came over his serious face at her last words. -“My poor Clare--my poor Clare,” he repeated softly, smoothing the dark -glossy locks of her hair. When the thunder shower was over he spoke, -with a voice that sounded more manly and mature and grave than anything -Clare had heard from him before. - -“You must take my character and my training a little into -consideration,” he said. “If I had been brought up like you I might have -thought with you. But, Clare, though I love you more than anything in -the world, and would not vex you for all Arden, still I cannot change my -nature. Arden is only a very small spot in England, dear, not to speak -of the world; and I can’t look at the big world through Arden -spectacles. You must not ask it of me; anything else I will do to please -you. I will give up dining with these people if you wish it. Of course I -don’t care for their dinner; but they looked as if they wanted to be -kind----” - -“They wanted to come to Arden, to know you and me, and get admittance -among the county families,” said Clare in one breath. - -“Well, perhaps. I suppose we are all mean wretches more or less,” he -said. “Suppose we give up the Pimpernels; but you must not ask me to -avoid everybody who has anything to do, or to content myself with the -old groove. For instance, I like pictures, though you say the Ardens -don’t----” - -“That is not what I meant,” said Clare, with a blush; “I meant----” - -“You meant opposition, and to snub that fat, good-tempered man; and you -only made me uncomfortable--_he_ did not feel it. But I like pictures, -Clare, and the people who paint them. I have known a great many in my -life; and when I like any man I cannot pause to ask what is his -pedigree, or what is his occupation. Putting aside the Pimpernels, you -must still make up your mind to that.” - -“But you will put aside the Pimpernels?” said Clare, with pleading -looks. - -“I will see about it,” said Edgar. It was the first time he had not -yielded, and Clare felt it. She felt too that a shade of real difference -had stolen between them--almost of separation. She had been -unreasonable, and had put herself in the wrong; and he had set up a -principle of action, erected as it were his standard, and made it -clearly apparent what he would and what he would not do. She went away -to her own room with a certain soreness in her heart. She had committed -herself. Certain words of her own and certain words of his came back to -her with the poignant shame of youth--what she had said about the -pictures, and what Edgar had said of her rudeness, and of the antagonism -which only made him uncomfortable. She had made herself ridiculous, she -thought--that worst of all offences against one’s self. It seemed to the -proud Clare as if neither she nor any one else could forget how -ridiculous she had made herself; and more than ever with tenfold force -of enmity she hated those unlucky Pimpernels. - -It was brilliant daylight, the sun was setting, and the air full of -light and sweetness, when they set off upon their drive to Thorne. Clare -was all black, as her mourning demanded--black ornaments, black -gloves--everything about her as sable as the night--a dress, which was -not perhaps so becoming to her dark hair and pale complexion as it would -have been to pretty Alice Pimpernel, or the fair-haired Gussy, whom -Edgar was going (though he did not know it) expressly to see. Probably -Clare did not waste a thought on the subject, for she was young and -entirely fancy free, a condition of things which frees a girl from any -keen anxiety in respect to her appearance. She was wrapped in a large -white cloak, however, which relieved the blackness, and brought out the -delicate pale tints of her face as only white can do; and Edgar, as he -took his place by her side, found himself admiring her as if he had seen -her for the first time. The high, proud features, so finely cut, the -perfect roundness of youth in the cheek, the large, lovely blue eyes, -were of a kind of beauty which you may like or dislike as you please, -but which it is impossible to ignore. Clare was beautiful, there was no -other word for it. Not pretty, like that pretty Alice; and her proud -looks and air of reserve enhanced her beauty, just as the sweet wistful -frankness of the simpler girl added a charm to hers. “I don’t suppose I -shall see any one like my sister where we are going,” Edgar said, with -that admiring affection which is so pleasant in a brother. - -“No, indeed, they are all quite a different style,” Clare answered with -a laugh, turning aside the compliment, which nevertheless pleased her. -This did much to restore the former delightful balance of affairs -between them. About half-a-mile from the village they came upon a house, -just visible through the trees, a very old solid mass of red brick, -shining with a subdued glow in the midst of the green wealth of foliage, -which looked the greener for its redness, and heightened its native -depth of colour. There was a fine cedar on the lawn, and many great old -trees within the enclosure, which was so arranged that it might be taken -for a park. Edgar gave an inquiring glance at his sister, who answered -him by shaking her head, and putting up her hands as if to shut out the -hateful vision. - -“So that is the Red House?” said Edgar. “I had forgotten all about it. -It is a nice house enough. If I should ever happen to be turned out of -Arden, I should like to live there.” - -“What nonsense you do talk!” said Clare. “Who can turn you out of Arden, -unless there was a revolution, as some people think?” - -“I don’t think there will be a revolution. But have we no cousins who -might do one that good turn?” he said, laughing. “How? Oh, I can’t tell -how. It is impossible, I suppose.” - -“Simply impossible,” said Clare with energy. “We are the elder branch. -The Ardens of Warwickshire were quite a late offshoot. You are the head -of the name.” - -“I am glad to hear it,” said Edgar; “and I am sure it is a very proud -position. Does that Red House belong to us, Clare? But if it had -belonged to us, I suppose you would not have let it to those -respectable--I mean objectionable--Pimpernels?” - -“Don’t speak of the Pimpernels,” she said. “Oh, Edgar, if you only knew -how much I dislike those sort of people--not because they are common -people--on the contrary, I am very fond of the poor; but those -presumptuous pushing _nouveaux riches_--don’t let us speak of them! We -have got a cousin--only one; and if you were not to have any children, I -suppose the estates would go to his son. But I hope they never will.” - -“Why?” said Edgar. “Is there any reason to suppose that his son would be -less satisfactory than mine? I hope he is less problematical. Tell me -about him--who is he--where is he? I feel very curious about my heir.” - -“And I hate to hear you speak in such a careless way,” said his sister. -“Why should you show so much levity on so serious a subject? Arthur -Arden is a great deal older than you are. I dislike him very much. Pray, -don’t speak of him to me.” - -“Another subject I must not speak of!” said Edgar. “Why do you dislike -him? Is it because he is my heir? You need not hate a man for that.” - -“But I do hate him,” said Clare, with a clouded brow; and the rest of -the way to Thorne was gone over in comparative silence. The jars that -kept occurring, putting now one string, now another out of tune, -vibrated through both with an unceasing thrill of discord. There was no -quarrel, and yet each was afraid to touch on any new subject. To be -sure, it was Clare who was in the wrong; but then, why was he so light, -so easily moved, so free from all natural prejudices, she said to -herself? Men ought not to run from one subject to another in this -careless way. They ought to be more grave, more stately in their ways of -thinking, not moved by freaks of imagination. Such levity was so -different from the Arden disposition that it looked almost like -something wrong to Clare. - -Thorne was a great house, but not like Arden. It stood alone, not -shadowed by trees, amid the great green solitude of its park; and -already lights were glimmering in the open windows, though it was still -day. The servants were closing shutters in the dining-room, and the -table gleamed inside under the lamplight, making itself brightly -visible, like a picture, with all its ornaments and flowers. It was Lady -Augusta’s weakness that she could not bear to dine in daylight. In the -very height of summer she had to support the infliction; but as long as -she could she shut out the intrusive day. Edgar felt his head swim as he -walked into the cool green drawing-room after his sister into the midst -of a bevy of ladies. He was fond of ladies, like most well-conditioned -men; but the first moment of introducing himself into the midst of a -crowd of them fluttered him, as was quite reasonable. There was Ada, the -quiet one, on a sofa by herself, knitting. Edgar discriminated her at -once. And that, no doubt, was Gussy, with the prettiest tiny figure, and -a charming little rose-tinted face, something between an angel and a -Dresden shepherdess. “That will be my one,” he said to himself, -remembering with natural perversity that Ada was Clare’s favourite. That -little indication was enough to raise in the young man’s mind a certain -disinclination to Ada. And he did not know that Lady Augusta had -already decided upon the advisability of allotting to him her second -daughter. He could not see the others, who were busied in different -corners with different occupations. It was the first English party of -the kind he had ever been at, and he was very curious about it. And then -it was so perfectly orthodox a party. There was the nearest squire and -his wife, one of the great Blundell family; and there was a younger son -of the Earl’s, with his young wife; and the rector of the parish, and a -man from London. Such a party is not complete without the man from -London, who has all the news at his finger-ends, and under whose -manipulation the biggest of cities becomes in reality that “little -village” which slang calls it. “Will you take in my daughter, Mr. -Arden?” said Lady Augusta; and Edgar, without any thought of his own -dignity, was quite happy to find Gussy’s pretty curls brushing his -shoulder as they joined the procession into the dining-room. He thought -it was kind of his new friends to provide him with such a pleasant -companion, while Clare was making herself rather unhappy with the -thought that he should have taken in, if not the Honourable Mrs. -Everard, at least Mrs. Blundell, or, at the very least, Ada, who was the -Princess Royal of the House of Thorne. “I am so glad all the solemn -people are at the other end of the table,” Gussy whispered to him, as -they took their places. “Mr. Arden, I am sure you are not solemn. You -are not a bit like Clare.” - -“Is Clare solemn?” asked Edgar, with a half sense of treachery to his -sister; but he could not refuse to smile at Gussy’s pretty up-turned -face. - -“I love her dearly; she is as good as gold,” said Gussy, “but not such -fun as I am sure you are. If you will promise never to betray me to -mamma, I will tell you who everyone here is.” - -“Not if I went to the stake for it,” said Edgar; and so his first -alliance was formed. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“You know mamma, of course,” said Edgar’s pretty cicerone. “I suppose I -need not enter into the family history. You know all us Thornleighs, as -we have known you all our lives.” - -“I am ashamed of my ignorance; but I have never been at home to have the -chance of knowing the Thornleighs,” said Edgar. “Don’t imagine it is my -fault.” - -“No; it is quite romantic, I know,” said Gussy. “You have been brought -up abroad. Oh yes; I know all about it. Mr. Arden nearly died of losing -your mother, and you are so like her that he could not bear to look at -you. Poor dear old Mr. Arden, he was so nice. But I thought you must -have known us by instinct all the same. That is Ada sitting opposite. I -must begin with us young ones, for what could I say about papa and -mamma? Everybody knows papa and mamma. It would be like repeating a -chapter out of Macaulay’s history, or that sort of thing. Harry is the -eldest, but he is not at home. And that is Ada opposite. She is the -good one among us. It is she who keeps up the credit of the family. Poor -dear mamma has plenty to do with five girls on her hands, not to speak -of the boys. And Ada looks after the schools, and manages the poor -people, and all that. All the cottagers adore her. But she is not _fun_, -though she is a dear. There is not another boy for ever so long. We -girls all made a rush into the world before them. I am sure I don’t know -why. As if we were any good!” - -“Are not you any good?” said Edgar, laughing. He was not used to -advanced views about women, and he thought it was a joke. - -“Of course, we are no good,” said Gussy. “We are all very well so long -as we are young--and some of us are ornamental. I think Helena is very -ornamental for one; but we can’t do anything or be anything. You should -hear what she says about that. Well, then, after Ada there is nothing -very important--there is only me. I am the chattering one, and some -people call me the little one, or the one with the curls. I have not any -character to speak of, nor any vocation in the family, so it is not -worth while considering me. Let us pass on to Helena. That is Helena, -the one who is so like papa. I think she is awfully handsome. Of course, -I don’t mean that I expect you to think so, or to say so; but all her -sisters admire her very much. And she is as clever as a dozen men. All -the boys put together are not half so clever as she is. She ought to -have been in Parliament, and that sort of thing; but she can’t, for she -is a girl. Don’t you think it is hard? Well, I do. There is nothing she -could not do, if she only had the chance. That is the Rector who is -sitting beside her. He is High, but he is Broad as well. He burns -candles on the altar, and lets us decorate the church, and has choral -service; but all the same he is very philosophical in his preaching. -Helena thinks a great deal of that. She says he satisfies both the -material and intellectual wants. Do you feel sleepy? Don’t be afraid to -confess it, for I do myself whenever anybody uses long words. I thought -it was my duty to tell you. For anything I know, you may be intellectual -too.” - -“I don’t think I am intellectual, but I am not in the least sleepy,” -said Edgar; “pray go on. I begin to feel the mists clear away, and the -outlines grow distinct. I am a kind of Columbus on the shores of a new -world; but he had not such a guide as you.” - -“Please wait a little,” said Gussy, shaking her pretty curls, “till I -have eaten my soup. I am so fond of white soup. It is a combination of -every sort of eatable that ever was invented, and yet it does not give -you any trouble. I must have two minutes for my soup.” - -“Then it is my turn,” said Edgar. “I should like to tell you all my -difficulties about Arden. Clare is not such an able guide as you are. -She does not tell me who everybody is, but expects me to know. And when -one has been away from home all one’s life, instinct is a poor guide. -Fancy, I should never have known that you were the chattering one, and -Miss Thornleigh the good one, if you had not told me! I might have -supposed it was the other way. And if you had been at Arden I never -should have made such a dreadful mistake as I made this morning.” - -“Oh, tell me! what was it?” said Gussy, with her spoon suspended in her -hand, looking up at him with dancing eyes. - -“I hope you will not think the worse of me for such a confession. I was -so misled as to say I would go and dine with a certain Mr. -Pimpernel----” - -“Oh, I know,” said Gussy, clapping her hands, and forgetting all about -her soup. “I wish I could have seen Clare’s face. But it is not at all a -bad house to dine at, and I advise you to go. He is a cotton-merchant or -something; but, you know, though it is all very well for Clare, who is -an only daughter and an heiress, we can’t afford to stand on our -dignity. All the men say it is a very nice house.” - -“Then I have not behaved so very badly after all?” said Edgar. “You -can’t think what a comfort that is to me. I rather thought I deserved to -be sent to the Tower.” - -“I should not think it was bad at all,” said Gussy. “I should like it of -all things; but then I am not Clare. They have everything, you know, -that can be got with money. And such wine, the men say; though I don’t -understand that either. And there are some lovely pictures, and a nice -daughter. I know she is pretty, for I have seen her, and they say she -will have oceans of money. Money must be very nice when there are heaps -of it,” Gussy added softly, with a little sigh. - -Edgar paused for a moment, taken aback. He had not yet met his ideal -woman; but it seemed to him that when he did meet her, she would care -nothing for money, and would shrink from any contact with the world. A -woman was to him a soft, still-shadowy ideal, surrounded by an -atmosphere of the tenderest poetry, and celestial detachment from earth -and its necessities. It gave him a gentle shock to be brought thus face -to face with so many active, real human creatures, full of personal -wants and wishes, and to identify them as the maiden-queens of -imagination. Clare had not helped him to any such realisation of the -abstract woman. There was no sort of struggle in her being, no -aspiration after anything external to her. It was impossible to think of -her as capable of advancement or promotion. Edgar himself was by no -means destitute of ambition. He had already felt that to settle himself -down with all his energies and powers into the calm routine of a country -gentleman’s life would be impossible. He wanted more to do, something to -aim at, the prospect of an expanding existence. But Clare was different. -She was in harmony with all her surroundings, wanted nothing, was -adapted to every necessity of her position--a being totally different -from any man. It seemed to Edgar that so all women should be--passive, -receiving with a tender grace, which made their acceptance a favour and -honour, but never acquiring, never struggling; regarding, indeed, with -horror, any possibility of being obliged to struggle and acquire. Gussy, -though she charmed him, gave him at the same time a gentle shock. That -it should be hard for Helena not to be able to go into Parliament, and -that this fair creature should sigh at the thought of heaps of money, -sounded like sacrilege to him. He came to a confused pause, wondering at -her. Gussy was as keen as a needle notwithstanding her chattering, and -she found him out. - -“Do you think it is shocking to care for money?” she said. - -“N-no,” said Edgar, “not for some people. I might, without any -derogation; but for a lady---- You must remember I don’t know anything -about the world.” - -“No,” said Gussy, “of course you don’t; but a lady wants money as much -as a man. We girls are dreadfully hampered sometimes, and can’t do what -we please because of money. The boys go and spend, but we can’t. It is a -little hard. You should hear Helena on that. I don’t mind myself, for I -can always manage somehow; but Helena gives all sort of subscriptions, -and likes to buy books and things; and then she has to keep it off her -dress. Papa gives us as much as he can afford, so we have nothing to -complain of; for, fancy five girls! and all to be provided for -afterwards. Of course, we can’t go into professions like the boys. I -don’t want to change the laws, as Helena does, because I don’t see how -it is to be done; so then the only thing that remains is to wish for -heaps of money--quantities of money; and then everybody could get on.” - -Edgar was very glad to retire into an _entrée_ while this curious -statement of difficulties was being made. It seemed so strange to him, -with all his own wealth, to hear any of his friends wish for money -without offering his purse. Had Gussy been Gus, he would have said--“I -have plenty; take some of mine,” with all the ready goodfellowship of -youth. But he dared not say anything of the kind to the young lady. He -dared not even suggest that it was possible: this wonderful difference -was beyond all aid of legislation. Accordingly, he was silent, and ate -his dinner, and was no longer the agreeable companion Gussy expected him -to be. She did not like her powers of conversation to be thus -practically undervalued, nor was she content, as her sister Helena would -have been, with the feeling that she had made him think. Gussy liked an -immediate return. She liked to make her interlocutors, not think, but -listen, and laugh, and respond, giving her swift repayment for her -trouble. She gave her curls another shake, and changed the subject, -having long ere this got done with her soup. - -“I have not half finished my _carte du pays_,” she resumed; “don’t you -want to hear about the other people, or have you had enough of Thorne? I -feel sure you must be thinking about your new friends. If I ride over to -see Clare the day after your dinner, will you tell me all about the -Pimpernels? I do so want to have a credible account of them, and the -Lesser Celandine, and all----” - -“Who is the Lesser Celandine?” - -“Oh, please, do not look so grave, as if you could eat me. I believe you -are a little like Clare after all. Of course it is the pretty daughter: -they say she is just like it; peeps from behind her leaves--I mean her -mamma--and never says a word. Don’t you think all girls should do so? -Now, confess, Mr. Arden. I am sure that is what you think, if you would -allow yourself to speak.” - -“I don’t suppose all girls should follow one rule any more than all -boys,” said Edgar, with polite equivocation; and then Gussy returned to -her first subject, and gave him sketches of everybody at the table. Mr. -Blundell, who was stupid and good, and his wife, who was stupid and not -very good; and the Honourable pair, who were close to their young -historian--so close, that she had to speak half in whisper, half in -metaphor. “They have both been so dreadfully taken in,” Gussy said. “She -thought his elder brother was dying; and he thought she was as rich as -the Queen of Sheba; whereas she has only got a little money, and poor -Newmarch is better again. Hush, I can’t say any more. Yes, he is better; -and they say he is going to be married, which would be dreadfully hard -upon them. How wicked it is to talk like this!--but then everybody does -it. You hear just the same things everywhere till you get to believe -them, and are so glad of somebody fresh to tell them to. Oh yes, there -is _that man_. If you were to listen to him for an hour, you would think -there was not a good man nor a good woman in the world. He tells you how -all the marriages are made up, and how she was forced into it, and he -was cheated; or how they quarrelled the day before the wedding, and -broke it off; or how the husband was trapped and made to marry when he -did not want to. Oh, don’t you hate such men? Yet he is very amusing, -especially in the country. I don’t remember his name. He is in some -office or other--somebody’s secretary; but there are dozens just like -him. We are going to town next week, and I shall hate the very sight of -such men; but in the country he is well enough. Oh, there is mamma -moving; do pick up my glove for me, please.” - -Thus Gussy was swept away, leaving her companion a little uncertain as -to the impression she had made upon him. It was a new world, and his -head swam a little with the novelty and the giddiness. When the -gentlemen gathered round the table, and began to talk in a solid -agricultural way about steady-going politics, and the state of the -country, and the prospects of the game, he found his head relieved a -little. Clare had given him a glance as she left the room, but he had -not understood the glance. It was an appeal to him not to commit -himself; but Edgar had no intention of committing himself among the men -as they drank their wine and got through their talk. He was far more -likely to do that with Gussy, to make foolish acknowledgments, and -betray the unsophistication of his mind. But he did not betray himself -to Mr. Blundell and Mr. Thornleigh. They shook their heads a little, and -feared he was affected by the Radical tendencies of the age. But so were -many of the young fellows, the Oxford men who had distinguished -themselves, the young dilettante philanthropists and revolutionists of -the time. If he sinned in that way, he sinned in good company. There was -Lord Newmarch, for instance, the Earl’s eldest son, and future magnate -of the county, who was almost Red in his views. Edgar got on very well -with the men. They said to each other, “Old Arden treated that boy very -badly. It is a wonder to see how well he has turned out;” and the ladies -in the drawing-room were still more charitably disposed towards the -young Squire. There was thus a certain amount of social success in Edgar -Arden’s first entrance into his new sphere. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -After the dinner at Thorne there was nothing said between Edgar and -Clare about that other humbler invitation which had caused the first -struggle between them. She took Mr. Fielding into her confidence, but -she said nothing more to her brother. As for the Rector, he was not so -hard on the Pimpernels as was the young lady at the Hall. “They are -common people, I allow,” he said. “They have not much refinement, -nor--nor education perhaps; and I highly disapprove of that perpetual -croquet-playing, which wastes all the afternoons, and puts young Denbigh -off his head. I do not like it, I confess, Clare; but still, you -know--if I may say exactly what I think--there are worse people than the -Pimpernels.” - -“I don’t suppose they steal,” said Clare. - -“My dear, no doubt it is quite natural, with your education and -habits--but I wish you would not be quite so contemptuous of these good -people. They are really very good sort of people,” said Mr. Fielding, -shaking his head. She looked very obdurate in her severe young beauty as -the Rector looked at her, bending his brows till his eyes almost -disappeared among the wrinkles. “They find us places for our boys and -girls in a way I have never been able to manage before; and whenever -there is any bad case in the parish----” - -“Mr. Fielding, that is our business,” said Clare, almost sharply. “I -don’t understand how you can talk of our people to anybody but Edgar or -me.” - -“I don’t mean the people here,” said Mr. Fielding meekly, “but at the -other end of the parish. You know that new village, which is not even on -Arden land--on that corner which belongs to old Stirzaker--where there -are so many Irish? I don’t like to trouble you always about these kind -of people. And when I have wanted anything----” - -“Please don’t want anything from them again,” said Clare. “I don’t like -it. What is the good of our being lords of the manor if we do not look -after our own people? Mr. Fielding, you know I think a great deal of our -family. You often blame me for it; but I should despise myself if I did -not think of our duties as well. All that is our business. -Please--please don’t ask anything of those Pimpernels again!” - -“Those Pimpernels!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head. “Ah, Clare! -they are flesh and blood like yourself, and the young lady is a very -nice girl; and why should I not permit them to be kind to their -fellow-creatures because you think that is your right? Everybody has a -right to be good to their neighbours. And then they find us places for -our boys and girls.” - -“I have forgotten about everything since Edgar came,” said Clare, with a -blush. “I have not seen old Sarah since the first day. Please come with -me, and I will go and see her now. What sort of places? They are much -better in nice houses in the country than in Liverpool. The girls get -spoiled when they go into a town.” - -“But they get good wages,” said Mr. Fielding, “and are able to help -their people. I have not told you of this, for I knew you were -prejudiced. Old Sarah has a lodger now, a relation of Mr. Perfitt--an -old Scotchwoman--something quite new. I should like you to see her, -Clare. I have seen plenty of Scotch in Liverpool, both workmen and -merchants; but I do not understand this old lady. She is a new type to -me.” - -“I suppose being Scotch does not make much difference,” said Clare, -discontentedly. “I do not like them much for my part. Is she in want, or -can I be of any use to her? I will go and see her in that case----” - -“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Fielding, in alarm, “Want! I tell you she is a -relation of Perfitt’s, and they are all as proud as Lucifer. I almost -wonder, Clare,” he added more softly, dropping his voice, “that you, who -are so proud yourself, should not have more sympathy with the pride of -others.” - -“Others!” cried Clare, with indignation, and then she stopped, and -looked at him with her eyes full. If they had not been in the open air -in the village street she would have eased herself by a burst of tears. -“I am all wrong since Edgar came home,” she cried passionately out of -the depths of her heart. - -“Since Edgar came home? But my dear child--my dear child!” cried Mr. -Fielding, “I thought you were so proud of your brother.” - -“And so I am,” said Clare, hastily brushing away the tears. “I know he -is good--he is better than me; but he puts me all wrong notwithstanding. -He will not see things as I do. His nature is always leading him the -other way. He has no sort of feeling--no--Oh! I don’t know how to -describe it. He puts me all wrong.” - -“You must not indulge such thoughts,” said the Rector, with a certain -mild authority which did not misbecome him. “He shows a great deal of -right feeling, it appears to me. And we must not discuss Edgar’s -qualities. He is Edgar, and that is enough.” - -“You don’t need to tell me that,” cried Clare, with sudden offence; and -then she stopped, and controlled herself. “I should like to go and see -this old Scotchwoman,” she added, after a moment’s pause. What she had -said was true, though she was sorry for having said it. Edgar, with his -strange ways of thinking, his spontaneousness, and freedom of mind, had -put her all wrong. She had been secure and certain in her own system of -life so long as everybody thought with her, and the bonds of education -and habit were unbroken. But now, though she was still as strong in her -Ardenism as ever, an uneasy, half-angry feeling that all the world did -not agree with her--nay, that the person of most importance to her in -the world did not agree with her--oppressed Clare’s mind, and made her -wretched. It is hard always to bear such a blow, struck at one’s -youthful convictions. It is intolerable at first, till the young -sufferer learns that other people have really a right to their opinions, -and that it is possible to disagree with him or her and yet not be -wicked. Clare could not deny that Edgar’s different views were -maintained with great gentleness and candour towards herself--that they -were held by one who was not an evil-minded revolutionary, but in every -other respect all that she wished her brother to be. But she felt his -eyes upon her when she said and did many little things which a few weeks -ago she would have thought most right and natural; and even while she -chafed at the tacit disapprobation, a secret self-criticism, which she -ignored and struggled against, stole into the recesses of her soul. She -would not acknowledge nor allow it to be possible; but yet it was there. -The natural consequence was that all her little haughtinesses, her airs -of superiority, her distinctions between the Ardens and their class and -all the rest of the world, sharpened and became more striking. She was -half-conscious that she exaggerated her own opinions, painted the lights -whiter and the shadows more profound, in involuntary reaction against -the new influences which began to affect her. She had not noticed the -Pimpernels, though she knew them well by sight, and all about them; but -she had no active feeling of enmity towards them until that unfortunate -day when they ventured to call, and Edgar, in his ignorance, received -them as if they had been the family of a Duke. Since then Clare had come -to hate the innocent people. She had begun to feel rabid about their -class generally, and to find words straying to her lips such as had -struck her as in very bad taste when old Lady Summerton said them. Lady -Summerton believed the poor were a host of impostors, and trades-people -an organised band of robbers, and attributed to the _nouveaux riches_ -every debasing practice and sentiment. Clare had been disgusted by these -opinions in the old days. She had drawn herself up in her youthful -dignity, and had almost reproved her senior. “They are good enough sort -of people, only they are not of our class,” Clare had said; “please -don’t call them names. One may be a Christian though one is not -well-born.” Such had been her truly Christian feeling while yet she was -undisturbed by any doubt that to be well-born, and especially to be born -in Arden, was the highest grace conceded by heaven. But now that doubt -had been cast upon this gospel, and that she daily and hourly felt the -scepticism in Edgar’s eyes, Clare’s feelings had become as violent as -old Lady Summerton’s. The sentiment in her mind was that of scorn and -detestation towards the multitude which was struggling to rise into that -heaven wherein the Ardens and Thornleighs shone serene. “The poor -people” were different; they made no pretences, assumed no equality; but -the idea that Alice Pimpernel came under the generic title of young lady -exactly as she herself did, and that the daughter of a Liverpool man -might ride, and drive, and dress, and go everywhere on the same footing -as Clare Arden, became wormwood to her soul. - -Mr. Fielding walked along by her side somewhat sadly. He was Clare’s -godfather, and he was very proud of her. His own nature was far too mild -and gentle to be able to understand her vehemence of feeling on these -points; but he had been grieved by it often, and had given her soft -reproofs, which as yet had produced little effect. His great hope, -however, had been in the return of her brother. “Edgar must know the -world a little; he will show her better than I can how wrong she is,” -the gentle Rector had said to himself. But, alas, Edgar had come home, -and the result had not been according to his hope. “He is young and -impetuous, and he has hurried her convictions,” was the comment he made -in his grieved mind as he accompanied her along the village street. Mr. -Fielding blamed no one as long as he could help it; much less would he -blame Clare, who was to him as his own child. He thought within himself -that now the only chance for her was Life, that best yet hardest of all -teachers. Life would show her how vain were her theories, how harsh her -opinions; but then Life itself must be harsh and hard if it is to teach -effectual lessons, and it was painful to anticipate any harshness for -Clare. He went with her, somewhat drooping and despondent, though the -air was sweet with honeysuckle and early roses. The summer was sweet, -and so was life, at that blossoming time which the girl had reached; but -there were still scorching suns, as well as the winds of autumn and the -chills of winter, to come. - -Old Sarah had more ways than one of gaining her homely livelihood. The -upper floor of her cottage, on which there were two rooms, was furnished -out of the remains of some old furniture which an ancient mistress had -bequeathed to her; and there at distant intervals the old woman had a -lodger, when such visitors came to Arden. They were homely little rooms, -low-roofed, and furnished with the taste peculiar to a real cottage, and -not in the least like the ideal one; but people in search of health, -with small means at their disposal, were very glad to give her the ten -or twelve shillings a week, which was all she asked. Down below, in the -rooms where Sarah herself lived, she was in the habit of receiving one -or two young girls, orphans, or the children of the poorest and least -dependable parishioners, to train them to household work and plain -sewing. It was Clare’s idea, and it had worked very well; but for some -time past Clare had neglected her _protégées_. Edgar’s arrival and all -the dawning struggles of the new life had occupied and confused her, -and she had left her old nurse and her young pupils to themselves. She -could scarcely remember as she went in who they were, though Sarah’s -pupils were known in the parish as Miss Arden’s girls. There were two on -hand at the present moment in the little kitchen which was Sarah’s -abode. One stood before a large white-covered table ironing fine linen, -while the old nurse sat by in her big chair, spectacles on nose, and a -piece of coarse needlework in hand, superintending the process, with -many comments, which, added to the heat of the day and the irons, had -heightened Mary Smith’s complexion to a brilliant crimson. The other sat -working in the shady background, the object of Mary’s intensest envy, -unremarked and unreproved. It was the unfortunate clear-starcher who had -to make her bob to the gentlefolks, and called forth Miss Arden’s -questions. “I hope she is a good girl,” Clare said, looking at Mary, who -stood curtseying and hot, with the iron in her hand. “She is none so -good but she might be better, Miss Clare,” said old Sarah; “I don’t know -none o’ them as is; but she do come on in her ironing. As for collars -and cuffs and them plain things, I trust her by herself.” - -“I am very glad to hear it,” said Clare, “and I hope Jane is as -satisfactory; but we have not time to talk about them to-day. Mr. -Fielding says you have a new lodger, whom he wishes me to go and see. Is -she upstairs? Is she at home? Does she like the place? And tell me what -sort of person she is, for I am going to see her now.” - -Sarah got up from her chair with a bewildered look, and took off her -spectacles, which she always did in emergencies. “I beg your pardon, -Miss Clare,” she said with a curtsey, “but---- She ain’t not to say a -poor person. I don’t know as she’d--be pleased---- Not as your visit, -Miss, ain’t a compliment; but----” - -“The Scotch are very proud,” said Mr. Fielding, in his most deprecating -tone; “they are dreadfully independent, and like their own way. And, -besides, she does not want anything of us. She is not, as Sarah says, a -poor person. I think, perhaps, another day----” - -“Then why did you bring me here to see her?” said Clare, with some -reason. Was it to read her a practical lesson--to show her that she was -no longer queen in Arden? A flush of hasty anger came to her pale cheek. - -“I only meant----” Mr. Fielding began; “all that I intended was---- Why, -here is Edgar! and Mr. Perfitt with him. About business, I suppose, as -you two are going together. My dear boy, I am so glad you are taking to -your work.” - -“We have been half over the estate,” said Edgar, coming in, and putting -down his hat on Mary Smith’s ironing table, while she stood and gaped at -him, forgetting her curtsey in the awe of so close an approach to the -young Squire; “but Perfitt has some one to visit here, and I have come -to see Sarah, which is not work, but pleasure. I did not expect to find -you all. Perfitt, go and see your friend; never mind me. Oh, I beg your -pardon,” said Edgar, standing suddenly aside. They all looked up for the -moment with a little start, and yet there was nothing to startle them. -It was only Sarah’s Scotch lodger, Mr. Perfitt’s relative, who had come -into the little room. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -She was a woman of about sixty, with very dark eyes and very white -hair--a tall woman, quite unbent by the weight of her years, and -unshaken by anything she could have met with in them; and yet she did -not look as if she had encountered little, or found life an easy passage -from the one unknown to the skirts of the other. She did not look -younger than her age, and yet there was no sentiment of age about her. -She was not the kind of woman of whom one says that they have been -beautiful, or have been pretty. She had perhaps never been either one or -the other; but all that she had ever been, or more, she was now. Her -eyes were still perfectly clear and bright, and they had depths in them -which could never have belonged to them in youth. The outline of her -face was not the round and perfect outline which belongs to the young, -but every wrinkle had its meaning. It was not mere years of which they -spoke, but of many experiences, varied knowledge, deep acquaintance with -that hardest of all sciences--life. Not a trace of its original colour -belonged to the hair--slightly rippled, with an irregularity which gave -a strange impression of life and vigour to it--which appeared under her -cap. The cap was dead white too, tied under her chin with a solid bow of -white ribbon; and this mass of whiteness brought out the pure tints of -her face like a picture. These tints had deepened a little in tone from -the red and white of youth, but were as clear as a child’s complexion of -lilies and roses. The slight shades of brown did but mellow the -countenance, as it does in so many painted faces. The eyes were full of -energy and animation, not like the eyes of a spectator, but of one -accustomed to do and to struggle--acting, not looking on. The whole -party assembled in old Sarah’s living-room turned round and looked at -her as she came in, and there was not one who did not feel abashed when -they became conscious that for a moment this inspection was not quite -respectful to the stranger. So far as real individuality and personal -importance went, she was a more notable personage than any one of them. -The Rector, who was the nearest to her in age, drew a little aside from -before the clear eyes of this old woman. He had been a quiet man, -harboured from all the storms, or almost all the storms of existence; -but here was one who had gone through them all. As for Edgar, there was -something in her looks which won his heart in a moment. He went up to -her with his natural frankness, while the others stood looking on -doubtfully. “I am sure it is you whom Perfitt has been talking to me -about,” he said. “I hope you like Arden. I hope your granddaughter is -better. And I trust you will tell Perfitt if there is anything than can -be done to make you more comfortable; my sister and I will be too -glad----” - -Here Clare stepped forward, feeling that she must not permit herself to -be committed. “I am sure Sarah will do her very best to make you -comfortable,” she said, with great distinctness, not hurrying over her -words, as Edgar did--and not disposed to permit any vague large promises -to be made in her name. She was not particularly anxious about the -stranger’s comfort; but Edgar was hasty, and would always have his way. - -“I am much obliged to ye both,” said the newcomer, her strong yet soft -Scotch voice, with its broad vowels, sounding large and ample, like her -person. She gave but one glance at Clare, but her eyes dwelt upon Edgar -with curious interest and eagerness. No one else in the place seemed to -attract her as he did. She returned the touch of his hand with a -vigorous clasp, which startled even him. “I hear ye’re but late come -hame,” she said, in a deep melodious tone, lingering upon the words. - -“Yes,” said Edgar, somewhat surprised by her air of interest. “I am -almost as much a stranger here as you are. Perfitt tells me you have -come from the hills. I hope Arden will agree with the little girl.” - -“Is there some one ill?” said Clare. - -“My granddaughter,” said the stranger, “but no just a little -girl--little enough, poor thing--the weakliest I ever trained; but she’s -been seventeen years in this world--a weary world to her. Her life is a -thread. I cannot tell where she got her weakness from--no from my side.” - -“Na; not from your side,” echoed Perfitt, who had been standing behind. -“But Mr. Arden has other things ado than listen to our clavers about our -family. I’ll go with you, with his leave, up the stair.” - -“Has Dr. Somers been to see her?” said Clare. “If she is Mr Perfitt’s -relation, perhaps we could be of some use; some jelly perhaps, or -fruit----” - -“I am much obliged to the young lady, but I’ll not trouble anybody,” was -the answer. “Thank ye all. If I might ask the liberty, when Jeanie is -able, of a walk about your park----” - -She had turned to Edgar again, upon whom her eyes dwelt with growing -interest. Even Mr. Fielding thought it strange. “If she wants anything, -surely I am the fit person to help her,” Clare could not help saying -within herself. But it was Edgar to whom the stranger turned. He, too, -was a little surprised by her look. “The park is open to everybody” he -said; “that is no favour. But if you would like to go through the -gardens and the private grounds--or even the house--Perfitt, you can -arrange all that. And perhaps you might speak to the gardener, Clare?” - -“Whatever you wish, Edgar,” said his sister, turning away. She was -displeased. It was she who ought naturally to have been appealed to, and -she was left out. But the new-comer evidently was honestly oblivious of -Clare’s very presence. She had no intention of disrespect to the young -lady, or of neglecting her claims; but she forgot her simply, being -fascinated by her brother. It was him whom she thanked with concise and -reserved words, but a certain strange fulness of tone and expression. -And then she made the party a little bow, which took in the whole, and -turned and led the way up the narrow cottage stair--Perfitt following -her--leaving them all considerably puzzled, and more moved than Clare -would have allowed to be possible. “If this is your Scotchwoman,” she -said, turning to the Rector, “I don’t wonder you found her original;” -and Clare went hastily out of the cottage, without a word to Sarah, -followed by the gentlemen, who did not know what to say. - -“Listen to her story before you begin to dislike her,” said Edgar. -“Perfitt told me as we came along. It appears she had her daughter’s -family thrown on her hands a great many years ago. She has a little farm -in Scotland somewhere, and manages it herself. When these children came -to her, she set to work as if she had been six men. She has brought up -and educated every one of them,--not to be ploughmen, as you would -think--but educated them in the Scotch way; one is a doctor, another a -clergyman, and so on. If you don’t respect a woman like that, I do. -Perfitt says she never flinched nor complained, but went at her work -like a hero. And this is a granddaughter of another family whom she has -taken charge of in the same way.” - -“I felt sure she was something remarkable,” said Mr. Fielding, “I told -Clare I had never seen any one quite like her; now, didn’t I? Scotch, -you know--very Scotch; but to me a new type.” - -“I think I prefer the old type,” said Clare, with a feeling of -opposition, which she herself scarcely understood; “one knows what to do -with them; and then they are civil, at least. I am going to see some -now,” and she turned back suddenly, waving her hand to her companions, -and went on past Sarah’s cottage to pay her visits. The people she was -going to see were quite of the old type. They had no susceptibilities to -_menagér_, no over-delicate feelings to be studied. They were ready to -accept all that could be procured, and to ask for more. Clare knew, when -she entered these cottages, that she was about to hear a long list of -wants, and to have it made apparent to her that the comfort, and health, -and happiness of her pensioners was entirely in her hands. It was more -flattering than the independence of the stranger, who wanted nothing; -but yet the contrast confused the mind of the girl, who had never had -anything of the kind made so clearly apparent to her before. One of her -old women had an orphan granddaughter too; but her complaints were many -of the responsibility this threw upon her, and the trouble she had in -keeping her charge in order. “Them young lasses, they eats and they -drinks, and they’re never done; when a cup o’ tea would serve me, -there’s a cooking and a messing for Lizzy; and out o’ evenings when I -just want her; and every penny a going for nonsense. At my time o’ life, -Miss, it ain’t bother as one wants; it’s quiet as does best for ou’d -folks.” - -“But she has nobody to take care of her except you,” said Clare, -pondering her new lesson. - -“Eh, Miss! They ben’t good for nothing for taking care o’ young ones -ben’t ou’d folks.” - -Clare turned away with a little disgust. She promised to supply all the -wants that had been indicated to her, and they were many. But she did it -with less than her usual kindness, and a sensation of indignation in her -mind. How different was this servile dependence and denial of all -individual responsibility from the story she had just heard! She was -wrong, as was natural; for the old egotist was in reality very fond of -her Lizzy, and only made use of her name in order to derive a more -plentiful supply from the open hand of the young lady. Had there been no -young lady to depend on, probably old Betty would have made no -complaint, but done her best, and grudged nothing she had to her -grandchild. Clare, however, was too young and inexperienced in human -kind to know that what is bad often comes uppermost, concealing the -good, and that there are quantities of people who always show their -worst, not their best, face to the world. She went away in suppressed -discontent, revolving in her mind without knowing it those questions of -social philosophy with which every alms-giver must more or less come in -contact. It was right for the Ardens, as lords of the manor, to watch -over their dependents; of that there could be no doubt. Clare would have -felt, as one might imagine a benevolent slaveholder to feel, had there -been any destitution or unrelieved misery in her village: but the -question had never occurred to her whether it was good for the people to -be so watched over and taken care of? Supposing, for instance, such a -case as that of Mr. Perfitt’s relative, Sarah’s lodger. Was it best for -a woman in such circumstances to toil and strive, and deny herself all -ease and pleasure, and bring up the children thus cast upon her with the -sweat of her brow, according to that primeval curse or blessing which -was not laid upon woman? Or would it be better to appeal to others, and -make interest, and establish the helpless beings in orphan schools and -benevolent institutions? The last was the plan which Clare had been -chiefly cognisant of. When any one died in the village, it had been her -wont to bestir herself instantly about their children, as if the -responsibility was not upon the widow or the relatives, but upon her. -She had disposed of them in all sorts of places--here one, and there -another; and she had found, in most cases, that the villagers were but -too willing to transfer their burdens to the young shoulders which were -so ready to undertake them. But was that the best? If Edgar had -enunciated this new doctrine in words, no doubt she would have combated -it with all her might, and would have been very eloquent about the -duties of property and the bond between superiors and inferiors. But -Edgar had not said a word on the subject, probably had not thought at -all about it. He was as liberal as she was, even lavish in his bounty, -ready to give to anybody or everybody. He had said nothing on the -subject; but he had told the story of that strange new-comer, who was -(surely) so out of place, so unlike everything else in the little Arden -world. - -Clare passed by Sarah’s house again as the thoughts went through her -mind. The window of the upper room was a broad lattice window with -diamond panes, half concealed by honeysuckles, which were not in very -good trim, but waved their long branches in sweet disorder over the -half-red half-white wall, where the original bricks, all stained with -lichens, peered through the whitewash. The casement was open, and -against it leaned a little figure, the sight of which sent a thrill -through the young lady’s heart. The face looked very young, and was -surrounded by softly curling masses of hair, of that ruddy golden hue -which is so often to be seen in children’s hair in Scotland, and which -is almost always accompanied by the sweetest purity of complexion. It -was a lovely face, like an angel’s, with something of the half-divine -abstraction about it of Raphael’s angel children. She had never seen -anything so strangely visionary, fair, and wild, like something from -another world. Clare stood still and gazed, forgetting everything but -this strange beautiful vision. The stranger’s eyes were turned towards -Arden, to the great banks of foliage which stood up against the sky, -hiding the house within their depths. What was she thinking of? whom was -she looking for? or was she thinking of, looking for no one, abstracted -in some dream? Clare’s heart began to beat as she stood unconscious and -gazed. She was brought back to herself and to the ordinary rules of life -by seeing that the old woman had come to the window, and was looking -down upon her with equal earnestness. Then she went on with a little -start, trembling, she could not tell why. Was it a child or a woman she -had seen? and why had she come here? - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -The next day after these events occurred the dinner at the Pimpernels. -Miss Arden had made no further allusion to it in her brother’s presence. -He had said he would stay away if she exacted it, but Clare was much too -proud to exact. She stood aside, and let him have his will. She was even -so amiable as to fasten a sprig of myrtle in his coat when he came to -bid her good night. “That is very sweet of you, as you don’t approve of -me,” he said, kissing the white hand that performed this little sisterly -office. They were two orphans, alone in the world, and Edgar’s heart -expanded over his sister, notwithstanding the many doubts and -difficulties which he was aware he had occasioned her. - -“Why should I disapprove?” she said. “You are a man; you are not so -easily affected as a girl; but only please remember, Edgar, they are not -people that it would be nice for you to see much of. They are not like -us.” - -“Not like you, certainly,” said light-hearted Edgar. “I rather liked to -see you, do you know, beside them; you looked like a young queen.” - -Clare was pleased, though she did not care to confess it. “It does not -require much to make one look like a queen beside that good, fat Mrs. -Pimpernel,” she said, with more charity than she had ever before felt -towards her recent visitors. “If you are not very late, Edgar, perhaps I -shall see you when you come home.” - -And she watched him as he drove his dogcart down the avenue with a less -anxious mind. “He is not like an Arden,” she said to herself; “but yet -one could not but remark him wherever he went. He has so much heart and -spirit about him; and I think he is clever. He knows a great deal more -than most people, though that does not matter much. But still I think -perhaps he would not be so easily carried away after all.” - -Edgar, for his part, went away in very good spirits. He liked the rapid -sense of motion, the light vehicle, the fine horse, the swiftness which -was almost flight. He rather liked making a dive out of the formal world -which had absorbed him, into another hemisphere; and he even liked, -which would have vexed Clare had she known it, to be alone. He would not -suffer himself to think so, for it seemed ungrateful, unbrotherly, -unkind; but still a man cannot get over all the habits of his life in -three weeks, and it was a pleasure to him to be alone. He seemed to have -thrown off the burden of his responsibilities as he swept through the -village and along the rural road to the Red House. He expected to be -amused, and he was pleased that in his amusement he would be subject to -no criticism. Criticism is very uncomfortable, especially when it comes -from your nearest and dearest. To feel in your freest moments that an -eye is upon you, that your proceedings are subject to lively comment, is -always trying. And Edgar had not been used to it. Thanks to the sweetest -temper in the world, he took it very well on the whole. But this night -he certainly did feel the happier that he was free. The Pimpernels -greeted him with a cordiality that was almost overpowering. The father -shook both his hands, the mother pounced upon him and introduced him to -a dozen people in a moment, and as for poor Alice, she blushed, and -smiled, and buttoned her gloves, which was her usual occupation. When -the business of the introduction was over Edgar fell back out of the -principal place, and took a passing note of the guests. A dozen names -had been said to him, but not one had he made out, except that of Lord -Newmarch, who was a tall, spare young man in spectacles, with a thin -intellectual face. There were two men of Mr Pimpernel’s stamp, with vast -white waistcoats, and heads slightly bald--men very well known upon -’Change, and holding the best of reputations in Liverpool--with two -wives, who were ample and benign, like the mistress of the house; and -there were two or three men in a corner, with Oxford written all over -them, curiously looking out through spectacles, or as it were out of -mists, at the other part of the company. Lord Newmarch did not attach -himself to either of these parties. It was not very long indeed since he -had been an Oxford man himself, but he was now a politician, and had -emerged from the academical state. - -There was one other among the guests who attracted Edgar’s attention, he -could not tell why--a tall man about ten years older than himself, with -black hair, just touched in some places with grey, and deep-set -dark-blue eyes, which shone like a bit of frosty sky out of his dark -bearded face. The face was familiar to him, though he felt sure he had -never seen this individual man before; and though he kept himself in the -background there was an air about him which Edgar recognised by -instinct. Among the old merchants and the young Dons--men limited on one -hand within a very material universe, and on the other by the still -straiter limitations of a purely intellectual sphere--this man looked, -what he was, a man of the world. Edgar came to this conclusion -instinctively, feeling himself drawn by an interest which was only half -sympathy to the only individual in the party who deserved that name. -Chance or Mrs. Pimpernel arranged it so that this man was placed at the -opposite end of the table at dinner, quite out of Edgar’s reach. Mr. -Arden of Arden had to conduct one of the most important ladies present -to dinner, and was within reach of Mrs. Pimpernel with Alice on his -other hand; but the stranger who interested him was at the foot of the -table, being evidently a person of no importance. It was only Edgar’s -second English party, and certainly at this moment it was not nearly so -pleasant as the dinner at Thorne, with pretty Gussy telling him -everything. Mrs. Buxton, who sat between him and Lord Newmarch, was too -anxious to attend to her noble neighbour’s conversation to give very -much attention to Edgar. Now and then she turned to him indeed, and was -very affable; but her subject was still Newmarch, and they were too near -to that personage to make the discussion agreeable. “You should hear -Lord Newmarch on the education question,” the lady said; “his ideas are -so clear, and then they are so charmingly expressed. I consider his -style admirable. You don’t know it? How very strange, Mr. Arden! He -contributes a good deal to the _Edinburgh_. I thought of course you must -have been acquainted with his works.” - -“I never read any of them,” said Edgar; and I trust I never shall, he -felt he should have liked to have said; but he only added instead, “I -have spent all my time wandering to and fro over the face of the earth, -which leaves one in the depths of ignorance of everything one ought to -know.” - -“Oh, do you think so?” said Mrs. Buxton. “For my part, I think there is -nothing like travelling for expanding the mind. Lord Newmarch published -a charming book of travels last year--From Turnstall to Teneriffe. -Turnstall is one of his family places, you know. It made quite a -commotion in the literary world. I do think he is one of the most rising -young men of the age.” - -“Do you admire Lord Newmarch very much?” Edgar whispered to Alice, who -was eating her fish very sedately by his side. Poor Alice grew very red, -and gave a little choking cough, and put down her fork, and cleared her -throat. She looked as if she had been caught doing something which was -very improper, and dropped her fork as if it burned her. And it was a -moment before she could speak. “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” was the reply she -made, giving a shy glance at him, and then looking down upon her plate. - -“But don’t you think he looks a little too much as if the fate of the -country rested on his head?” said Edgar, valiantly trying again. “Tell -me, please, is he a bore?” - -“Oh no, Mr. Arden!” said Alice, and she looked at her plate again. “Does -she want to finish her fish, I wonder?” Edgar asked himself; and then he -turned to Mrs. Buxton, to leave his younger companion at liberty. But -Mrs. Buxton had tackled Lord Newmarch, and they were discussing the -question of compulsory education, with much authoritative condescension -on the gentleman’s part, and eager interest on the lady’s. Edgar was not -uninterested in such questions, but he had come to the Red House with a -light-hearted intention of amusing himself, and he sighed for Gussy -Thornleigh and her gossip, or anything that should be pleasant and -nonsensical. Alice had returned to her fish, not that she cared for the -fish, but because it was the only thing for her to do. If Edgar had but -known it, she was quite disposed to go on saying, “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” -and “Oh no, Mr. Arden,” all the time of dinner, without caring in the -least for the _entrees_, or even for the jellies and creams and other -dainties with which the banquet wound up. But then he did not know -that, and could not but imagine that her fish was what she liked best. - -In his despair, however, he caught Mrs. Pimpernel’s eye, who was looking -bland but disturbed, saying “There is no doubt of that,” and “Education -is very necessary,” and “I am sure I am quite of Lord Newmarch’s -opinion,” at intervals. She was amiable, but she was not happy with that -wise young nobleman at her right hand, and such an appreciative audience -as Mrs. Buxton beside him. Edgar glanced across at her, and caught her -look of distress. “I do not care anything about education,” he said, -firing a friendly gun, as it were, across her bows. “I hate it when I am -at dinner.” And then Mrs. Pimpernel gave him a look which said more than -words. - -“Oh, fie,” she said, leaning across the corner, “you know you should not -say that. Do you think we English are behind in light conversation, Mr. -Arden? For more important matters I know we can defy anybody,” and she -gave Lord Newmarch an eloquent look, which he returned with a little -bow; “but I daresay,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, with that cloud of uneasiness -on her brow, “we are behind in chitter-chatter and table-talk.” - -“I like chitter-chatter,” said Edgar; “and besides, I want to know who -the people are. Who is that pretty girl on Mr. Pimpernel’s left hand? -You must recollect I know nobody, and am quite a stranger in my own -place.” - -“Oh, Mr. Arden, that is Miss Molyneaux, Mrs. Molyneaux’s eldest -daughter,” said the gracious hostess, indicating the lady on her left -hand, who smiled and coloured, and looked at Edgar with friendly eyes. -“She _is_ pretty--such a complexion and teeth! Did you notice her teeth, -Mr. Arden? They are like pearls. My Alice has nice teeth, but I always -say they are nothing to compare to Mary Molyneaux’s. And that’s Mr. -Arden, your namesake, beside her. He is considered a very handsome man.” - -“Do you approve of personal gossip, Mr. Arden?” said Mrs. Buxton, -breaking in; but Edgar was too much interested to be stopped, even by -motives of civility. - -“Mr. Arden, my namesake! Then that explains it.” He said these last -words, not aloud, but within himself, for now he could see that the face -which this man’s face recalled to him was that of his own sister, Clare. -It gave him the most curious sensation, moving him almost to anger. A -stranger whom he knew nothing of, who was nothing to him, to resemble -Clare! It looked like profanity, desecration. After all, there was -something evidently in the Arden blood--something entirely wanting to -himself--a secret influence--which he, the first of the name, did not -share. - -“Not only your namesake,” said Lord Newmarch, in his thin voice, much to -Mrs. Buxton’s disgust. The young lord was very philosophical, and full -to overflowing with questions of political importance, and the progress -of the world, and all the knowledge of the nineteenth century; but still -he was patrician born, and could not resist a genealogical question. -“Not only your namesake. He is old Arthur Arden’s son, who was your -father’s first cousin. He is the nearest relative you have except your -sister; and, as long as you don’t have sons of your own, he is the next -heir.” - -“Ah!” said Edgar, as if he had sustained a blow. He could not explain -how it was that he received the information thus. Why should he object -to Arthur Arden, or be anything but pleased to see the next in the -succession--the man who, of all the men in the world, should be most -interesting to him? “The same blood runs in our veins,” he tried to say -to himself, and gazed down curiously at the end of the table, raising -thereby a little pleasurable excitement in the bosom of Mrs. Molyneaux, -who sat opposite to him. “He is struck with my Mary,” the mother -thought; and Edgar was so good a match that it was no wonder she was -moved a little. Fortunately, Mary knew nothing about it, but sat by the -other Arden, and chattered as much as Gussy Thornleigh had done, and -could not help thinking what a pity it was so handsome a man, and one so -like the family, should not be the true heir. “I have been over Arden -Hall, and you are so like the portraits,” Mary Molyneaux was saying at -that very moment, while Lord Newmarch explained who her companion was to -Edgar. “The present Mr. Arden is not a bit like them. I can’t help -feeling as if you must be the rightful Squire.” - -“I have got only the complexion, and not the lands,” said Mr. Arthur -Arden. “It is a poor exchange. And this is the first time I ever saw my -cousin. He does not know me from Adam. We are not a very friendly race; -but I know Clare.” - -“Oh, Miss Arden? Don’t you think she is quite beautiful--but awfully -proud?” said the girl. “She will not know the Pimpernels; though all the -best people have called on them, she will never call. Don’t you think it -is horrid for a girl to be so proud?” - -“She has the family spirit,” said her kinsman, with a look which Mary, -in her innocence, did not comprehend. The talk at the table at Thorne -was more amusing, but perhaps there was a deeper interest in what was -then going on at the Red House. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -It was impossible for Edgar not to look with interest upon this other -Arden, who was so like his family, so like his own sister, with the very -same air about him which the portraits had, and in which the young man -felt he was himself so strangely wanting. Perhaps if Gussy Thornleigh -had been by his side, or even that pretty Miss Molyneaux, who was -entertaining his unknown relation, his eyes and thoughts would not have -been so persistently drawn that way. But between Alice Pimpernel, who -said, “Oh no, Mr. Arden,” and “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” and Mrs. Buxton, who -was collecting the pearls which dropped from the lips of Lord Newmarch, -the dinner was not lively to him; and he caught from the other end of -the table tones of that voice which somehow sounded familiar, and turns -of the head full of that vague family resemblance which goes so far in a -race, and which recalled to him not only his sister whom he loved, but -his father whom he did not love. How strange it was that he should have -been so entirely passed over amid all those family links that bound the -others together! It proves, Edgar said to himself, that it is not blood -that does it, but only association, education, the impressions made upon -the mind at its most susceptible age. He reasoned thus with himself, but -did not find the reasoning quite satisfactory, and could not but feel a -mingled attraction and repulsion to the stranger who was his nearest -relation, his successor if he died, and surely ought to be his friend -while he lived. When the ladies left the room, and the others drew -closer round the table, he could no longer resist the impulse that moved -him. It was true that Clare had expressed anything but friendly feelings -for this unknown cousin; but anyhow, were he bad or good, it was Edgar’s -duty, as the chief of the family, to know its branches. It did not seem -to him even that it was right or natural to ask for any introduction. -After a little hesitation he changed his place, and took the chair by -Arthur Arden’s side. “They tell me you are of my family,” he said, “and -your face makes me sure of it--in which case, I suppose, we are each -other’s nearest relations, at least on the Arden side.” - -The landless cousin paused for a moment before he replied to the young -Squire. He looked him all over with something which might have seemed -insolence had Edgar’s nature led him to expect evil. “I suppose, of -course, you are my cousin the Squire,” he said, carelessly, “though I -certainly should never have made you out to be an Arden by your face.” - -“No; I am like my mother they tell me,” said Edgar; but for the first -time in his life he reddened at that long understood and acknowledged -fact. There was nothing _said_ that insulted him, but there was an -inference which he did not understand, which yet penetrated him like a -dagger. It was unendurable, though he had no comprehension what it -meant. - -“I never knew rightly who Mrs. Arden was,” said Arthur; “a foreigner, I -believe, or at least a stranger to the county. I don’t think I should -like my eldest son to be so unlike me if I were a married man.” - -“Mr. Arden, I don’t pretend to understand your meaning; but if you wish -to be offensive perhaps our acquaintance had better end at once,” said -Edgar, “I have no desire to quarrel with my heir.” - -Another pause followed, during which the dark countenance of the other -Arden fluctuated for a moment between darkness and light. Then it -suddenly brightened all over with that smile for which the Ardens were -famous. “Your heir!” he said. “You are half a lifetime younger than I -am, and much more likely to be my heir--if I had anything to leave. And -I don’t want to be offensive. I am a bitter beggar; I can’t help myself. -If you were as poor as I am, and saw a healthy boy cutting you out of -everything--land, money, consideration, life----” - -“Don’t say so,” cried open-hearted Edgar, forgetting his offence; “on -the contrary, if I can do anything to make life more tolerable--more -agreeable---- I am just as likely to die as any one,” he continued, with -a half comic sense that this must be consolatory to his new -acquaintance; “and I have my sister to think of, who in that case would -want a friend. Why should not we be of mutual use to each other? I now; -you perhaps hereafter----” - -“By Jove!” cried the other, looking at him keenly. And then he drank off -a large glass of claret, as if he required the strength it would give. -“You are the strangest fellow I ever met.” - -“I don’t think so,” said Edgar, laughing. “Nothing so remarkable; but I -hope we shall know each other better before long. There is not much -attraction just now in the country, but in September, if you will come -to Arden----” - -“Do you know Miss Arden can’t bear me?” said his new friend. - -“Can’t bear you!” Edgar faltered as he spoke--for as soon as his unwary -lips had uttered the invitation he remembered what Clare had said. - -“Yes; your sister hates me,” said Arthur Arden. “I cannot tell why, I am -sure. I suppose because my father and yours fought like cat and dog--or -like near relations if you choose, which answers quite as well. I am not -at all sure that he did not send you abroad to be out of our way. He -believed us capable of poisoning you--or--any other atrocity,” he added, -with a little harsh laugh. - -“And are you?” said Edgar, laughing too, though with no great heart. - -“I don’t think I shall try,” said his new kinsman. “My father is dead, -and one is less courageous than two. By Jove! just think what a -difference it would make. Here am I, a poor wretch, living from hand to -mouth, not knowing one year where my next year’s living is to come from, -or sometimes where my next dinner is to come from, for that matter. If -ever one man had an inducement to hate another, you may imagine it is -I.” - -This grim talk was not amusing to Edgar, as may be supposed; but, as his -companion spoke with perfect composure, he received it with equal calm, -though not without a secret shudder in his heart. “I think we might -arrange better than that,” he said. “We have time to talk it over later; -but, in my opinion, the head of a family has duties. It sounds almost -impertinent to call myself the head of the family to you, who are older, -and probably know much more about it; but----” - -“You are so,” said Arthur Arden, “and fact is incapable of impertinence. -Talking of the country having no attractions, I should rather like to -try a June at Arden. I suppose you bucolics think that the best of the -year, don’t you? roses, and all that sort of thing. And I happen to have -heaps of invitations for September, and not much appetite for town at -the present moment. If it suits you, and your sister Clare does not -object too strenuously, I’ll go with you now.” - -This sudden and unexpected acceptance of his invitation filled Edgar -with dismay. September was a totally different affair. In September -there would be various visitors, and one individual whom she disliked -need not be oppressive to Clare. But now, while they were alone, and -while yet all the novelty of his situation was fresh upon Edgar, -nothing, he felt, could be more inappropriate. Arthur Arden swayed -himself upon his chair, leaving one arm over the back, with careless -ease, while his cousin, suddenly brought to a stand-still, tried to -collect himself, and decide what it was best to do. “Ah, I see,” Arthur -said, after a pause, still with the same carelessness, “I bore you. You -were not prepared for anything so prompt on my part; and Madam -Clare----” - -“I cannot allow my sister’s name to be mentioned,” cried Edgar angrily, -“except with respect.” - -“Good heavens, how could I name her with greater respect? If I said -Madam Arden, which is the proper traditionary title, you would think I -meant your grandmother. I say Madam Clare, because my cousin is the lady -of the parish: I will say Queen Clare, if you please: it comes to about -the same thing in our family, as I suppose you know.” - -“As I suppose you don’t know,” was in this arrogant Arden’s tone; but it -was lost upon Edgar, whose mind was busy about the problem how he could -manage between Arthur’s necessities and Clare’s dislike. The party was -in motion by this time to join the ladies, and Lord Newmarch came up to -the two Ardens in the momentary breaking up. - -“I want very much to see more of you,” he said, addressing himself to -Edgar. “I see you two cousins have made acquaintance, so I need not -volunteer my services; but I am very anxious to see more of you. I -daresay there are many things in the county and in the country which you -will find a little puzzling after living so long abroad; and I hope to -get a great deal of information from you about Continental politics. My -father is in town, so I cannot ask you to Marchfield, as I should like -to do; indeed, I am only off duty for a week on account of this great -social assembly in Liverpool. How shall I manage to see a little of you? -I go back to Liverpool with the Buxtons to-night.” - -“I cannot promise to go to Liverpool,” said Edgar; “but if you could -come to us at Arden----” - -“That would be the very thing,” said the young politician, “the very -thing. I could spare you from the 1st to the 5th. I must be back in town -before the 7th for the Irish debate. My father has Irish property, and -of course we poor slaves have to come up to the scratch; though, as for -justice to Ireland, you know, Arden----” - -“I fear I don’t know much about it; shall we join the ladies?” said -Edgar, a little confused by finding his hospitality so readily embraced. - -“I shall be very happy to give you the benefit of my experience,” said -Lord Newmarch; “there are some things on which it is necessary a young -landed proprietor should have an opinion of his own. Yes, by all means, -let us go upstairs. There is a great deal in the present state of the -country that I should be glad to talk to you about. We have become -frightfully empirical of late; whether the Government is Whig or whether -it is Tory, it seems a condition of existence that it should try -experiments upon the people; we are always meddling with one thing or -another--state of the representation--education--management of the -poor----” - -Such were the words that came to Arthur Arden’s ears as his cousin -disappeared out of the dining-room under the wing of Lord Newmarch, -being preached to all the way. The kinsman, who was a fashionable -vagabond, looked after them with a smile which very much resembled a -sneer. “Thank heaven, I am nobody,” he said to himself, half aloud. He -was the last in the room, and no one cared whether he appeared late or -early in Mrs. Pimpernel’s fine drawing-room; no one except, perhaps, one -or two young ladies, who thought “poor Mr. Arden” very handsome and -agreeable, but knew he was a man who could never be married, and must -not even be flirted with overmuch. If he was bitter at such moments, it -was not much to be wondered at. He was more mature, and much better able -to give an opinion than Edgar, better educated, perhaps a more able man -by nature; but Edgar had the family acres, and therefore it was to him -that the politician addressed himself, and whom everybody -distinguished. Arthur Arden persuaded himself, as he went his way after -the others to the drawing-room, that it was almost a good bargain to be -quit of Lord Newmarch and his tribe, even at the price of being quit of -land and living at the same time; but the attempt was rather a failure. -He would have appreciated political power, which Edgar was too ignorant -to care for; he would have appreciated money, which Edgar evidently -meant to throw away, in his capacity of head of the family, on poor -relations and other unnecessary adjuncts. What a strange mistake of -Providence it was! “He would have made a capital shopkeeper, or clerk, -or something,” the elder Arden said to himself, “whereas I----; but, at -all events, we shall see what effect his proceedings will have upon -saucy Clare.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -It would be difficult to imagine anything more uncomfortable than were -Edgar’s feelings as he drove home that evening. He had tried with much -simplicity to avoid his kinsman Arden, thinking, in his inexperience, -that if he did not repeat his invitation, or if no further conversation -took place between them as to that visit in June, that the other would -take it for granted, as he himself would have been quick to do, that -such a visit was undesirable. Edgar, however, had reckoned without his -guest, who was not a man to let any such trifling scruples stand in the -way of his personal comfort. He was on the lawn with some of the other -gentlemen when Edgar got into his dogcart, and shouted to him quickly, -“I shall see you in a few days,” as he drove past. Here was a pleasant -piece of news to take back to Clare. And Lord Newmarch was coming, who, -though a stranger to himself, was none to his sister, and might possibly -be, for anything Edgar knew, as distasteful to her as Arthur Arden -himself. He laughed at his own discomfiture, but still was discomfited; -for indifference to the feelings of anybody connected with him was an -impossibility to the young man. “Of course, I am master, as people say,” -he suggested to himself, with the most whimsical sense of the absurdity -of such a notion. Master--in order to please other people. Such was the -natural meaning of the term according to all the laws of interpretation -known to him. It was Clare who was queen at the present moment of her -brother’s heart and household; but even if there had been no Clare, -Edgar would still have been trying to please somebody--to defer his own -wishes to another’s pleasure, by instinct, as nature compelled him. It -is a disposition which gives its possessor a great deal of trouble, but -at least it is not a common one. And the curious thing was that he did -not blame Arthur Arden for pushing his society upon him, as anybody else -would have done. It was weakness on his own part, not selfishness on -that of his kinsman. Had he been driven to reason on the subject, Edgar -would have indeed manifested to you clearly how his own yielding temper -was the greatest of sins, as tempting others to be selfish. “Of course -it is my own fault” had been his theory all his life. - -But he was very uncomfortable about it in this case. Up to this time, -when he had been injudiciously amiable he alone had been the sufferer; -but now it was Clare who must bear the brunt. When he reached the -village he threw the reins to the groom, and jumped out of the dogcart. -“If Miss Arden is downstairs let her know that I have gone for an hour’s -chat to Dr. Somers’,” he said; and so started on, with his cigar, in the -moonlight, feeling the stillness and solitude a relief to him. How free -his old life had been! and yet he had felt himself wronged and injured -to be left in enjoyment of so much freedom. Now he was hampered enough, -surrounded by duties and responsibilities which he understood but dimly, -with one of those terrible domestic critics by his side who had the -power which only love has to wound him, and who subjected him to that -terrible standard of family perfection which in his youth he had known -nothing of, and the rules of which even now he did not recognise. Edgar -sighed, and took his cigar from his lips, and looked at it as if he -expected the kind spirit of that soothing plant to step forth and -counsel him; but receiving no revelation, sighed and put it back again, -and thrust his hands into his pockets, and passed along the silent -village street with his disturbed thoughts. All was silent in Arden: -the doors closed which stood open all day long, and only here and there -a faint light twinkling. One in John Horsfall’s cottage, in the little -room where Lizzie, his eldest daughter, was dying of consumption; one in -old Simon the clerk’s window, downstairs, where his harsh-tempered but -conscientious Sally was busy with the needlework which she did, as all -Arden knew, “for the shop.” “The shop” meant a certain famous place for -baby-linen in Liverpool, which demanded exquisite work--and Sally alone -of all the neighbourhood was honoured with its commissions. In her aunt -Sarah’s cottage, next door, the upper window showed a faint -illumination, and stood open. These were all the signs of life which -were visible in Arden. The old people, and the hard-working out-door -people who began the day at five in the morning, were all safe in bed, -enjoying their well-won repose. The moon was shining brightly, with all -the soft splendour of the summer--shining over Arden woods, which looked -black under her silver, and making the little street, with its white -lines of broken pavement before each door, as bright as day. Edgar’s -footsteps rang upon the stones as he crossed those little strips of -white one by one. The sound broke the silent awe and mystery of the -night, and with his usual sympathetic feeling he did his best to -restrain it. He had thrown away his cigar, and had taken off his hat to -refresh himself with the cool sweet air, when he heard a cry from the -window above. It was the window of old Sarah’s Scotch lodger. He looked -up eagerly, for her aspect had awakened some curiosity in his mind. But -what he saw was a little white figure leaning out so far that its -balance seemed doubtful, spreading out its hands, he thought, towards -himself as he stood looking up. “My Willie! my Willie!” cried the voice; -“is it you at last? Oh, he’s here, he’s here, whatever you may say. -Willie! Willie! How could he rest in his grave, and me pining here?” - -Edgar rushed forward in the wildest alarm. The little creature leaned -over the window-sill, with arms stretched out, and hair streaming about -her, till he felt that any moment she might be dashed upon the pavement -below. The cry of “Willie!” rang into the stillness with a wild -sweetness which went to the listener’s heart. It sounded like the very -voice of despair. “Take care, for God’s sake,” he cried, instinctively -rushing into the little garden below the window and holding out his arms -to catch her should she fall. Just then, however, she was caught from -behind. The grandmother’s face looked suddenly out, ghastly pale and -stern in its emotion. “I have her safe, sir, thanks to you,” said the -serious Scotch voice, every word of which sounded to Edgar like a chord -in music full of a hundred mingled modulations. “Willie, my Willie!” -cried the younger voice, rising wilder and shriller; and then there -followed a momentary rustle, as of a slight struggle, and then the sharp -decisive closing of the window. He could see nothing more. But it was -not possible to pass on calmly after such an incident. After a moment’s -indecision, Edgar tapped lightly at old Sarah’s window, which was dark. -The sounds upstairs died into a distant murmur of voices, and downstairs -all was still. Old Sarah, if she heard, took no notice of his summons; -but young Sarah, her niece, who was working in the next cottage, roused -herself and came to the door. “It’s best to take no notice, sir, if -you’ll take my advice,” said Sally, with a piece of white muslin wrapped -round her arm, which shone in the moonlight. “It’s nought but the mad -lass next door.” - -“Mad! is she mad?” said Edgar eagerly. - -“Poor lass! they do say as it’s a brother; but I don’t hold for making -all that fuss about brothers,” said Sally. “T’ou’d dame, she’s a proud -one, and never says nought she can help; and the poor wench ain’t -dangerous or that, but as mad as mad, in special when the moon’s at the -full. Don’t you take no notice, sir, for there never was a proud un -like t’ou’d dame. T’ poor lass had an only brother as died, and she’s -ne’er been hersel’ since. That’s what they say.” - -“But she looks like a child,” said Edgar, not knowing what to do; for -already complete silence and darkness seemed to have fallen over the -cottage. Old Sarah did not wake, or if she waked, kept still and made no -sign, and the light had disappeared from the upper window. It was hard -to believe, to look at the perfect stillness of the summer night, that -any such interruption had ever been. - -“She do, Squire,” said Sally; “but seventeen they say, and some thinks -her mortal pretty--t’ou’d Doctor for one, as was awful wild in his own -time, I’ve heerd say. But Mrs. Murray she watches her like a dragon. -It’s t’ou’d lady as is my sort. I don’t hold with prettiness nor fuss, -but them as takes that care of their own----” - -Sally jumped aside with a sudden cry, as the door of the next house -softly opened, and Mrs. Murray herself suddenly appeared. In the -moon-light, which blanched even Sally’s dingy complexion, the old woman -looked white as death; but probably it was as much an effect of the -light as of the scene she had just gone through. She laid her hand very -gently, with a certain dignity, upon Edgar’s arm. - -“Sir,” she said, “you’ll excuse my poor bairn. Willie was her brother, -that we lost a year back. He was lost at sea, and the poor thing looks -for him night and day. He was in a Liverpool ship; that’s why we’re -here. She took you for him,” the grandmother continued, and then made a -pause, as if to recover her voice. Tears were glistening in her eyes. -Her voice thrilled and changed even now, it seemed to Edgar, like -chords. She touched his arm again with her hand, a soft, yet firm, -momentary touch, which was like a caress. And then, all at once, “You’re -like him. Good night,” she said. - -It was as if she could not trust herself to say more. And Edgar stood -gazing at the vacant spot where she had stood, while Sally peered round -the porch of her own house, straining to see and hear. “She’s a queer -’un, t’ou’d dame,” said Sally, with a little gasp of disappointed -excitement; and she stood at her door with the muslin twisted about her -hand, and gazed after him when he went away up the village with a hasty -good night. Edgar heard her close and bolt her door as he hurried on to -the Doctor’s. Poor rural fastenings, what could they shut out? not even -a clever thief, did any such care to enter--much less pain, trouble, -sorrow, madness, or death. - -Dr. Somers’ study was a great contrast to the splendour and silence of -the night. It was lighted by a green reading-lamp, which threw its -illumination only on the table, and it was full of smoke from a -succession of cigars. The Doctor was seated in a large old-fashioned -elbow-chair, with a high back and sides, covered with dark leather, -against which his handsome head stood out. On the table stood a silver -claret-cup, and a rough brown bottle of seltzer-water--such were his -modest potations. He had a medical magazine before him on the table, but -it was a novel which was in his hand, and which he pitched away from him -as Edgar entered. “Some of Letty’s rubbish,” he explained, as he threw -it on the sofa in the shade, and welcomed his young guest. “Bravo, -Edgar! Now this is what I call emancipating yourself from petticoat -government. These sisters of ours are as bad as half-a-dozen wives.” - -“You don’t seem to have suffered much under yours,” said Edgar; “and -mine, I assure you----” - -“Oh, yes; yours, I assure you,” cried the Doctor, “is exactly like the -rest--would not curtail any of your pleasures for the world; in short, -would entreat you to amuse yourself, and be heartbroken at the thought -of keeping you at home for her; but once let her find out that you have -wings and can fly, and see what she says. I know them all.” - -Edgar sat down, and cast a hurried glance round the room as the Doctor -spoke. He asked himself quite involuntarily whether, after all, a cigar -in Dr. Somers’ study was so much more delightful than Clare’s society -and her pretty surroundings, and was not by any means so certain on that -point as the Doctor was. But if he smiled within himself he suffered no -evidence of it to escape, and for this night, at least, he had a -definite object in his visit. “I did not know if I should find you,” he -said. “What has become of the old whist party, of which I used to hear -so much?” - -“Ah, the whist party,” said the Doctor, with a sigh. “Poor Letty made an -end of that. She was always willing to do her best, though she never was -anything of a player; and she bore abuse like an angel. But that won’t -do now, you know. And young Denbigh is the most abject spoon I ever saw. -When he is not dangling after Alice Pimpernel, he is writing verses to -her, I believe. The boy is capable of any folly, and revokes as soon as -look at you. Croquet is the food of love; and that is what the -degenerate cub has abandoned whist for. No wonder the race deteriorates -day by day.” - -“That is just what I wanted to speak to you about,” said Edgar; “I have -just come from the Pimpernel’s.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -“Let us be correct and categorical,” said Dr. Somers. “That is just what -you wanted to talk to me about? Which? Love, or croquet, or the -Pimpernels?” - -“Neither,” said Edgar, with a little impatience. “These are things -altogether out of my way; and I must ask you to be serious, for what I -have to ask is grave enough. Can you tell me anything about my cousin -Arthur Arden? and why my sister dislikes him? and why----” - -“Whew!” said Dr. Somers, with a prolonged whistle. “You might well tell -me to be serious. Why, and why, and why? Have you met Arthur Arden? And -if so, did nobody warn you that he was the worst enemy you ever had in -your life.” - -“He might very easily be that, and not scare me much,” said Edgar, with -his careless, almost boyish, smile. - -“You silly lad!” said the Doctor. “You simpleton! You think you never -had an enemy in your life, and feel as if this would be something new. -I wonder if I ought to enlighten you? You remember your father, Edgar? -Which was he, enemy or friend?” - -“Dr. Somers,” said Edgar, gravely, “I have already told you that nothing -shall induce me to discuss my father.” - -Dr. Somers said “Humph!” with sudden confusion, and filled himself out a -large bumper of wine and seltzer water. “That shows a fine disposition -on your part,” he said; “but whether it is safe or expedient to ignore -such things you must judge for yourself. Perhaps I know more about it -than you do, and it seems to me you have had an enemy or two. But, -anyhow, take care of Arthur Arden, for he will be the worst.” - -“I don’t think I am afraid.” - -“No; I don’t suppose you are,” said the Doctor, looking at him between -two puffs of his cigar; “but whether that is wise or not is a different -matter. Why does Clare hate him? Why, I suppose, because he once made -love to her, and offered ‘his hand,’ as people say, with nothing in it. -Was not that enough?” - -“Surely not enough to make her hate him,” said Edgar, “but enough to -make it horribly embarrassing. Was that all? Don’t people say it is the -highest compliment, &c. I am sure I have read something like that in -books.” - -“And so have I,” said the Doctor; “and I suppose it is the highest -compliment, &c. Women don’t generally hate us because we love them, or -think we love them. Clare has been petted and spoiled all her life. But -still Arthur Arden is a handsome fellow----” - -While Dr. Somers went on thus philosophically, Edgar winced and shifted -about in his chair. He was not susceptible about himself, but he was -intensely sensitive in respect to his sister. Clare was not to him an -abstract woman, to be discussed by general rules, but an individual whom -he would fain have drawn curtains of profoundest respect about, and -veiled from every vulgar gaze. There is no doubt that this is one of the -first primitive instincts of love. The Turk is the truest symbol of -humanity so far, and there is no man, worth calling a man, who would not -be satisfied in his inmost heart if he could shut up his womankind from -every rash look or doubtful comment. Edgar beat a tune on the table with -his fingers, blew clouds of smoke about him in his restlessness, -shuffled and swayed himself about in his chair; but what could he do to -stop the disquisitions of the man who had known Clare all her life? - -“Arthur Arden is a handsome fellow, and a clever fellow,” continued Dr. -Somers. “If he had impressed a girl’s imagination, I for one should not -have been surprised. My own theory is that he did, and that it was her -liking for him, combined with her sense of his enmity to you----” - -“Good heavens! what has that to do with it?” cried Edgar, thankful of -some means of expressing his impatience. “How could he show enmity to me -when he had never seen me? and what did it matter if he had? That has -nothing to do with Clare.” - -“It had a great deal to do with Clare,” said the Doctor. “If I tell you -what my theory is, of course you will understand I don’t mean to hurt -your feelings, Edgar. I think he must have proposed some sort of -compromise to your father to exclude you quietly----” - -“To exclude---- me!” Edgar stopped him with an impatient gesture. “Dr. -Somers, you speak in riddles. How could I be excluded? What compromise -was possible? This is something so astounding that I must ask what it -means in so many words----” - -“Oh, of course it was absolute folly,” said the Doctor, with confusion. -The truth was, he had taken Edgar for a fool, and it seemed to him as if -anything could be said to so amiable, so good-tempered, so unsuspicious -a simpleton. He paused and grew red, notwithstanding his ordinary -composure and knowledge of the world. “I speak of the mad notions of a -self-willed man, who thought persistence would overcome everything,” he -went on, embarrassed. “Of course there was no compromise possible. You -were the only son, and the undoubted heir. But, going upon some notion -of his own that the Squire hated--I mean was not fond of you---- In -short, Edgar, I warned you you were not to think I wanted to wound your -feelings--and that Arthur Arden was the worst enemy you ever had in your -life.” - -“You have given me a glimpse of something worse still,” said Edgar. “You -have insinuated the possibility that his enmity might have been of -importance--that there was some harm possible. What could he do? What -could--since you force me to speak of that--my father have done? The -estates were entailed. If he could have cut me off by will, I am not so -simple as to doubt that he would have done it. But being, as I am, heir -of entail----” - -“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Somers eagerly; “of course you are heir of entail; -of course it was all nonsense; you can’t imagine for a moment---- But -then there are such very curious things in law and family history. Men -sometimes take an unaccountable aversion---- Did I ever tell you the -story of the Agostinis, a very strange thing that excited everybody when -I was at Rome?” - -Edgar gave a little wave of his hand in impatience. What were the -Agostinis or their story to him? - -“That was almost a case in point,” said the Doctor. “There was supposed -to be no heir, and the estates had gone to the daughter (of course there -was no law of entail to complicate the matter), when all at once starts -up a young man, who had been bred in a public hospital, and yet was -proved beyond dispute to be the Duchess Agostini’s son. She was living, -though her husband was dead, and could not deny it. The proof, indeed, -was so strong that he won his suit, and is now the Duke, and head of one -of the oldest houses in Italy. Brought up in an orphan hospital, and -just as nearly shut out from all inheritance for ever--just as near----” - -“But I suppose there was some explanation,” said Edgar, interested in -spite of himself; “mere aversion of a father could not surely go so far -as that?” - -“Oh, yes, there was a reason given,” said the Doctor, more and more -confused, “something about the mother--some little speck, you know, on -her character: one must not inquire too closely into those family -stories. But he won his suit, and now he is Duke Agostini--the hospital -boy! You may imagine what a sensation it made in Rome.” - -“Something about his mother,” Edgar repeated vaguely, under his breath, -with eyes in which a strange light suddenly sprang up. Then he bit his -lip, and restrained himself. Dr. Somers, watching closely, saw that he -had made an impression much more serious than he intended. He did not, -indeed, intend to make any impression. He meant only, in the wantonness -of fancied power, to make an experiment, to pique Edgar’s curiosity, to -give him, perhaps, a passing thrill of alarm and wonder, such as an -operator might give, half in jest, to curious spectators round an -electric machine; but, unfortunately, the operation had been too -successful, the shock overmuch. The young man said nothing farther, but -sat moody, with the cigar between his fingers, and let the Doctor talk. -Dr. Somers said a great deal more, but with the sense that Edgar was not -listening, and that he might as well have been a hundred miles off for -any companionship there was between them. And though he had in general a -very good opinion of himself, for once in his life the Doctor was -abashed, and felt that he had gone too far. He tried to draw the young -man’s attention to other matters--to local interests--to Lord Newmarch -and his enlightened views. “I may be a Radical myself,” said the -Doctor, “but I do not belong to that school of Enlightened Youth. -Newmarch is very appalling to me; and if you don’t mind, Edgar, you’ll -find he wants to make up to Clare _too_.” - -“Too! is there any other?” said Edgar, with a certain languid -haughtiness which was more like the Ardens than anything that had ever -been seen in him before, and which gave Dr. Somers a thrill almost as -sharp and sudden as that he had produced in the young Squire. “Could it -be possible, at this moment, of all others, that his theory was to prove -itself wrong?” - -“I should think there were others,” he said, with an attempt at -carelessness. “Flowers like Clare do not grow in every garden, not to -speak of the _dot_ which you and your father endowed her with. I suppose -nothing has been done about that as yet; or have you been so wise as to -take old Fazakerley’s advice?” - -“I think I shall go home,” said Edgar abruptly, and he got up, and -lighted his cigar by the Doctor’s candle. “There was something I wanted -to speak to you about, but it has gone out of my head.” - -“Nothing about your health, I hope,” said the Doctor anxiously. “You -look quite well----” - -“Oh, no, nothing about my health,” he said, with a short laugh, and -went out, leaving Dr. Somers in a state of great discomfort, saying to -himself that he had not meant it, and that he could not have imagined -such a good-tempered careless fellow would have taken anything up so -quickly. “It was nothing,” he said to himself. “I did not even imply -that his circumstances were the same; in short, I did not say a word to -offend--any one; nonsense! Who is Edgar Arden, I wonder, that one should -study his feelings to such an extent? Good heavens, didn’t he insist -upon being told?” Thus the Doctor excused and accused himself, and felt -extremely uncomfortable, and at last went to bed, not feeling able to -drown his remorse either in his seltzer water or his novel. “If Fielding -had done anything as idiotic,” was his comment as he went upstairs, “or -poor Letty--but I, that pretend to some sort of discretion!” His folly -had at least this salutary effect. - -Meanwhile Edgar walked home very fast, as if some one were pursuing him. -It was his thoughts which were pursuing him, rushing and driving him on. -The avenue had never looked so stately in the moonlight, nor the woods -so mysteriously sweet. All the soft perfumes of the night were in the -air; the smell of the fresh earth and the dew, the fragrance that -breathed out of here and there an old hawthorn, still covered with -blossom, beginning to brown and fade in the daylight, but still sweet in -the darkness. The front of the house lay in a great shadow made of its -own roof and the big trees behind; but lights were twinkling about, as -they ought to be in a house which expects its master. Was it possible -that Arthur Arden could have turned him out, could have replaced him -there? Could it be that Clare knew such a thing was possible? “Something -about his mother.” Edgar did not himself realise what horror it was -which had thus breathed across him. What could it be about his mother? -Could there be anything about her which gave to any man the right of a -possible insinuation? He did not remember her, and had not even a -portrait of her, but was like her, people said. And therefore his father -had hated him. Edgar’s brain burned as this strange thought whirled and -fluctuated about him; he was its victim, he did not entertain it -voluntarily. His father hated him because he was like her; but yet, was -not she the mother, too, of the beloved Clare? - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -It was perhaps fortunate for Edgar that he did not see his sister that -night. She had waited for him till the return of the groom with the -dogcart, and then she had gone upstairs. Probably she had gone with a -little irritation against him for delaying his return, Edgar felt; and a -momentary impatience of all and everyone of the new circumstances which -made his life so different came upon him. What if Dr. Somers’ suggestion -had come true, and he had been shut out of the succession? Why, then, -this bondage on one side or other, this failure in satisfying one and -understanding another, this expenditure of himself for everybody’s -pleasure, would not have been. “I should have been brought up to a -profession, probably,” he said to himself, “or even a trade;” and for -the moment, in his impatience, he almost wished it had been so. But then -he looked out upon the park, lying broad in the moonlight, and the long -lines of trees which he could see from his open window, and felt that he -would be a coward indeed who would give up such an inheritance without -an effort. The lands of his fathers. Were they the lands of his fathers? -or what did that terrible insinuation mean? - -Clare was cloudy, there could be no doubt of it, when she met her -brother next morning. She thought he might have come back earlier. “What -is Dr. Somers to him?” she said to herself, and concluded, like a true -woman, that he must have fallen in love with Alice Pimpernel. “If he -were to marry _that_ girl I should certainly keep Old Arden,” she said -to herself; for it seemed almost impossible to imagine that, seeing -Alice was the last girl in the world who ought to attract him, he should -have been able to resist falling in love with her. And thus she came -down cloudy, and found Edgar with a face all overcast by the events of -the previous night, which confirmed her in all her fears. “Of course, he -does not like to speak of her,” Clare said to herself. Poor Alice -Pimpernel! who was too frightened for Mr. Arden even to raise her eyes -from her plate. - -“Had you a pleasant party?” she said, with a half angry sound in her -voice. - -“Not very pleasant,” said Edgar. “I suppose that is why I am so tired -this morning; but yet I met some people who interested me.” - -“Indeed!” said Clare, with polite wonder. “Tell me who you took in to -dinner? and who was next you? and in short all about it? One would think -it was I who had been at a party last night, and you who had stayed at -home.” - -“I took in Mrs. Buxton, whoever she may be--and I sat next Miss -Pimpernel--and the one was philosophical, and the other was---- Is there -not some word that sounds pretty, and that means inane? She is a very -nice girl, I am sure. She said, ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Arden,’ and then, ‘Oh, no, -Mr. Arden.’ If I had not kept up the proper alternations I wonder what -the poor girl would have said?” - -“But you did?” said Clare, with all her cloud removed. Had she but known -who was at that party beside Alice Pimpernel! - -“Oh, yes, I did. And there was Lord Newmarch, who is coming here on the -1st to make my acquaintance. I hope you don’t mind. He was so anxious to -see me, poor fellow, that I could not deprive him of that pleasure. I -hope, Clare, you don’t mind.” - -“Not in the least,” she said, in her most genial mood. “If you will not -be shocked, I rather like him, Edgar. He means well; and then if he is a -Radical, it is in a kind of dignified superior way.” - -“So it is,” said Edgar; “very superior, and very dignified--not to say -instructive--but we might get too clever, don’t you think, if we had too -much of it? There was some one else there, about whom you must pardon -me, Clare. I was led into giving him an invitation--without thinking. It -did not occur to me till after----” - -Edgar grew very red making his excuses, and Clare grew pale listening. -She made a great effort over herself, and clasped her hands together, -and looked at her brother with a forced smile. “Why should you -hesitate?” she said. “Edgar, you are master; I wish you to be master. -Whoever you choose to ask ought to be welcome to me.” - -“I do not wish to be master so long as I have my sister to consult,” he -said; “but this was a mistake, an inadvertence, Clare. You can’t guess? -It was Arthur Arden whom I met at the Pimpernels!” - -“Ah!” Clare said, growing paler and paler. But she made no observation, -and kept listening with her hands clasped fast. - -“I asked him to come in September, remembering you had said you did not -like him much; but he offered himself for June. I did not accept his -proposed visit; but from what I saw and what I hear it seems likely he -will come.” - -“No doubt he will come,” said Clare; and then her hands separated -themselves. She had heard all that she had to fear. “If I hate him it is -not for myself,” she added hurriedly, “but for you Edgar. He did all he -could to injure you.” - -“So I have heard. But how could he injure me?” said her brother, feeling -that it was now his turn. - -“Edgar, I hate to speak of it. You can’t understand my love for poor -papa. Arthur tried to set him against---- It was--his fault. No; Edgar, -no, I don’t mean that--it was not his fault; but he tried to make things -worse. That is why I hate--no, I don’t hate. If you don’t mind -Edgar---- You kind, good, sweet-tempered boy----!” - -And here, in a strange transport, which he could not understand, Clare -took his hand, and held it close, and pressed it to her heart, which was -beating fast. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes, with a -curious admiration. “You are not like us other Ardens,” she said. “We -ought to learn of you; we ought to look up to you, Edgar. You can -forgive. You don’t keep on remembering and thinking over everything that -people have done and said against you. You can put it away out of your -mind. Edgar, dear, I hate myself, and I love you with all my heart.” - -“Do you, Clare; do you, indeed, Clare?” he said, and went to her side, -and kissed her with brotherly tenderness. “God do so to me and more -also,” he said to himself, if I ever forget her good and her happiness; -or, at least, if he did not say the words, such was the sentiment that -passed through his mind. He was so much moved that he felt able to ask a -question he had been hesitating over all the morning. “Clare,” he said -softly, bending over her, and smoothing her dark hair. His voice had a -certain sound of supplication in it which struck her strangely. She -thought he was about to ask something hard to do--perhaps a -renunciation, perhaps a sacrifice. “Clare, can you tell me anything -about our mother? Do you know?” - -“About mamma?” said Clare, with a sense of disappointment. “Edgar, you -frighten me so; I thought you were going to ask me something that was -very hard. About mamma? Of course I will tell you all I know.” - -“And there is a portrait--you said there was a portrait--I should like -to see that too.” - -“Yes, Edgar, I will run and get it. Oh, I wonder if you would have been -very like her--if she had lived? I sometimes think it would have been so -much better for us all.” - -“Do you think so?” said Edgar, with a sadness which he could not -control. Would it have been better? But, at all events, Clare knew of -nothing evil that concerned their mother. He walked about the room -slowly while she went to seek the portrait, and finally paused at the -great window, and gazed out. It had the same view over the park which he -had looked at last night under the moon-light. Now, in the morning, with -a certain ache of strange doubtfulness, he looked at it again. The -feeling in his mind was that it might all dissolve as he looked, and -melt away, and leave no sign--that, and the house, and the room he stood -in, with all their appearance of weight and reality. Such things had -been; at least, surely that was what Dr. Somers’ story meant about those -Agostini. What was it? “Something about the mother.” A mist of -bewilderment had fallen over him, and he could not tell. - -Clare’s entrance with a little case in her hand roused him. She came up, -and put her arm within his where he stood, and, thus hanging on him, -opened the case, and showed him the miniature, which formed the clasp of -a bracelet. It was the portrait of a face so young that it startled him. -He had been thinking and talking of his mother, which meant something -almost venerable, and this was the face of a girl younger, ever so much -younger, than himself. “Are you sure this is her?” he said in a -whisper, taking it out of his sister’s hand. “Of course it is her; who -else could it be?” she answered, in the same tone. “She is so young,” -said Edgar, apologetically. He was quite startled by that youthfulness. -He held it up to the light, and looked at it with wondering admiration. -“This child! Could she be my mother, your mother, Clare?” - -“I suppose everybody is young some time. She must have looked very -different from that when she died.” - -“Will it ever seem as strange, I wonder,” said Edgar, still little above -a whisper, “to somebody to look at your portrait and mine? How pretty -she must have been, Clare. What a sweet look in her eyes! You have that -look sometimes, though you are not like her. Poor little thing! What a -soft innocent-looking child.” - -“Edgar,” said his sister, half horrified, for she had little -imagination, “do you remember you are speaking of mamma?” - -He gave a strange little laugh, which seemed made up of pleasure and -tears. “Do you think I might kiss her?” he said under his breath. Clare -was half scandalized half angry. He was always so strange; you never -could tell what he might do or say next; he was so inconsistent, not -bound by sacred laws like the Ardens; but still his sister herself was -a little touched by the portrait and the suggestions it made. - -“She would not have been old now if she had been living, not too old for -a companion. Oh, Edgar, what a difference it would have made! I never -had a real companion, not one I was thoroughly fond of; only think what -it would have been to have had her----” - -“With that face!” Edgar said, with a sigh of relief, though Clare could -not guess why he felt so relieved. Then--“I wonder if she would have -liked me,” he said, softly. “Clare, there has been a kind fiction about -my mother. I am not like her. I don’t think I am like her. But she looks -as innocent as an angel, Clare.” - -“Why should not she be innocent?” said Clare, wondering. “We are all -innocent. I don’t see why you should fix upon that. What strikes me is -that she must have been so pretty. Don’t you think it is pretty? How -arched the eyebrows are and dark, though she is so fair.” - -“But I am not like her,” he said, shaking his head. How strange it was. -Was he a waif of fortune, some mere stray soul whom Providence had made -to be born in the house of Arden, quite out of its natural sphere? It -gave him a little shock, and yet somehow he could feel no sharp -disappointment on the day he had made acquaintance with this innocent -face. - -“Do you think not?” said Clare, faltering. “Oh, yes; you are like her. -See how fair she is, and you are fair, and the Ardens are all dark; -besides, you know, poor papa---- Don’t change like that, Edgar, when I -mention his name. He was the only one who knew her, and he said----” - -“Did he ever say I was like my mother?” said Edgar, while the sweetness -and softness had all gone out of his voice. - -“I am not sure that he ever said it in so many words. But, Edgar! Why, -everybody here---- What could it be but that? And see how fair she is, -and you are fair----” - -Edgar Arden shook his head. The face in the miniature was not sanguine -and ruddy, like his, but a pensive face; locks too fair to be called -golden surrounding it, and soft blue eyes. Everything was soft, gentle, -tender, composed, in the young face. Even Clare’s grave beauty, though -in itself so different, was less unlike her than Edgar’s warm vitality, -the gleams of superabundant life, which showed as colour in his hair and -as light in his eyes. “I am not like her,” he said to himself, as he -closed the little case and gave it back to his sister; but the shadow -which had been upon him all the morning had disappeared for ever. -Whatever was the secret of his story, it was not like the story of the -Agostini. Once and for ever he dismissed that dread from his breast. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -It was, however, some time before Edgar got over the painful impression -made upon his mind by what Dr. Somers had said. He had known very well -for the greater part of his life that his father did not love him; but -the idea that doubt had ever fallen upon his rights, that there had been -a possibility of shutting him out from his natural inheritance, had -never entered his mind. Of course there was really no such possibility; -but still the merest suggestion of it excited the young man. It seemed -to hint at a deeper secret in his own existence than anything he had yet -suspected. He had been able to take it for granted with all the -carelessness of youth that his father disliked him. But why should his -father dislike him? What reason could there be? And then that story of -the Agostini returned to him. Edgar pondered and pondered it for days, -and rejected the suggestions conveyed in it, feeling from the moment he -had seen his mother’s picture a certain fierce sentiment of rage against -Dr. Somers as her maligner. But yet this explanation being evidently a -false one, and his mother cleared of all shadow of shame or wrong, there -remained the strange thought that there must be some clue to the -mystery; and what was it? If it had been within the bounds of -possibility that the Squire could have doubted his wife’s faithfulness, -that of course would have explained a great deal. But the evidence of -the portrait was quite conclusive that any such suspicion was out of the -question. Edgar was young and fanciful, and ready to accept the evidence -of a look, and every natural sentiment within him rose up in defence of -his mother. But he could not help asking himself, even though the -question seemed an injury to her--what if it had been possible? Had she -been another kind of woman and, capable of wickedness, what in such -horrible circumstances would it have been a man’s duty to do? He had of -course heard such questions discussed, like everybody else in the world, -as affecting the husband and wife, the immediate parties. But imagine a -young man making such a discovery, finding himself out to be a spurious -branch thus arbitrarily engrafted upon a family tree; in a position so -frightful, what would it be his duty to do? Edgar roamed about the woods -which were his, putting to himself in every point of view this -appalling question. A man could take no single step in such -circumstances without taking upon him the responsibility of heaping -shame upon his mother, and giving up her cause. It would be her whom he -would cover with disgrace, much more than himself. He would have to -decide a question which nobody but she could decide, and to give it -against her, his nearest and dearest relation. Could any one willingly -assume such an office? And, on the other hand, how could he retain a -name, an inheritance, a position to which he had no right, and probably -exclude the rightful heir? “Thank heaven,” said Edgar fervently, “_that_ -can never be my case. The son of the woman to whom God gave so angelic a -countenance can never have to blush for his mother. Whatever records -came to light, _she_ never shall be shamed.” He gave up whole days to -this question, pondering it again and again in his mind. The sight of -the portrait gave him for that one day an absolute certainty that such -was not his position: and this force of conviction carried him through -the second and even the third day; but then as the first impression -waned a horrible chill of doubt stole slowly over him. That hypothesis, -terrible as it was, could it but be believed, explained so much. It -explained the Squire’s dislike to himself at once and vindicated the -unhappy old man. It explained why he was kept at so great a distance, -brought up in so strange a way; and oh, good God! if such could be the -case, what was Edgar’s duty? His brain began to whirl when he got so -far; and then he would work his way back again through all the -arguments. Dr. Somers had calculated when he threw abroad this winged -and barbed seed that Edgar was too easy-minded, too careless and -good-natured and indifferent to let it rest in his thoughts; and to hide -his consciousness of it, to be blank as a stone wall to any allusion -which might recall it, was clearly now the first duty of Mrs. Arden’s -son. If he could but be absolutely sure of it one way or other; if he -could put it utterly out of his mind, on the one hand, or--a horrible -alternative, which nevertheless would be next best--know absolutely that -it was true! But neither of these things seemed possible to Edgar. He -had to submit to that doubt which was so fundamental and -all-embracing--doubt as to his own very being, the foundations upon -which his life was built--and never to breathe a whisper of it to any -creature on the face of the earth. A hard task. - -It may be thought that Clare must have observed her brother’s -abstraction, his silent wanderings and musings, and the look of thought -and care which he could not banish from his face; but the truth was -that Clare herself was occupied by a hundred reflections. She had told -her brother she hated Arthur Arden, and at the moment it was true; but -now that Edgar, for whose sake she hated him, had condoned his offences, -and asked him to the house, Clare, if her pride would have let her, -might have confessed that she loved Arthur Arden, and it would have been -equally true. He had exercised over her when she had seen him last that -strange fascination which a man much older than herself often exercises -over a girl. She had been pleased by the trouble he took to make himself -agreeable, flattered by the attentions which a man of experience knows -how to regulate according to the age and tastes of the subject under -operation, and had felt the full charm of that kindred not near enough -to be familiar, but yet sufficiently near to account for all kinds of -mysterious affinities and sympathies which he knew so well how to make -use of. He was a true Arden--everybody said so. And Clare, who was an -Arden to the very finger tips, felt all the force of the bond. She had -sighed secretly, wishing that her brother might have been like him. The -tears had come into her eyes with affectionate pity that such a genuine -representative of the family should be so poor; and again a little glow -of generous warmth had followed, as a faint dream of how it might be -made up to him stole across her mind. A man of such excellence and such -grace--so distinguished by blood and talent, and all the qualities that -adorn a hero, who could doubt that it would be made up to him? Honour -would fall at his feet for the lifting up, and if wealth should be -wanting, why then somebody whom Clare would try to love would endow him -with everything that heart could desire, and herself best of all. She -had nourished these notions until she had heard from Arthur himself, -with one of the inadvertencies common to men whose consideration for -others, however elaborate outside, does not come from the heart, of his -opposition to her distant brother. He had taken it for granted that she -must share her father’s opinion on the subject. “Why, you do not know -him!” he had said, in his astonishment, when he became aware of his -mistake. “I love my brother with all my heart,” was all the answer Clare -had made. Something of the magniloquence of youth was in this large -assertion; but the poor girl’s heart was very sore, and the struggle she -had with herself in this wild sudden revulsion of feeling was almost -more than she could bear. He was Edgar’s enemy, this man who had been -too pleasant, only too tender to herself and she hated him! She had -walked away from him at that painful moment, and when they met -afterwards had only looked at him from behind the visor of cold pride -and icy stateliness which the Ardens knew so well how to use. But the -feeling in her heart was only hatred because it had been so nearly love. - -And now that the tables had been so strangely turned, now that Arthur -was coming to Arden as Edgar’s guest, Clare was seized with a sudden -giddiness of mind and heart, which made the outer world invisible to -her, or at least changed, and threw it so awry that no clear impression -came to her brain. As Edgar’s friend---- She could not feel quite sure -whether her feelings were those of excited expectation and delight or of -alarm and terror. And she was not sure either what to think of her -brother. Was he magnanimous beyond all the powers of the Arden mind to -conceive, as had been her first idea; or was he simply careless, -insensible--not capable of the amount of feeling which came natural to -the Ardens? This second thought was less pleasant than the first, and -yet in one way it was a kind of relief from an overpowering and scarcely -comprehensible excellence. “He does not feel it,” Clare said to herself; -but surely Arthur would feel it; Arthur would be moved by a forgiveness -so generous. Even now, when Edgar was fully aware what his kinsman had -done against him, it did not occur to him to withdraw his invitation or -forbid his enemy to the house. Such a sublime magnanimity could not fail -to impress the mind of the other. But yet, Clare recollected that Arthur -was a true Arden, and the Ardens were tenacious, not addicted to -forgiving or giving up their own way, as was her strange brother. Arthur -might come, concealing his enmity, watching his foe’s weak points and -the crevices in his armour, and laying up in his mind all these -particulars for future use. Such a proceeding was not so foreign to the -Arden mind as was that magnanimity or indifference--which was it?--that -made Edgar a wonder in his race. If her cousin was to do this, what -horrible thing might happen? Between Arthur’s watchfulness and Edgar’s -unwariness, Clare trembled. But then, would not she be there to guard -the one and keep the other in check? - -Thus, Clare was so fully occupied with thoughts of her own that she did -not notice the change in her brother’s looks, nor his sudden love of -solitude. When Mr. Fielding expressed to her his fear that Edgar was -ill, the thought filled her with surprise. “Ill! Oh, no, there is -nothing the matter with him,” she said. “Here he comes to speak for -himself: he looks just the same as usual. Edgar, you are not ill? Mr. -Fielding has been giving me a fright.” - -“I am not ill in the least,” he said, “but I wanted to see you. Are you -going into the village? I will walk there with Mr. Fielding, Clare, and -you can pick me up on your way.” - -“You see there is not much the matter with him; he is always walking,” -said Clare, waving her hand to the Rector. “I will call for you, Edgar, -in half-an-hour;” and she went away smiling to put on her riding-habit. -The brother and sister were going to Thornleigh to pay their homage -before Lady Augusta should go away. - -“Of course I understand you don’t want to alarm Clare,” said the Rector, -when they were on their way down the avenue; “but, my dear boy, you are -looking very poorly. I don’t like the change in your look. You should -speak to the Doctor. He has known you more or less all your life.” - -“The Doctor! I do not think he knows much about it,” said Edgar, with -vehemence. “But I am not ill. I am as well as ever I was.” Then he made -a little pause; and then, putting his hand on his old friend’s arm, he -said impulsively, yet trying with all his might to hide the force of the -impulse, “Mr. Fielding, you have always been very good to me. I want you -to help me to recollect what happened long ago. I want you to tell me -something about--my mother.” - -Old Mr. Fielding’s short-sighted eyes woke up amidst the puckers which -buried them, and showed a diamond twinkle of kindness in each wrinkled -socket. He gave a look of benign goodness to Edgar, and then he turned -and sent a glance towards the village which might almost have set fire -to Dr. Somers’ high roof. “Yes, Edgar,” he said quickly, “and I am very -glad you have asked me. I can tell you a great deal about your mother.” - -“You knew her, then?” cried the young man, turning upon him with eager -eyes. - -“I knew her very well. She was quite young, younger than you are; but as -good a woman, Edgar, as sweet a woman as ever went to heaven.” - -“I was sure of that!” he cried, holding out his hand; and he grasped -that slim hand of the old Rector’s in his strong young grasp, till Mr. -Fielding would fain have cried out, but restrained himself, and bore it -smiling like a martyr, though the water stood in his eyes. - -“Somers never saw her,” said Mr. Fielding, waving his hand towards the -village. “He was in Italy at the time; but ask his sister, or ask me. -Ah, Edgar! in that, as in some other things, the old parson is the best -man to come to. Why, boy, it is not you I care for! How do I know you -may not turn out a young rascal yet, or as hard as the nether millstone, -like so many of the Ardens? but I love you for _her_ sake.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -“Your mother 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 good deal 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 beginning -_that_ had 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 saw her,” 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 comes more 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Clare rode 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 you _must_.” - -“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. She _must_ be 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 -in the 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.” - -“He _is_ like the old Ardens,” said Clare, with a faint smile; and then -the conversation dropped. She did not care to prolong it. They went -across the 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 that they 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 not one 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 their _tête-á-tête_. Lady Augusta was very kind, and motherly, and -pleasant. She inquired into Edgar’s plans 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -The first 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 permanent -background 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 -fortunately he 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 one -ceases 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 social questions--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 own sake, 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. It was 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 for -_her_? Was _she_ his 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 her money 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 this commotion 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -“May I 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 her frank 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 -you thought 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 on your 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 never -understand 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 no so 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 was me. 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!” said Jeanie--“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, her trembling -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 has _here_ to do with it? what do you mean by calling Mr. Arden -_that 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, to where 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 go away, 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? - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Mrs. Murray was 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 her knitting--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 the wind 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. “Miss -Arden’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 my part 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 the sleeping -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 sufficiently acquainted 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, and never 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 all those -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -“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 do run 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--or rather 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 which _him_ was 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 I -should 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 the -excuse. 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 in -this 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 had opened 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -While Miss 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 get over -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 gave me 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 she divined 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. “How _can_ -you 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 a stranger 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, her own special _protegée_ and 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 -sense of 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 had -some 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 John Hesketh’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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -The conversation 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 -been abroad 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 -with a 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 the _coulisses_, 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 -each other; 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 that -matter--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, I should 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 to Thorne? 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 that enthusiasm 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 -importance of 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 the bees 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -After this 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,” she said, 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 -perceived in 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 might lay 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, in a 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 -has her 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 at once, 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 knowledge can 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 were _rude_ to 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 her -clear 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. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 4, 2017 [EBook #54108] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SQUIRE ARDEN; VOLUME 1 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c">SQUIRE ARDEN.</p> - -<p class="c">VOL. I.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="316" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1> -SQUIRE ARDEN.</h1> - -<p class="c"> -BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /> -<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”<br /> -“SALEM CHAPEL,” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,”<br /> -ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -VOL. I.<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -HURST & BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br /> -<small>13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.</small><br /> -1871.<br /> -<br /> -<small><i>The Right of Translation is Reserved.</i><br /> -<br /> -PERTH:<br /> -<span class="smcap">Samuel Cowan & Co., Printers</span>.</small></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<p class="chpp"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Chapter</span> I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII.</a> -</p> - -<h1>SQUIRE ARDEN.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">What</span> are the joy bells a-ringing for, Simon?” said an old woman, coming -briskly out to the door of one of the pretty cottages in the pretty -village of Arden, on a pleasant morning of early summer, when all the -leaves were young, and the first freshness of the year was over the -world. “There’s ne’er a one married as I knows on, and it aint -Whitsuntide, nor Holmfirth fair, nor——”</p> - -<p>“It’s the young Squire, stoopid,” said the old clerk, gruffly, leaning -his arms upon the little paling of the tiny garden and looking at her. -“He’s come home.”</p> - -<p>What he really did say was “he’s coom whoam;” but the reader will be so -kind as take it for granted that Simon Molyneaux was an old Lancashire -man, and talked accordingly, without giving a pen not too familiar with -the dialect the trouble of putting in all the o’s that are necessary. -Simon said coom, and he said loove, and moother;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> but as there is no -moral meaning in the double letter, let us consent to leave it out.</p> - -<p>“The young Squire!” said the old woman, with a start.</p> - -<p>She was a tidy fresh old woman, with cheeks of a russet colour, half -brown half red, yet soft, despite all their wrinkles—cheeks that -children laid their little faces up to without feeling any difference of -texture; and eyes which had stolen back during these years deeper into -their sockets, but yet were bright and full of suppressed sunshine. She -had a little shawl pinned over her print gown, and a great white apron, -which shone in the sun, and made the chief light in the little picture. -Simon’s rugged countenance looking at her was all brown, with a deep -dusky red on the tops of the cheekbones; his face was as full of -cross-hatching as if he had been an old print. His eyes were deeper than -were hers, but still at the bottom of the wrinkled caves they abode in -had a spark of light in each of them. In short, there was sufficient -resemblance between them still to show that Simon and Sarah were brother -and sister. A young woman of four and twenty came to the door of the -next cottage at the sound of his voice, and opening it, went in again, -as if her duty was done. She was Simon’s daughter and housekeeper, who -was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> fond of gossip, and the two kindred households were next door -to each other. It was a very pretty village, much encouraged to keep -itself tidy, and to cultivate flowers, and do everything that is proper -in its condition of life, by the young lady at the Hall. The houses had -been improved, but in an unobtrusive way. They were not painfully -white-washed, but showed here and there a gleam of red brick in a thin -place. The roses and the honeysuckles were not always neatly trained, -and there was even an old shawl thrust into a broken pane in the window -of Sally Timms, who was so much trouble to Miss Arden with her untidy -ways. Old Simon had nothing but wallflower and southernwood (which was -called lad’s love in that region), and red and white daisies in his -garden. But next door, if you came at the proper season, you might see -picottees that were exhibited at the Holmfirth flower show, and floury -auriculas, such as were the height of the fashion in the floral world a -good many years ago. In short there was just that mixture of perfection -and imperfection which kept the village of Arden a natural spontaneous -village, instead of an artificial piece of luxury, cultivated like any -other ornament, in consequence of the very close vicinity of the Hall -gates.</p> - -<p>“The young Squire!” said old Sarah again, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> had been shaking her head -all the time we have taken to interpolate this bit of description; and -she did it still more emphatically now when she repeated her words, -“Poor lad—poor lad! Eh, to think the joy bells should be rung in Arden -Church along o’ <i>him</i>! He never came home yet that I hadn’t a good cry -for’t afore the day was done. Poor lad!”</p> - -<p>“Thee needn’t cry no more,” said Simon, “along of him. He’s come to his -own, and ne’er one within twenty miles to say him nay. He came home last -night, when folks were a’ abed; but he’s as bright as a May morning to -look at him now.”</p> - -<p>“He was allays bright,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes with her apron, an -action which disturbed the whole picture, breaking up the lights, “when -he was kepp like the lowest in the house, and ’ad the nose snapped off -his face, he’d cry one minute and laugh the next, that’s what he’d do. -He never was long down, wasn’t Mr. Edgar. Though where he got that, and -his light hair, and them dancing eyes of his, it’s none o’ us that can -say.”</p> - -<p>“It was off his mother he got ’em, as was natural,” said the old clerk. -“I saw her when old Master he brought her home first, and she was as -fair as fair. But, Squire or no Squire, I’m going to my breakfast. Them -bell-ringing boys they’re at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> the Arden Arms already, drinking the -Squire’s sovereign, the fools, instead of laying it up for a rainy day. -If they had the rheumatiz as bad as me they’d know what it was to have a -penny laid by; but I don’t know what young folks is coming to, I don’t,” -said Simon, opening his own gate, and hobbling towards the open door. He -had a large white handkerchief loosely tied about his shrivelled brown -throat, and an old black coat, which had been an evening coat of the old -Squire’s in former days. Simon preferred swallowtail coats, chiefly -because he thought they were more dignified, and became his position; -but partly also because experience had taught him that coats which were -only worn in the evening by their original proprietor had a great deal -more wear in them than those which the Squire or the Rector walked about -in all day.</p> - -<p>Sarah went in also to her own cottage, where for the moment she was all -alone. She spread down her white apron, and smoothed out the creases -which she had made when she dried her eyes; but, notwithstanding, her -eyes required to be dried again. “Poor lad,” she said at intervals, as -she “tidied” her already tidy room, and swept some imperceptible dust -into the fireplace. The fire was made up. The cat sat winking by it. The -kettle feebly murmured on the hob. It was not the moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> for that -kettle to put itself in evidence. It had made the breakfast, and had -helped in the washing of the solitary cup and saucer, and it was only -just now that it should retire into the background till the afternoon, -when tea was again to be thought of. Its mistress was somewhat in the -same condition. She walked round the room two or three times, trying -apparently to find some piece of active work which required to be done, -and poked into all the corners. “I done my scouring only yesterday,” she -said to herself in a regretful and plaintive tone; but, after a little -interval, added energetically, “and I cannot settle down to plain -sewing, not to-day.” She said this as if somebody had commanded her to -take to her plain sewing, which lay all ready in a basket on the table, -and the command had roused her to sudden irritation. But it was only the -voice of duty which gave that order. Even after this indignant protest, -however, Sarah took her work, and put in three stitches, and then picked -them carefully out again. “I think I’m a losing of my seven senses,” she -said to herself plaintively. “It aint no use a struggling.” And with -that the old woman rose, tied on her big old bonnet, and set out through -Arden village in the sunshine on her way to Arden Hall.</p> - -<p>To see that pretty rural place, you would never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> have supposed it was -within a dozen miles of the great, vulgar, bustling town of -Liverpool—nay, within half a dozen miles of the straggling, dreary -outskirts of that big beehive. But yet so it was; from the tower of -Arden Church you could see the mouth of the Mersey, with all its crowds -of ships; and, but for the haughty determination of the old Squire to -grant no building leases on his land, and the absence of railway -communication consequent thereupon, no doubt Arden would have been by -this time full of villas, and would have sent a stream of commercial -gentlemen every morning out of its quiet freshness by dint of a ten -o’clock train. But there was no ten o’clock train, and no commercial -gentlemen, and no bright shining new villas; but only the row of houses, -half whitewash half red brick, with lilac bushes all in flower, and -traveller’s joy bristling over their porches, and all the little gardens -shining in the sun. The Church was early English; the parsonage was red -brick of Queen Anne’s time. And there was a great house flush with the -road, disdaining any petty interposition of garden between it and the -highway, with white steps and a brass knocker, and rows upon rows of -brilliant dazzling windows, which was the doctor’s house. The parson and -the doctor were the only gentlemen in Arden village; there was nobody -else above the rank of an ordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> cottager. There was a little shop -where everything was sold; and there was the post office, where -stationery was to be had as well as postage stamps; and the Arden Arms, -with a little green before it, and a great square sign-post standing out -in the midst. A little way beyond the Church, which stood on the other -side of the road, opposite but higher up than the Arden Arms, were the -great Hall gates. They had a liberal hospitable breadth about them which -was suggestive somehow of guests and good cheer. Two carriages could -pass, the village folks said, with natural pride, through those wide -portals, and the breadth of the great splendid old avenue, with its elms -and limes, was in proportion. There were two footpaths leading on either -side of the avenue, like side aisles in a great cathedral, under the -green-arched splendour of meeting trees; and so princely were the -Ardens, with all their prejudices, that not only their poor neighbours, -but even Liverpool folks pic-nicing, had leave to roam about the park, -and take their walks even in the side aisles of the avenue. The Squire, -like a great monarch, was affable to the populace—so long as it allowed -that it was the populace, and kept in its right place.</p> - -<p>Up one of these side walks old Sarah trudged, with her white apron -disturbing all the lights, and with many homely musings in her old head, -which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> had scarcely a right to the dignified title of thoughts. She was -thinking to herself—“Eh, my word, but here’s changes! Master o’ all, -him that was never made no more of nor a stranger in his own father’s -house; nor half so much as a stranger. Them as come on visits would get -the best o’ all, ponies to ride, and servants to wait upon ’em, and -whatever they had a mind for:—and Mr. Edgar put into that bit of a room -by the nursery, and never a horse, nor a penny in his pocket. I’d just -like to know how it was. Eh, my word, what a queer feel it must have! -You mind me, he’ll think he hears oud Squire ahind him many and many a -day. And an only son! And I never heard a word against Madam, and Miss -Clare always the queen of all. Bless him! none on us could help that; -but I was allays one as stood up for Mr. Edgar. And now he’s master o’ -all! I wonder is she glad, the dear? Here’s folks a coming, a man and a -maid; and I canno’ see who they are with my bad eyes. Eb, but I could -once see as good as the best. I mind that time I was in Cheshire, afore -I came home here—Lord bless us, it’s Miss Clare and the young Squire!”</p> - -<p>The young pair were coming down under the trees on the same path, and -Sarah stopped short in her thinkings with a flutter, as if they must -have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> divined the subject of them:—Two young people all in black, not -lighting up the landscape as they might have done had their dress been -as bright as their faces. The first thing that struck the observer was -that they were utterly unlike; they had not even the same little family -tricks of gait or gesture, such as might have made it apparent that they -were brother and sister. The young lady was tall and slight, with a -great deal of soft dignity and grace; dignity which might, however, grow -imperious on occasion. Her face was beautiful, and regular, and full of -sweetness; but those fine lines could set and harden, and the light -young figure could erect itself, if need were, into all the severity of -a youthful Juno. Her hair was very dark, and her eyes blue—a kind of -beauty which is often of the highest class as beauty, but often, also, -indicates a character which should attract as much fear as love. She was -soft now as the opening day, leaning on her brother’s arm with a certain -clinging gesture which was not natural to her, lavishing upon him her -smiles and pretty looks of affection. Old Sarah, looking on, divined her -meaning in a moment. “Bless her!” the old woman said to herself, with a -tear in the corner of her eye, which she dared not lift the apron to -dry. Hard injustice and wrong had been Edgar’s part all his life. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> -sister was making it up to him, pouring upon him all the sunshine she -could collect into her moist eyes, to make him amends for having thus -lived so long in the dark.</p> - -<p>Clare Arden might have stepped out of one of the picture frames in the -hall, so entirely was her beauty the beauty of her family; but her -brother was as different as it is possible to imagine. He was scarcely -taller than she was, not more than an inch or two, instead of towering -over her as her father had done. He had light brown, curly, abundant -hair, frizzing all over his well-shaped, well-poised head; and brown -eyes, which sparkled, and danced, and laughed, and spoke, and defied you -not to like them. They had laughed and danced in his worst days, -irrepressibly, and now, notwithstanding the black band on his hat, they -sent rays about like dancing fauns, all life, and fire, and active -energy. He looked like one whom nobody could wrong, who would disarm the -sourest critic. A stranger would have instantly taken it for granted -that he was the favourite child of the house, the one whose gay vagaries -were always pardoned, and whose saucy ways no father or mother could -well withstand. How such a being could have got into the serious -old-world house of Arden nobody could make out. It was supposed that he -was like his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> mother; but she had been in delicate health, poor lady, -and had lived very little at Arden Hall. The village folks did not -trouble their head with theories as to the cause of the old Squire’s -dislike to his only son, but the parson and the doctor had each a very -decided opinion on the subject, which the reader shall learn further on, -and make his own conclusions from. For, in the meantime, I cannot go on -describing Edgar Arden. It is his business to do that for himself.</p> - -<p>“Who is coming?” he said. “Somebody whose face I know; a nice old woman -with a great white apron. But we must go on to see the village, and all -your improvements there.”</p> - -<p>“There are no improvements,” said his sister. “Oh, Edgar, I do hope you -hate that sort of thing as I do. Let us keep it as it was. Our own -people are so pleasant, and will do what we want them. The only thing I -was afraid of you for was lest you should turn radical, like the rest of -the young men. But then you have not been in the way of it—like the -Oxford men, you know.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about the Oxford men,” said Edgar, “but I am not so sure I -haven’t been in the way of it.” He had the least little touch of a -foreign accent, which was very quaint from those most Saxon lips. He was -just the kind of young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> man whom, anywhere abroad, the traveller would -distinguish as an undeniable Briton; and yet his English had a touch of -something alien in it—a flavour which was not British. He laughed as he -spoke, and the sound startled all the solemn elms of Arden. The Ardens -did not laugh much; they smiled very sweetly, and they liked to know -that their smile was a distinction; but Edgar was not like the Ardens.</p> - -<p>“How you laugh,” said Clare, clinging a little closer to his arm, “It is -very odd, but somehow I like it. Don’t you know, Edgar, the Ardens were -never people to laugh? We smile.”</p> - -<p>“So you do,” said Edgar, “and I would rather have your smile than ever -so much laughing. But then you know I am not half an Arden. I never had -a chance. Here is our old woman close at hand with her white apron. Why, -it is old Sarah! You kind old soul, how are you? How does it go?” And he -took both her hands into his and shook them till old Sarah lost her -breath. Then a twinkle like a tear came in to Edgar’s laughing eye. “You -gave me half-a-crown when I left Arden last,” he said, still holding her -hands, and then in his foreign way he kissed her first on one brown -cheek and then on the other. “Oh, Master Edgar!” cried old Sarah, out of -breath; while Clare looked on very sedately, not quite knowing what to -say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">It</span> was kind of you to come and see my brother,” said Clare at length, -with something of that high and lofty sweetness which half implies—“it -was kind, but it was a piece of presumption.” She meant no harm to her -old nurse, whom she was fond of in her heart, and who was besides a -privileged person, free to be fond of the Ardens; but Edgar had been -badly used all his life, and his sister was more proud on his behalf -than if he had been the worshipped heir, always foremost. She drew -herself up just a little, not knowing what to make of it. In one way it -was right, and she approved; for even a king may be tender to his -favoured dependents without derogation—but yet, certainly it was not -the Arden way.</p> - -<p>“Miss Clare, you don’t think that, and you oughtn’t for to say it,” said -old Sarah, with some natural heat; “but I’ve been about the house ever -since you were born: and staying still to-day in my little place with my -plain-sewing was more nor I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> could do. If there had been e’er a little -maid to look to—but I ain’t got none in hands now.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Sarah,” said Clare promptly; “and Mrs. Fillpot has -something to say to you about that. If you will go up to the house and -speak to her, now that you have seen Edgar, it will be very nice of you. -We are going down to the village to see some of his old friends.”</p> - -<p>“The young master don’t know the village, Miss Clare, as he ought to -have done,” said old Sarah, shaking her head. She had said such words -often before, but never with the same result as now; for Clare was -divided between allegiance to the father whom she loved, who was dead, -and whom she could not now admit to have ever done any wrong—and the -brother whom she loved, who was there by her side, and of whose injuries -she was so keenly sensible. The blood rushed to her cheek—her fine blue -eyes grew like steel—the lines of her beautiful face hardened. Poor old -Sarah shrank back instinctively, almost as if she expected a blow. -Clare’s lips were formed to speak when her brother interrupted her, and -probably the words would not have been pleasant which she was about to -say.</p> - -<p>“The more reason I should know it now,” he said in his lighthearted way. -“If it had not been so early, Sarah, you should have come back and made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> -me some tea. What capital tea she used to make for you in the nursery, -Clare, you lucky girl! It is Miss Arden’s village I am going to see, -Sarah. It shall always be hers to do what she likes with it. You can -tell the people nothing is changed there.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, I think we should go,” said Clare, restraining him with once -more that soft shade of possible haughtiness. “Stay till we come back, -Sarah;” and with a little movement of her hand in sign of farewell, she -led her brother away. “You must not tell your plans to that sort of -person,” she said with a quick breath, in which her momentary passion -found relief.</p> - -<p>“What! not your old nurse, Clare?” he cried. “You must not snub the old -woman so. We had better make a bargain in time, we who are so different. -You shall snub me when you please for my democratic ways, but you must -not snub the others, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“What others?”</p> - -<p>Edgar made no direct answer. He laughed and drew his sister’s arm close -within his own. “You are such a pretty picture with those great-lady -looks of yours,” he said; “they make me think of ruffs and hoops, and -dresses all covered with pearls. What is a farthingale? I am sure that -is what you ought to wear.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span></p> - -<p>“You mean it is out of fashion to remember that one is well born, and of -an old family,” said Clare with energy, “but you will never bring me to -see that. One has enough to do to keep one’s proper place with all those -encroachments that are going on, without one’s own brother to take their -part. But oh! forgive me, Edgar; I forgot: I will never say another -word,” she said, with the tears rushing to her eyes.</p> - -<p>“What did you forget?” he said gently—“that I have been brought up as -never any Arden was before me, and am not an Arden at all, so to speak? -Perhaps on the whole it is better, for Arden ways are not the ways of -our time. They are very splendid and very imposing, and, in you, dear, I -don’t object to them, but——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Edgar, don’t speak so!” said his sister, with a certain horror.</p> - -<p>“But I must speak so, and think so, too,” he said. “Could not you try to -imagine, Clare, among all the many theories on the subject, that this -was what was meant by my banishment? It is as good a way of accounting -for it as another. Imagine, for instance, that Arden ways were found to -be a little behind the generation, and that, hard as it was, and, -perhaps, cruel as it was——”</p> - -<p>“Edgar—— I don’t say it is not true; but oh, don’t say so, for I can’t -bear it!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span></p> - -<p>“I shall say nothing you can’t bear,” he said softly, “my kind sister! -you always did your best for me. I hope I should not have behaved badly -anyhow; but you can’t tell what a comfort it is that you always stood by -me, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“I always loved you, Edgar,” she cried, eagerly; “and then I used to -wonder if it was my fault—if I got all the love because I was like the -family, and a girl—taking it from you. I wish we had been a little bit -like, do you know—just a little, so that people should say—‘Look at -that brother and sister.’ Sometimes one sees a boy and a girl so -like—just a beard to one and long hair to the other, to make the -necessary difference; and then one sees they belong to each other at the -first glance.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said Edgar with a smile, “so long as we resemble each -other in our hearts.”</p> - -<p>“But not in our minds,” said Clare, sorrowfully. “I can see how it will -be. You will always be thinking one thing when I am thinking another. -Whatever there may be to consider, you and I will always take different -views of it. You are for the present, and I am for the past. I know only -our own Arden ways, and you know the ways of the world. It is so hard, -Edgar; but, dear, I don’t for a moment say it is your fault,” she said, -holding his arm clasped between her hands, and looking up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> with her blue -eyes at their softest, into his face. He looked down upon her at the -same time with a curious, tender, amused smile. Clare, who knew only -Arden ways, was so sure they must be right ways, so certain that there -was a fault somewhere in those who did not understand them—but not -Edgar’s fault, poor fellow! He had been brought up away from home, and -was to be pitied, not blamed. And this was why her brother looked down -upon her with that curious amused smile.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “it was not my fault; but I think you should take my -theory on the subject into consideration, Clare. Suppose I had been sent -off on purpose to inaugurate a new world?”</p> - -<p>Clare gave a little shudder, but she did not speak. She was troubled -even that he could joke on such a matter, or suggest theories, as if it -had been a mere crotchet on the part of her father, who was incapable of -anything of the kind; but she could not make a direct reply, for, by -tacit mutual consent, neither of them named the old Squire.</p> - -<p>“Let us think so at least,” he answered gaily, “for the harm is done, I -fear; and it would not be so bad to be a deserter from Arden ways, if -one had been educated for that purpose, don’t you think? So here we are -at the village! Don’t tell me anything. I remember every bit of it as -well as if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> had been here yesterday. Where is the old -lathe-and-plaster house that used to stand here?”</p> - -<p>“To think you should recollect it!” said Clare, her eyes suddenly -lighting up; and then in an apologetic tone—“It was so old. I allow it -was very picturesque and charming to look at; but oh, Edgar, you would -not blame me if you knew how dreadfully tumble-down and miserable it was -inside. The rain kept coming in, and when the brook was flooded in -winter it came right into the kitchen; and the children kept having -fevers. I felt very much disposed to cry over it, I can tell you; but -you would not have blamed me had you seen how shocking it was inside.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if Mistress Arden, in a ruff and a farthingale, would have -thought about the drainage,” he answered, laughing. “Fancy my blaming -you, Clare! I tell you it is your village, and you shall do what you -like with it. Is that Mr. Fielding at his gate? Let us cross over and -shake hands with him before we go any further. He is not so old, surely, -as he once was.”</p> - -<p>“It is we who are old,” said Clare, with the first laugh that had yet -come from her lips. “He is putting on his gloves to go and call on you, -Edgar. The bell-ringers must have made it known everywhere. Mr. Fielding -and Dr. Somers will come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> to-day, and the Thornleighs and Evertons -to-morrow, and after that everybody; now see if it does not happen just -as I say!”</p> - -<p>“Let us stop the first of these visits,” said Edgar, and he went forward -holding out his hand, while the parson at the gate, buttoning his grey -gloves, peered at him through a pair of short-sighted eyes. “It will be -very kind of you to name yourself, Sir, for I am very short-sighted,” -the Rector said, looking at him with that semi-suspicion which is -natural to a rustic of the highest as well as the lowest social -position. The newcomer was a stranger, and therefore had little right -and no assignable place in the village world. Mr. Fielding, who was -short-sighted besides, peered at him very doubtfully from the puckered -corners of his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you know me?” said Edgar; and “Oh, Mr. Fielding, don’t you know -Edgar?” came with still greater earnestness from the lips of Clare.</p> - -<p>“It is not possible!” said Mr. Fielding, very decidedly; and then he let -his slim umbrella drop out of his fingers, and held out both his hands. -“Is it really you, my dear boy!” he said. “Excuse my blind eyes. If you -had been my own son I would not have known you. I was on my way to call. -But though this is not so solemn or so correct it will do as well. And -Clare: Will you come in and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> have some breakfast? It cannot be much past -your breakfast hour.”</p> - -<p>“Nor yours either,” said Clare; “it is so naughty of you and so wrong of -you to sit up like that, when you might just as well read in daylight, -and go to bed when everybody else does. But we don’t follow such a bad -example. We mean to have breakfast always by eight o’clock.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Fielding gave a little sigh, and shook his venerable head. “That is -all very pretty, my dear, and very nice when you can do it; but you know -it never lasts. Anyhow, don’t let us stand here. Come in, my dear boy, -come in, and welcome home again. And welcome to your own, Edgar,” he -added, turning quickly round as he led them into his study, a large low -room, looking out upon the trim parsonage garden. He put out both his -hands as he said this, and grasped both those of Edgar, and looked not -at all disinclined to throw himself upon his neck. “Welcome to your -own,” he repeated fervently, and his eyes strayed beyond Edgar’s head, -as if he were confronting and defying some one. And then he added more -solemnly, “And God bless you, and enable you to fill your high position -like a man. Amen. I wonder what the old Doctor will say now.”</p> - -<p>“What should he say?” said Edgar, fun dancing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> in his bright brown eyes; -“and how is he? I suppose he is unchangeable, like everything here.”</p> - -<p>“Not unchangeable,” said Mr. Fielding, with a slight half-perceptible -shake of his head at the levity, one of those momentary assumptions of -the professional which most old clergymen indulge in now and then; -“nothing is unchangeable in this transitory world. But old Somers is as -steady as most things,” he added, with a responsive glance of amusement. -“We go on quarrelling, he and I, but it would be hard upon us if we had -to part. But tell me about yourself, Edgar, which is more interesting. -When did you get home?”</p> - -<p>“Late last night,” said Edgar. “I came straight through from Cologne. I -began to get impatient as soon as I had settled which day I was to reach -home, and came before my time. Clare was in bed, poor child; but she got -up, fancy, when she heard it was me.”</p> - -<p>“Of course she did; and she wants a cup of chocolate now,” said the old -parson, “when her colour changes like that from red to white, you should -give her some globules instantly, or else a cup of chocolate. I am not a -homœopathist, so I always recommend the chocolate. Mrs. Solmes -please, Miss Clare is here.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I make two, sir?” said the housekeeper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> who had heard the -unusual commotion, and put her head in softly to see what was the -matter. She did not quite understand it, even now. But she was too -highly trained a woman, and too good a servant to take any notice. The -chocolate was her affair, while the identity of the new comer was not.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you know my brother, Mrs. Solmes?” cried Clare. “He has come -home. Edgar, she takes such good care of dear Mr. Fielding. I don’t know -how he managed without her before she came.”</p> - -<p>Edgar was not failing in his duty on the occasion. He stepped forward -and shook hands with the radiant and flattered woman, “as nat’ral as if -I had known him all his life,” she said in the kitchen afterwards; for -Mrs. Solmes was a stranger and foreigner, belonging to the next parish, -who could not but disapprove of Arden and Arden ways, which were -different from the habits of Thornleigh parish, to which she belonged. -Edgar made her quite a little speech as he stood and held her -hand—“Anybody who is good to Mr. Fielding is good to Clare and me. He -has always been so kind to us all our lives.”</p> - -<p>“He loves you like his own children, sir,” said Mrs. Solmes, quickly; -and then she turned and went away to make the chocolate, not wishing to -presume; while her master walked about the room, rubbing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> his hands -softly, and peering at the young man from amid the puckers of his -eyelids with pleased and approving satisfaction. “It is very nicely -said,” cried Mr. Fielding, “very nice feeling, and well expressed. After -that speech, I should have known him anywhere for an Arden, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“But the Ardens don’t make pretty speeches,” said Clare, under her -breath. She never could be suite sure of him. Everything he did had a -spontaneous look about it that puzzled his sister. To be in Arden, and -to know that a certain hereditary course of action is expected from you -is a great advantage, no doubt, yet it sometimes gives a certain -sobriety and stiffness to the external aspect. Edgar, on the contrary, -was provokingly easy, with all the spontaneousness of a man who said and -did exactly what he liked to do and to say. Clare’s loyalty to her race -could not have permitted any such freedom of action, and it puzzled her -at every turn.</p> - -<p>“We must send for old Somers,” said Mr. Fielding. “Poor old fellow, he -is very crotchety and fond of his own notions; but he’s a very good -fellow. We are the two oldest friends you have in the world, you young -people; and if we might not get a little satisfaction out of you I don’t -know who should. Mrs. Solmes,” this was called from the study door in a -louder voice, “send Jack over with my compliments<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> to Dr. Somers, and -ask him to step this way for a minute. No, Edgar, don’t go; I want to -surprise him here.”</p> - -<p>“But no one says anything about Miss Somers,” said Edgar; “how is she?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, poor thing,” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head, “she is confined -to bed now. She is growing old, poor soul. For that matter, we are all -growing old. And not a bad thing either,” he added, pausing and looking -round at the two young figures so radiant in life and hope. “You -children are sadly sorry for us—but fading away out of the world is -easier than you think.”</p> - -<p>Edgar grasped Mr. Fielding’s hand, not quite knowing why, with the -compunction of youth for the departing existence to which its own -beginning seems so harsh a contrast, and yet with a reverential sympathy -that closed his lips. Clare, on the contrary, looked at him with -something almost matter-of-fact in her blue eyes. “You are not so old,” -she said quietly. “We thought you looked quite young as we came to the -door. Please don’t be angry, but I used to think you were a hundred. You -have grown ever so much younger these last three years.”</p> - -<p>“I should be very proud if I were a hundred,” said Mr. Fielding, with a -laugh; but he liked the grasp of Edgar’s hand, and that sympathetic -glance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> in his eyes. Clare was Clare, the recognised and accustomed -princess, whom no one thought of criticising; but her brother was on his -trial. Every new look, every movement, spoke for or against him; and, so -far, everything was in his favour. “Of course, he is like his mother’s -family,” the old Rector said to himself, “more sympathetic than the pure -Ardens, but with all their fine character and best qualities. I wonder -what old Somers will think of him. And here he comes,” he continued -aloud, “the best doctor in the county, though he is as crotchety as an -old magician. Somers, here’s our young squire.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Dr. Somers</span> came in, with a pair of eagle eyes going before him, as it -seemed, like pioneers, to warn him of what was in his way. The Rector -peered and groped with the short-sighted feeble orbs which lurked amid a -nest of wrinkles, but the Doctor’s brilliant black eyes went on before -him and inspected everything. He was a tall, straight, slim, but -powerful old man, with nothing superfluous about him except his beard, -which in those days was certainly a superfluity. It was white, and so -was his hair; but his eyes were so much darker than any human eyes that -were ever seen, that to call them black was not in the least -inappropriate. He had been the handsomest man in the county in his -youth, and he was not less so now—perhaps more, with all the imposing -glory of his white hair, and the suavity of age that had softened the -lines in his face—lines which might have been a little hard in the -fulness of his strength. It was possible to think of the Rector as, -according to his own words,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> fading away out of the earth, but Dr. -Somers stood like a strong tower, which only a violent shock could move, -and which had strength to resist a thousand assaults. He came into the -sober-toned rectory, into that room which was always a little cold, -filled with a soft motionless atmosphere, a kind of abiding twilight, -which even Clare’s presence did not dispel—and filled it, as it seemed, -swallowing up not only the Rector, but the young brother and sister, in -the fulness of his presence. He was the light, and Mr. Fielding the -shadow in the picture; and, as ought always to be the case, the light -dominated the shadow. He had taken in every thing and everyone in the -room with a devouring glance in the momentary pause he made at the door, -and then entered, holding out his hand to the newcomer—“They meant to -mystify me, I suppose,” he said, “and thought I would not recognise you. -How are you, Edgar? You are looking just as I thought you would, just as -I knew you would. When did you come home?”</p> - -<p>“Last night, late,” said Edgar, returning cordially the pressure of his -hand.</p> - -<p>“And did not wait to be waited on, like a reigning monarch, but came to -see your old friends, like an impatient good-hearted boy? There’s a fine -fellow,” said the Doctor, patting him on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> shoulders with a caress -which was quite as forcible as it was affectionate. “I ought to like -you, Edgar Arden, for you have always justified my opinion of you, and -done exactly what I expected you would do, all your life.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is rash to say that I hope I shall always justify your -opinion,” said Edgar, laughing, “for I don’t know whether it is a good -one. But I don’t suppose I am very hard to read,” he added, with a warm -flush rising over his face. He grew red, and he stopped short with a -certain sense of embarrassment for which he could scarcely account. He -did not even try to account for it to himself, but flushed all over, and -felt excessively hot and uncomfortable. The fact was, he was a very -open-hearted, candid young fellow, much more tempted to wear his heart -upon his sleeve than to conceal it; and, as he glanced round upon his -three companions, he could see that there was a certain furtive look of -scrutiny about all their eyes: not furtive so far as the Doctor was -concerned, who looked through and through him without any concealment of -his intention. But Mr. Fielding had half-turned his head, while yet he -peered with a tremulous scrutiny at his young guest; and Clare’s pretty -forehead was contracted with a line of anxiety which Edgar knew well. -They were all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> doubtful about him—not sure of him—trying to make him -out. Such a thought was bitter to the young man. His colour rose higher -and higher, and his heart began to beat. “I do not think I am very -difficult to read,” he repeated, with a forced and painful smile.</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” said the Doctor; “and you are as welcome home as flowers in -May: the first time I have said that to you, my boy, but it won’t be the -last. Miss Clare, my sister would be pleased if you told her of Edgar’s -return. She will have to be prepared, and got up, and all sorts of -things, to see him; but, if you were to tell her, she would think it -kind. Ah, here’s the chocolate. Of course in this house everything must -give place to that.”</p> - -<p>“I will go over to Miss Somers for ten minutes,” said Clare, “thank you, -Doctor, for reminding me; and, dear Mr. Fielding, don’t let Edgar go -till I come back.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to go too,” said Edgar. “No? Well, I won’t then; but tell -Miss Somers I will come to-morrow, Clare. Tell her I have brought her -something from Constantinople; and have never forgotten how kind she -used to be—how kind you all were!” And the young man turned round upon -them—“It is a strange sensation coming back and feeling myself at home -among the faces I have known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> all my life. And thank you all for being -so good to Clare.”</p> - -<p>Clare was going out as he spoke, with a certain shade of reluctance and -even of pride. She had been told to go, and she did not like it; it had -been implied that she had forgotten a duty of neighbourship, and to Miss -Somers, too, who could not move about, and ascertain things for herself; -and Clare did not like to be reminded of her duties. She turned round, -however, at the door, and looked back, and smiled her acknowledgment of -what her brother said. These two old men had been very kind to her. They -had done everything that the most attached old friends could do at the -time of her father’s death. That was a whole year ago; for old Squire -Arden had made a stipulation that his son was not to come back, nor -enter upon the possession of his right, till he was five-and-twenty—a -stipulation which, of course, counted for nothing in the eye of the law, -but was binding on Edgar, much as he longed to be at his sister’s side. -Thus, his father oppressed him down to the very edge of his grave. And -poor Clare would have been very forlorn in the great house but for her -old friends. Miss Somers, who was not then so great an invalid, had gone -to the Hall, to be with the girl during that time of seclusion, and she -had been as a child to all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> of them. A compunction smote Clare as she -turned and looked round from the door, and she kissed her hand to them -with a pretty gesture. But still it was with rather an ill grace that -she went to Miss Somers, which was not her own impulse. Compulsion -fretted the Arden soul.</p> - -<p>“I brought Clare into the world, and Fielding has been her head nurse -all his life,” said the Doctor, “no need for thanking us on that score. -And now all’s yours, Edgar. I may say, and I’m sure Fielding will say, -how thankful we both are to see you. You could not have been altogether -disinherited, as the property’s entailed; but I never was easy in my -mind about it during your father’s lifetime. The old Squire was a very -peculiar man; and there was no telling——”</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” said the young man, once more with a flush on his cheek, -“would you mind leaving out my father’s name in anything that has to be -said?—unless, indeed, he left any message for me. He liked Clare best, -which was not wonderful, and he thought me a poor representative of the -Ardens, which was natural enough. I have not a word to say against him. -On the whole, perhaps, I have got as much good of my life as if I had -been brought up in England. I have never been allowed to forget hitherto -that my father did not care for me—let me forget it now.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span></p> - -<p>“Exactly,” said the Doctor, looking at him with a certain curious -complacency; and he gave a nod at Mr. Fielding, who stood winking to get -rid of a tear which was in the corner of his eye. “Exactly what I said! -Now, can you deny it? By Jove! I wish he had been my son! It is what I -knew he would say.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, my dear boy,” said the Rector, “every word does you credit, and -this more than all. Your poor father was mistaken. I say your poor -father, for he evidently had something on his mind just before he died, -and would have spoken if time had been allowed him. I have no doubt it -was to say how sorry he was. But the Ardens are dreadfully obstinate, -Edgar, and he never could bring himself to do it. It is just like you to -say this. Clare will appreciate it, and I most fully appreciate it. It -is the best way; let us not dwell upon the past, let us not even try to -explain. Your being like your mother’s family can never be anything -against you—far from it. I agree in every word you say.”</p> - -<p>This speech, flattering and satisfactory as it was, took the young man a -little by surprise. “I don’t know what being like my mother’s family has -to do with it,” he said, with momentary petulance; but then his brighter -spirits gained the mastery. “It is best never to explain anything,” he -continued,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> with a smile. “There is Clare calling me. I suppose I am to -go to Miss Somers, notwithstanding your defence, Doctor.” And he waved -his hand to Clare from the window, and went out, leaving the two old men -behind him, following him with their eyes. He was glad to get away, if -truth must be told; they were fighting some sort of undisclosed duel -over his body, Edgar could see, and he did not like it. He went across -the village street, which was very quiet at that end, to the Doctor’s -great red brick house, and as he did so his face clouded over a little. -“They have got some theory about me,” he said to himself; “am I never to -be rid of it? And what right has any one to discuss me and my affairs -now?” Then the shade gradually disappeared from his face, and in spite -of himself there glided across his mind a sudden comparison between the -last time he had been at Arden and the present. Then he had a boy’s keen -sense of injustice and unkindness eating into him. It had not cut so -deeply as it might have done if his temperament had been gloomy; but -still it had galled him. He had felt himself contemned, disliked, thrust -aside—his presence half clandestine—his wishes made of no account—his -whole being thrust into a corner—a thing to hide, or at least to -apologise for. Now, he was the master of all. The bells had rung for -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> home-coming; everything was changed. The thought made his head swim -as he walked along in the serene stillness, with the swallows making -circles about, and the bees murmuring round the blossomed trees. He had -been living an uncertain wandering life, not always well supplied with -money, not trained to do anything, an innocent vagabond. Now there was -not a corner of his life upon which some one interest or another did not -lay a claim. He had the gravest occupations on his hands. He might make -for himself a position of high influence and importance in his county; -and could scarcely be insignificant if he tried. And all this had come -to him without any training for it. His very habits of mind were not -English; even in the midst of these serious thoughts the village green, -which was at his left hand, beyond the Church and the Rectory, caught -his eye, and a momentary speculation came across him, whether the -village people danced there on Sundays? whether the fairs were held -there, or the tombola, or something to represent them? and then he -stopped and laughed at himself. What would Mr. Fielding say? Thus Edgar -had come to be Squire Arden without even the habit of being an -Englishman. The sense of injustice which had weighed upon him all his -life might have embittered his beginning now, had his mind been less -elastic.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> But nature had been so good to him that he was able to toss -these dreary thoughts aside, as he would have tossed a ball, before he -went in to see Miss Somers. “Things will come right somehow,” he said to -himself. Such was his light-hearted philosophy; while Clare stood grave -and silent at the door to meet him, with a seriousness which would have -been more in accordance with his difficulties than with hers. What -troubled her was the question—Would he be a radical, and introduce -innovations, ignore the mightiness of his family, conduct himself as if -his name were anything else than Arden? This sufficed to plant the -intensest seriousness, with almost a cast of severity in it, upon the -brow of Clare.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I tell you exactly how it would happen?” said the Doctor, when -Edgar was gone; “no sentiment to speak of—utter absence of revengeful -feelings: settling down as if it was the most natural thing in the -world—bygones to be bygones, and a fair start for the future. Didn’t I -tell you? That boy is worth his weight in gold.”</p> - -<p>“You certainly told me,” said Mr. Fielding, faltering, “something very -like what has come to pass; but I don’t receive your theory, for all -that. No, no; depend upon it, the simplest explanation is always the -best. One can see at a glance he is like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> his mother’s family. Poor -thing! I don’t think she was too happy; and that must have intensified -old Arden’s remorse.”</p> - -<p>“Old Arden’s fiddlestick!” said the Doctor. “I wouldn’t give <i>that</i> for -his remorse. He had his reasons you may be sure. Character has been my -favourite study all my life, as you know; and if that frank, -open-hearted, well-dispositioned boy ever came out of an Arden’s nest, I -expect to hear of a dove in an eagle’s. He has justified every word I -ever said of him. I declare to you, Fielding, I am as fond of him as if -he were my own boy.”</p> - -<p>“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head, as if that was not -so great a compensation as might have been desired. “He will get into -dozens of scrapes with these strange ways of thinking; and he knows -nothing and nobody—not a soul in the county—and probably will be -running his head against some stone wall or other before he is much -older. If I had been twenty years younger I might have tried to be of -use to him, but as it is——”</p> - -<p>“As it is we shall both be of use to him,” said the Doctor, “never fear. -Of course, he will get into a hundred scrapes; but then he will struggle -out again, and no harm will come of it. If he had been like the Ardens -he might have escaped the scrapes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> but he would have missed a great -deal besides. I like a young man to pay his way.”</p> - -<p>“It appears to me, Somers, that you are a radical yourself,” said the -Rector, shaking once more his feeble old head.</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, the only real Tory going. The last of my race,—the -Conservative innovator,” said Dr. Somers. “These old races, my dear -Fielding, are beautiful things to look at. Clare, for instance, who is -the concentrated essence of Ardenism—and how charming she is! But that -order of things must come to an end. Another Squire Arden would have -been next to impossible: whereas this new-blooded sanguine boy will make -a new beginning. I don’t want to shock your feelings as a clergyman: but -the cuckoo’s egg sometimes comes to good.”</p> - -<p>“Somers,” said the Rector, solemnly, “I have told you often that I knew -Mrs. Arden well. She was a good woman; as unlikely to go wrong as any -woman I ever knew. You do her horrible injustice by such a supposition. -Besides, think: he was always with her wherever she went—there could -not have been a more devoted husband; and to imagine that all the while -he had such a frightful wrong on his mind—it is simply impossible! -besides, she was the mother of Clare.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span></p> - -<p>“That covers a multitude of sins, of course,” said the Doctor, “but you -forget that I know all your arguments by heart. I don’t pretend to -explain everything. It is best never to explain, as that boy says—wise -fellow! Half the harm done in the world comes of explanations. But to -return to our subject. I never said he found it out at once; -perhaps—most likely—it was not discovered in her lifetime. Her papers -might inform him after her death. It is curious that when there is -anything to conceal, people do always leave papers telling all about it. -If you will give me any other feasible explanation I don’t stand upon my -theory. Like his mother’s family—bah! Is that reason enough for a man -to shut his heart against his only boy? Besides, he is not like any one -I know. I wish I could light upon any man he was like. It might furnish -a clue——”</p> - -<p>“When you are on your hobby, Somers, there is no stopping you,” said the -Rector, with a look of distress.</p> - -<p>“I am not alone in my equestrian powers,” retorted the Doctor, “you do -quite as much in that line as I do; but my theory has the advantage of -being credible, at least.”</p> - -<p>“Not credible,” said Mr. Fielding, with gentle vehemence. “No, certainly -not credible. Nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> would make it credible—not even to have heard -with your ears, and seen with your eyes.”</p> - -<p>“I never argue with prejudiced persons,” answered the Doctor, with equal -haste and heat; and thus they parted, with every appearance of a -quarrel. Such things happened almost daily between the two old friends. -Dr. Somers took up his hat, gave a vague nod of leave-taking, and issued -forth from the rectory gate as if he shook the dust from his feet; but -all the same he would drop in at the rectory that evening, stalking -carelessly through an open window as if, Mrs. Solmes said, who was not -fond of the Doctor, the place belonged to him. He went across the street -with more than his usual energy. His phaeton stood at his own door, with -two fine horses, and the smartest of grooms standing at their heads. Dr. -Somers was noted for his horses and the perfection of his turn-out -generally, which was a relic of the days when he was the pride of the -neighbourhood, and, people said, might have married into the highest -family in the county had he so willed. He was still the handsomest man -in the parish, though he was no longer young; and he was rich enough to -indulge himself in all that luxury of personal surroundings which is -dear to an old beauty. Edgar, who was standing at one of the twinkling -windows, watched the Doctor get into his carriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> with a mixture of -admiration and relief. On the whole, the young man was glad not to have -another interview with his old friend; but his white hair and his black -eyes, his splendid old figure and beautiful horses, were a sight to -see.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p>“I am not quite in a state to receive a gentleman,” Miss Somers was -saying when Edgar went in, with a little flutter of timidity and -eagerness. “But it is so kind of you to let me know, and so sweet of -dear Edgar to want to come. I told my brother only last night I was -quite sure—— But then he always has his own way of thinking. And you -know why should dear Edgar care for a poor creature like me? I quite -recognise that, my dear. There might be a time in my young days when -some people cared—— but as my brother says—— And just come from the -Continent, you know!”</p> - -<p>“May I come in?” said Edgar, tapping against the folding screen which -sheltered the head of the sofa on which the invalid lay.</p> - -<p>“Oh, goodness me! Clare, my love, the dear boy is there! Yes, come in, -Edgar, if you don’t mind—— But I ought to call you Mr. Arden now. I -never shall be able to call you Mr. Arden. Oh, goodness, boy! Well, -there can’t be any harm in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> his kissing me; do you think there can be -any harm in it, Clare? I am old enough to be both your mothers, and I am -sure I think I love you quite as well. Of course, I should never speak -of loving a gentleman if it was not for my age and lying here so -helpless. Yes, I do feel as if I should cry sometimes to think how I -used to run about once. But so long as it is only me, you know, and -nobody else suffers—— And you are both looking so well! But tell me -now how shall you put up with Arden after the Continent and all that? I -never was on the Continent but once, and then it was nothing but a -series of fétes, as they called them. I was saying to my brother only -last night——; for you know you never would visit the Pimpernels, -Clare——”</p> - -<p>“Who are the Pimpernels? and what have they to do with it?” said Edgar. -“But tell me about yourself first, and how you come to be on a sofa. I -never remember to have seen you sitting still before all my life.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” said Miss Somers, her soft pretty old face growing -suddenly grey and solemn, “that is what makes old Mercy think, it’s a -judgment; but you wouldn’t say it was wicked to be always running about, -would you now? It’s wrong to follow one’s own inclinations, to be sure, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span>but so long as you don’t harm anybody—— There are the Pimpernel -girls, who play croquet, from morning till night—not that I mean it’s -wicked to play croquet—but poor Mr. Denbigh gets just a little led away -I fear sometimes; and if ever there was a game intended for the waste of -young people’s time——”</p> - -<p>“Never mind the Pimpernels,” said Clare, with a slightly imperative note -in her voice. “It is Edgar who is here beside you now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—dear fellow; but do you know I think my mind is weakened as -well as my body? Do I run on different from what I used, Edgar? I was -talking to my brother the other night—and he busy with his paper—and -‘how you run on!’ was all he said when I asked him—— You know he might -have given me a civil answer. I fear there is no doubt I am weakened, my -dear. I was speaking to young Mr. Denbigh yesterday, and he says he said -to the Doctor that if he were him he would take me to some baths or -other, which did him a great deal of good, he says; but I could not take -him away, you know, nor give anybody so much trouble. He is such a nice -young man, Edgar. I should like you to know him. But, then, to think -when I ask just a quiet question, ‘how you do run on!’ he said. Not that -I am complaining of him, dear——”</p> - -<p>“Of young Mr. Denbigh?” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“Now, Clare, my love—the idea! How could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> I complain of young Mr. -Denbigh, who is always the civillest and nicest—— Of course, I mean my -brother. He says these German baths are very good; but I would not -mention it to him for worlds, for I am sure he would be unhappy if he -had to leave home only with me.”</p> - -<p>Edgar and Clare looked at each other as Miss Somers, to use her own -expression, ran on. Clare was annoyed and impatient, as young people so -often are of the little follies of their seniors; but Edgar’s brown eyes -shone with fun, just modified by a soft affectionate sympathy. “Dear -Miss Somers,” he said, half in joke half in earnest, “don’t trouble -yourself about your mind. You talk just as you always did. If I had -heard you outside without knowing you were here, I should have -recognised you at once. Don’t worry yourself about your mind.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think not, Edgar?—do you really think not? Now that is what I -call a real comfort,” said Miss Somers; “for you are not like the people -that are always with me; you would see in a moment if I was really -weakened. Well, you know, I could not make up my mind to take him -away—could I? For after all it does not matter so much about me. If I -were young it would be different. Dear Edgar, no one has been civil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> -enough to ask you to sit down. Bring a chair for yourself here beside -me. Do you know, Clare, I don’t think, if you put it to me in a -confidential way, that he has grown. He is not so tall as the rest of -you Ardens. I was saying to my brother just the other day—I don’t care -for your dreadfully tall people; for you have always to stoop coming -into a room, and look as if you were afraid the sky was falling. And oh, -my dears, what a long time it is since we have had any rain!”</p> - -<p>“Any rain?” said Edgar, who was a little taken by surprise.</p> - -<p>“What the farmers will do I can’t think, for you can’t water the fields -like a few pots of geraniums. That last cutting you sent me, Clare, has -got on so well. Do you mean to keep up all the gardens and everything as -it used to be, Edgar? You must make her go to the Holmfirth flower show. -You did not go last year, Clare, nor the year before; and I saw such a -pretty costume, too, in the last fashions-book—all grey and black—just -the very thing for you. You ought to speak to her, Edgar. She has worn -that heavy deep mourning too long.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, please,” said Clare, turning aside with a look of pain on her -face.</p> - -<p>“My dear love, I am only thinking of your good. Now is it reasonable, -Edgar? She looks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> beautiful in mourning, to be sure; but it is more than -a year, and she is still in crape. I would have put on my own light silk -if I had known you were coming. I hate black from my heart, but it is -the most useful to wear, with nice coloured ribbons, when you get old -and helpless. I don’t know if you notice any change in my appearance, -Edgar? Now how odd you should have found it out! I have plenty of hair -still—it is not that; but one gets so untidy with one’s head on a -pillow without a cap. Mrs. Pimpernel has quantities of hair; but a -married lady is quite different—they can wear things and do things—— -Did you observe, Edgar, if ladies wear caps just now abroad?”</p> - -<p>“They wear a great many different things,” said Edgar, “according to the -different countries. I brought Clare a yashmak from Constantinople to -cover her head with, and an Albanian cap——”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Miss Somers, sitting upright with horror, “the idea of -Clare wearing a cap at nineteen! That shows one should never speak to a -man about what is the fashion. Just look at her lovely hair! It will be -time enough for that thirty years hence. I cannot think how you could -like to live among the Turks. I hope you did not do as they do, Edgar. -It may be all very nice to look at, but having a quantity of wives and -that sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> thing must be very dreadful. I am sure I never could have -put up with it for a day; and then it goes in the very face of the -Bible. I hope you are going to forget all that sort of thing now, and -settle down quietly here.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Somers,” said Edgar, with mock solemnity, “if I had left a -quantity of wives at Constantinople, is it possible that you could -calmly advise me to forget them, and marry another here?”</p> - -<p>Miss Somers sat up still more straight on her sofa, and showed signs of -agitation. “I am sure I would not advise you to what was wrong for all -the world,” she said. “Oh, Edgar, my poor boy, what a dreadful position! -You might ask the Rector—— But if they were heathens, you know, in a -Christian country do you think it would be binding? Clare, dear, suppose -you step into the drawing-room a minute, till we talk this dreadful, -dreadful business over. Oh, you poor boy! It seems wicked for me, an -unmarried lady, even to think of such things; but if I could be of any -use to you—— Edgar! that kind of poor creatures,” said Miss Somers, -putting her face close to his, and speaking in a whisper, “people buy -them in the market, you know, as we read in books. Listen, my dear boy. -It is not nice, of course, but——”</p> - -<p>“What?” said Edgar, bending an eager ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span></p> - -<p>“You could sell them again, don’t you think? Poor souls, if they are -used to it, they wouldn’t care. Good gracious, how can you laugh, with -such a burden on your mind? I am thinking what would be the best, Edgar, -for you.”</p> - -<p>The old lady was so anxious that she put her soft wrinkled old hand upon -his, holding him fast, and gazing anxiously into his face. “You young -men have such strange ways of thinking,” she said, looking -disapprovingly at him; “you treat it as if it was a joke, but it is -very, very serious. Clare, my love, just go and speak to old Mercy a -moment. I cannot let him leave me, you know, until we have settled on -something to do.”</p> - -<p>“He is only laughing at you,” said Clare, with indignation. “How can -you, Edgar? Dear Miss Somers, do you really believe he could be so -wicked?”</p> - -<p>“Wicked, my dear?” said Miss Somers, with a look of experience and -importance on her eager old face, “young men have very strange ways. The -less you know about such things the better. Edgar knows that he can -speak to me.”</p> - -<p>“But Clare is right,” said Edgar, smothering his laugh. “I did not mean -to mystify you. I brought nothing more out of Constantinople than pipes -and embroideries. I have some for you, Miss Somers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> Slippers that will -just do for you on your sofa, and a soft Turkish scarf that you might -make a turban of——”</p> - -<p>“What should I do with a turban, my dear boy?” said the invalid at once -diverted out of her solemnity, “though I remember people wearing them -once. My mother had a gorgeous one she used to wear when she went out to -dinner—you never see anything so fine now—with bird of paradise -feathers. Fancy me in a turban, Clare! But the slippers will be very -nice. There was a Mr. Templeton I once knew, in the Royal Navy, a very -nice young man, with black hair, like a Corsair, or a Giaour, or -something—— That was in my young days, my dears, when I was not -perhaps quite so unattractive as I am now. Oh, you need not be so -polite, Edgar; I know I am quite unattractive, as how could I be -otherwise, with my health and at my age? He was a very nice young man, -and he paid me a great deal of attention; but dear papa, you know—he -was always a man that would have his own way——”</p> - -<p>Here Miss Somers broke off with a sigh, and the story of Mr. Templeton, -of the Royal Navy, came to an abrupt conclusion, notwithstanding an -effort on the part of one of the listeners to keep it up. “Was Mr. -Templeton at Constantinople?” Edgar asked,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> bringing the narrator back -to her starting-point; but it was not to be.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what does it matter where Mr. Templeton was?” said Clare. “Edgar -has come down to see the village, Miss Somers, and all the poor people; -and I must take him away now. Another time you can tell us all about it. -Edgar, fancy, it is nearly twelve o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“It is so nice of you to come and chatter to me,” said the invalid. She -was a little fatigued by the conversation, the burden of which she had -taken on herself—by Edgar’s (supposed) difficulties about the wives, -and by that reference to Mr. Templeton of the Royal Navy. “You may send -old Mercy to me,” she said with a sigh as she kissed Clare; for old -Mercy was the tyrant whom Miss Somers most dreaded in the world. It was -a sad change from the presence of the young people to see that despot -come into the room, in the calm confidence of power. “Now, lie down a -bit, do, and rest yoursel’,” Mercy said, peremptorily, “or we’ll have a -nice restless night along o’ this, and the Doctor as cross as cross. Lie -down and rest, do.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the brother and sister went downstairs, she relieved, he much -softened, and full of a tender compassion. “If that would do her any -good, you and I might take her to the German baths some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> day,” said the -soft-hearted Edgar, “if she is able to go. Such a restless little being -as she was, it is hard to see her lying there.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I am not hard-hearted,” said Clare, “but I think she is very -well where she is. It is not as if she suffered much. We have lost -almost an hour with her chatter. We shall never get back in time for -luncheon if we talk to other people as long.”</p> - -<p>“But there are not many other people like Miss Somers,” said Edgar, with -a passing shade of gravity. He in his turn was grieved now and then by -something Clare did or said. But in a few minutes they returned to their -interrupted stream of talk, and began to discuss the village, and the -plans for the new cottages, and the enlargement of the schools, and the -restoration of the Church, and many other matters of detail. The two -went from house to house, the village gradually becoming aware of them, -and turning out to all the doors and the windows. The women stopped in -their cooking and the men, jogging home for their early dinners, ranked -themselves in rows here and there, and stood and gaped; the children -formed themselves into little groups, and looked on awestricken. Such -was Edgar’s first entry as master into the hereditary village. He made -himself very “nice” to all the bystanders, and was as cordial as if he -had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> canvassing for their votes, Clare thought, who stood by in her -position as domestic critic, and noted everything. It was odd to see -what trifles he remembered, and what a memory he had for names and -places. If he had been canvassing he could not have been more -ingratiating, more full of that grace of universal courtesy which, in a -general way, is only manifest at such times. And yet, it was not as a -candidate for their favour, but as their sworn hereditary sovereign, -that he came among them. Clare, her mind already in a tumult with all -the events and all the talk of the morning, could not but acknowledge to -herself that it was very strange.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Edgar Arden</span> had lived hitherto, as we have said, a very desultory -wandering sort of life. He had been at school in Germany during his -earlier years, and afterwards at Heidelberg, at the University, where he -had seen a great many English afar off, and vaguely found out the -difference between their training and ways of thinking and those in -which he had himself been brought up. When he had first come to the age -when a boy begins to inquire into his own position, and when it no -longer becomes possible to take everything for granted, he had been told -first that it was for his health that he had been sent away from home; -and when he had fully satisfied himself that his health could no longer -be the reason, other causes had been suggested to him equally -unsatisfactory. It was his father who was in bad health, and could not -be troubled with a lively boy about him; but then there were schools in -England as well as in Germany, which would have settled that matter: or -the German education<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> was superior, which was a theory his tutor -strongly inclined to, but which did not seem to Edgar’s lively young -intelligence quite justified by the opinion visibly entertained by the -English travellers whom he met. His first visit to England, after he was -old enough to understand, made matters a great deal more clear to him. -Injustice and dislike are hard to conceal from a young mind, even under -the most specious disguises—and here no disguise was attempted. The -Squire received his boy with a coldness which chilled him to the heart, -saw as little of him as he possibly could, endured his presence with -undisguised reluctance, and made it quite apparent to poor Edgar that, -unlike all the other sons he had ever seen in his life, he was only a -vexation and trouble to his father. The fact that his father was his -enemy dawned vaguely upon him at a much later period; for it is hard in -extreme youth to think that one has an enemy. A vague sense of being -hustled into corners, and shut out of the life of the family, such as it -was, had been the cloud upon his earlier days. He had felt that only in -Clare’s nursery did he hold that position of chief and favourite to -which surely the only son of the house was entitled. And little Clare -accordingly became the one bright spot in the house which he still by -instinct called home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span></p> - -<p>He had returned when he was seventeen, and again after he came of -age—though not to be received with any rejoicings at that later period, -as became the birthday of the heir. His birthday was over when he came -home, and Clare, a girl of sixteen, thrust her little furtive present -into his hand with a full sense that her brother was not to the Squire -what he was to her. But at this period something occurred which -enlightened Edgar as to his father’s feelings towards himself in the -cruellest way; it enlightened him and yet it threw a confusion darker -than ever over his life. The day after his arrival Mr. Arden sent for -him, and elaborately explained to him that he wished for his aid in -breaking the entail of certain estates, of which the young man knew -nothing. It was the longest interview that had ever taken place between -the two; and the Squire made very full explanations, the meaning of -which was but indistinct to the youth. Edgar had all the impatient and -reckless generosity which so often accompanies a buoyant temperament; -his sense of the sweets of property was small; and he knew next to -nothing about the estates. Had he known much there is little doubt that -he would have done exactly as he did; but, however, he had not even that -safeguard; and the consequence was that he took his father’s word at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> -once, responded eagerly and promptly to the proposal, and gave his -consent to denude himself of the property which had been longest in the -family, the little estate from which the name of Arden first came, and -which every Arden acquainted with his family history most highly prized. -Edgar, however, knew very little about his family history; and with the -foolish disinterestedness of a boy he acquiesced in all his father -suggested. But after the necessary arrangements in respect to this were -concluded Edgar caught a glance from his father’s eye which went to his -heart like an arrow. It was in the hunting-field, where, untrained as he -was, he had acquitted himself tolerably well; and he was just about to -take a somewhat risky fence when he saw that look which he never forgot. -The Squire had reined in his own horse, and sat like a bronze figure -under a tree watching his son. And as plain as eyes could tell Edgar -read in his father’s look a suppressed inappeasable enmity, which it was -impossible to mistake; his father was watching intently for the -spring—was it possible he was hoping that a fall would follow? How it -was that Edgar got over the fence he never could tell; for to his -hopeful, all-believing temper such a sudden glimpse into the darkness -was like a paralysing blow. He kept steady on his saddle, and somehow, -without any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> conscious guidance on his part, the horse accomplished the -leap; but Edgar turned straight back, and went home with such a sense of -misery as he had never experienced before. He was too wretched to -understand the calls sent after him—the questions with which he was -assailed. He could not even reply to Clare’s wondering inquiries. His -father hated him—that was the discovery he had made. To suspect that -anybody hated him would have given Edgar a shock; but to know it beyond -all doubt, and to feel that it was his father who regarded him with such -fierce enmity, made his very heart sink within him. He went away next -day, giving no explanation of his desire to do so. Nor did the Squire -make any inquiries. It was a mutual relief to them to be free of each -other. Before his departure his father informed him that he would -henceforward receive a much more liberal allowance—an intimation which -Edgar received without thinking what it meant—without caring what sense -was in the words. And that was the last he had seen of the Squire. -Nobody but himself knew of this incident. It was nothing—an -impression—a fancy; but in all Edgar’s life nothing had happened that -was so bitter to him. The effect had not lasted, for his mind was -essentially elastic, and he was young, and free to amuse himself as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> -would. Fortunately, the kind of amusements he preferred were innocent -ones; for he had no guide, no one to control or restrain him, and not -even the shadow of parental authority. His father hated him—a horrible -freedom was his inheritance—nobody cared if he were to die the next -day—nay, on the contrary, there was some one who would be glad.</p> - -<p>This impression, which had been swept out of his mind by years and -changes, came back upon him with singular force as all at once his eye -fell on the great portrait of old Squire Arden, painted when he was -Master of the Hounds, in sporting costume, which hung in the hall. He -stopped short before it as he went in with his sister on the first day -of his return, and felt a shudder come over him. Perhaps it was the -costume and attitude which moved his memory; but there seemed to lurk in -his father’s face, as he entered the house of which that father had been -unable to deprive him, the same look which once had fallen upon him like -a curse. He stopped short and grew pale, in spite of all his attempts to -control himself. “Would you think it cruel, Clare,” he said suddenly in -his impulsive way, “if I were to ask you to transfer that portrait to -some other place? It has a painful effect upon me there.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<p>“This is your house, Edgar,” answered Clare. On this point her sweetness -abandoned her. She knew he had been badly used; but she knew at the same -time that her father had been all love and kindness to herself. -Therefore, as was natural, Miss Arden took it for granted that somehow -it must be Edgar’s fault.</p> - -<p>“That is not the question,” he said. “I can understand by my own what -your feelings must be on the subject. But it cannot harm him to remove -it, and it does harm me to have it stay. If you will make this sacrifice -to me, Clare——”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, I tell you this is your house,” she said, with the tears rushing -to her eyes; and ran in and left him there, in a sudden passion of grief -and anger. Her brother, left alone, looked somewhat sadly round him. He -was very destitute of those impulses of self-assertion which come so -naturally to most young men; on the contrary, his impulse was to yield -when the feeling of anyone he loved ran contrary to his own: he was a -little sorrowful at Clare’s want of sympathy, but it did not move him to -act as master. “What harm can it do me now?” he said, going up and -looking closely at the portrait. It came natural to him to reason -himself out of his own fancies, and to give place to those of others. -“It would be wounding her only to satisfy my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> caprice,” he added after a -while; “and why should I be indulged in everything, I should like to -know?” Poor boy! up to this moment he had never been indulged in -anything all his life. He stayed a long time in the hall, now walking -about it, now standing before the portrait. It haunted him so that he -felt obliged to face it, and defy the look; and he could not but think -with a sigh what a comfort it would be to get quit of it, to take it -down and turn it somewhere with its face to the wall. But then he -remembered that though he was the master he was more a stranger in the -house than any servant it contained; and what right had he to cross his -sister, and go in the face of every tradition, and offend every soul in -the place, by taking down that picture, which looked malevolent to -nobody but him? “God forgive you!” he said at last, shaking his head at -it sorrowfully as he went slowly upstairs. He could not feel himself -free or safe so long as it remained there. If anything happened to -him—supposing, for instance (this grim idea crossed his mind in spite -of himself)—supposing it might ever happen that he should be carried -into that hall, wounded or mangled by any accident, would the painted -face smile at him, would the eyes gleam with a horrible joy? And it was -his father’s face. Edgar shuddered, he could not help it, as he went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> -slowly up the great stairs. As he went up, some one else was coming -down, making a gleam of reflection in the still air. It was old Sarah, -with her white apron, making a curtsey at every step, and finding that -mode of progress difficult. Edgar’s mobile countenance dressed itself -all in smiles at the appearance of this old woman. Clare would have -thought it strange, but it came natural to her brother; though, perhaps, -on the whole, it was Clare, her own special charge and nursling, who was -most fond of old Sarah, as, indeed, it became her to be.</p> - -<p>“Have you been waiting for us?” he said. “My sister has gone to look for -you, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Not gone to look for me, Mr. Edgar,” said Sarah, petulantly; “run -upstairs in one of her tantrums, as I have seen her many a day. You’ll -have to keep her a bit in hand, now you’ve come home, Mr. Edgar.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> keep her in hand!” cried Edgar, struck with the extreme absurdity -of the suggestion; and then he tried hard to look severe, and added—“My -dear old Sarah, you must recollect who Miss Arden is, and take care what -you say.”</p> - -<p>“There’s ne’er a one knows better who she is,” said old Sarah, “she’s my -child, and my jewel, and the darlin’ of my heart. But, nevertheless, -she’s an Arden, Mr. Edgar. All the Ardenses as ever was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> has got -tempers—except you; and for her own good, the dear, you should keep her -a bit in hand; and if you say it was her old nurse told you, as loves -her dearly, it wouldn’t do no harm.”</p> - -<p>“Am I the only Arden without a temper?” said Edgar, gaily; “it’s odd how -I want everything that an Arden ought to have. But my sister is queen at -Arden, Sarah; always has been; and most likely always will be.”</p> - -<p>“Lord bless you, sir, wait till you get married,” said Sarah, nodding -her head again and again, and beaming at the prospect. “Eh! I’d like to -live to see that day!”</p> - -<p>“It will be a long day first,” said Edgar, with a laugh, meaning nothing -but a young man’s half-mocking, half-serious denial of the coming -romance of his existence; “though I promise you, Sarah, you shall dance -at my wedding—but at Clare’s first, which is the proper arrangement, -you know.”</p> - -<p>“If he was a good gentleman, Sir, and one as was fond of her, I -shouldn’t care how soon it was,” she said. “Eh, my word, but I’ll dance -till I dance you all off the floor!”</p> - -<p>“But you must not go without something to remind you of your first visit -to us,” he said; and he took out his purse from his pocket with the -lavish liberality of his disposition. “Look, there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> not very much in -it. Buy something you like, Sarah, and say to yourself that it is given -you by me.”</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Edgar; no, Sir. Oh, good Lord, not a purse full of money, as if -that was all I was thinking of! I didn’t come here, not for money, but -to see Miss Clare and you.”</p> - -<p>“It is because it is your first visit to us,” repeated Edgar, and he -gave her a kind nod, and went lightly past to his rooms. All his gloomy -thoughts and superstitions had been driven out of his mind by this -momentary encounter. His light heart had risen again like a ball of -feathers. The glooms and griefs that lay in his past he shook off from -him as lightly as thistledown. He thought no more of his father’s grim -face in the hall—did not even look at it when he went downstairs. Was -it that his mind was a light mind, easily blown about by any wind? or -that God had given him that preservative which He gives to those whom He -has destined to bear much in this world? At so early a moment, when his -life lay all vague before him, this was a question which nobody could -answer. There was one indication, however, that his elasticity was -strength rather than weakness, which was this—that he had not forgotten -what had moved him so strongly, but was able, his sunny nature helping -him, to put it away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> first day at Arden had been play; the second, work began again, and -the new life which was so unfamiliar to the young Squire came pouring in -upon him like a tide. In the morning he had an appointment with the -family solicitor, who was coming, full of business, to lay his affairs -before him, and to inaugurate his curiously changed existence. In the -evening, his old friends in the village were coming to dine with this -equally old friend, and Edgar felt that he would, without doubt, have a -great deal of good advice to encounter, and probably many reminiscences -which would not be pleasant to hear. None of these very old friends knew -in the least the character of the young man with whom they had to do. -They saw, as everybody did, his light-heartedness, his cheerful oblivion -of all the wrongs of the past, and quiet commencement of his new career; -but they did not know nor suspect the thorns that past had left in his -mind—the haunting horror of his father’s look, the aching<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> wonder as to -the meaning of treatment so extraordinary, which had never left him -since he caught that glance, coupled with a strange consciousness that -some time or other he must find out the secret of this unnatural enmity. -Edgar, though he was so buoyant as almost to appear deficient in feeling -to the careless observer, kept this thought lying deep down in his -heart. He would find it out some time, whatever it was; and though he -could not frame to himself the remotest idea what it was, he felt and -knew that the discovery, when it came, would be such as to embitter if -not to change his whole existence. No one had any clue to the cause of -the Squire’s behaviour to his son. To Clare it had seemed little more -than a preference for herself, which was cruel to her brother, as -shutting him out from his just share in his father’s heart, but not of -any great importance otherwise; and at least one of the theories -entertained on the subject outside the house of Arden was such as could -not be named to the heir. Therefore, he had not a single gleam from -without to assist him in resolving this great question; yet he felt in -the depths of his heart that some time or other it would be resolved, -and that the illumination, when it came, could not but bring grief and -trouble in its train.</p> - -<p>“I never saw this Mr. Fazakerley,” he said, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> Clare and he sat alone -over their breakfast on that second morning. Already it had become -natural to him to be the master of the great house, of all those silent -servants, the centre of a life so unlike anything that he had known. His -mind was very rapid, went quickly over the preliminary stages, and -accustomed itself to a hundred novelties, while a slower fancy would but -have been having its first gaze at them; but the absolutely New startled -him to a greater degree than it ever could have startled a more -leisurely imagination. “I don’t know him a bit,” he repeated, with a -half laugh, in which there was more nervousness than amusement. “What -sort of a man is he? I always like to know——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fazakerley!” said Clare, with a soft echo of wonder, “why, all the -Ardens have known all the Fazakerleys from their cradles. He must have -had you on his knee a hundred times, as I am sure he had me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so,” said Edgar, suppressing, because of the servants, -any other question, “or, if I ever saw him I have forgotten. Why must we -have business breaking in upon us at every turn? I am afraid I like -play.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you have had too much play,” Clare said, looking at him -with those eyes of young wisdom, utterly without experience, which look -so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> soft yet judge so hardly; “but, Edgar, you must remember you are not -a wanderer now. You have begun serious life.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if life is as serious as you are, Clare,” he said, looking at -her with that half-tender, half mocking look, which Clare did not quite -understand nor like; “or whether this lawyer and his green bag will be -half as alarming as those looks of yours. I may satisfy him; but I fear -I shall never come up to your mark.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak so, please,” said Clare. “Why shouldn’t you come up to my -mark? I like a man to be very high-minded and generous, and that you -are, Edgar; but then I like people to have proper pride, and believe in -their own position, and feel its duties. That is all—and I like people -to be English——, and it would be so nice to think you were going to -show yourself a true Arden, in spite of everything.” This was said at a -fortunate moment, when Wilkins, the butler, was at the very other end of -the great room, fetching something from the sideboard, and could not -hear. She leant across the table hastily, before the man turned round, -and added, in a hurried tone, “Don’t discuss such things before the -servants, Edgar; they listen to everything we say.”</p> - -<p>“I forgot,” he said; “I never had servants before<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> who knew English. You -don’t recollect that English has always been a grand foreign language to -me.”</p> - -<p>“The more’s the pity!” said Clare, with a deep sigh. This sentiment made -her beautiful face so long, and drooped the corners of her mouth so -sadly, that her brother laughed in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“But it is possible to live out of England for all that,” he said; “and -I know people in Germany that would have the deepest sympathy with you. -The Von Dummkopfs think just the same of themselves as the Ardens do, -and look down just as much upon outsiders. I wonder how you would like -the Fraulein Ida? They have twenty quarterings in their arms, and blood -that has been filtered through all the veins worth speaking of in -Germany for ever so many centuries; but then the Von Dummkopfs are not -so rich as we are, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“As if I ever thought of that!” she said. “Who is Fraulein Ida? I have -no doubt I shall like her—if she is nice. But, Edgar, though I would -not say a word against your German friends, it would be so much nicer if -you would marry an English girl. I should be able to love her so much -more.”</p> - -<p>“Softly,” said Edgar; “don’t go so fast, please. I have not the least -intention of marrying any one; and I don’t admire the Fraulein Ida. I -want nobody but my sister, as long as she will keep faithful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> to me. Let -us have the good of each other for a little now, without any one to -interfere.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, no one can interfere,” said Clare hurriedly. “Now that man is -gone, oh, Edgar! I must say one word for poor papa. I know he was hard -upon you, dear; but he never interfered—never said a word—never tried -to keep me from loving you. Indeed, indeed, he never did! I know I was -cross yesterday about that picture. If you don’t like it, it shall come -down; it is only right it should come down. But oh, Edgar, he was so -kind, he was so good to me!”</p> - -<p>Edgar had risen before the words were half said, and stood by her, -holding her tenderly in his arms. “My dear little sister!” he said, “you -have always been the one star I had to cheer me. You shall hang all the -house with his picture if you like. I forgive him all my grievances -because he was good to you. But, Clare, he hated me.”</p> - -<p>“No, Edgar, not hated,” cried Clare, raising to him her weeping face. -“Oh, not hated; but he loved mamma so, and you were so like her, he -never could bear——”</p> - -<p>Her voice faltered as she spoke. It was all she could say, but she did -not believe it. As for Edgar, he shook his head with a smile that was -half bitter half sad.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<p>“I know better,” he said; “but it is a question we need not discuss. -Believe the gentle fiction, dear, if you can. But I will never say a -word again about any picture. Let it be. It would be hard if your -brother could not put up with anything that was dear to you. Now tell me -about Mr. Fazakerley, and what he is going to say.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar, it all belongs to the same subject,” said Clare, drying her -eyes. “I am glad you have spoken. I should not have had the courage to -begin. There is something about the Old Arden estate; they told me, but -I would not listen to them—would not hear anything about it till you -came back. They said it was your doing as well as his; I don’t -understand how that can be. They said you wanted it to be settled on me; -but why, Edgar, should it be settled on me? It is neither right nor -natural,” said Clare, her blue eyes lighting up, though tears still hung -upon the eyelashes. “Arden, that gave us our name—that was the very -beginning of the race—why should you wish to give it to me?”</p> - -<p>“Is it given to you?” said Edgar, with a certain sense of bewilderment -creeping over him. “I am afraid I have been like you—I have not -understood, nor thought on the subject indeed for that matter. There was -something about breaking the entail<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> between him and me; but I did not -understand anything about it. I never knew—Clare, I can’t make it out,” -he said, suddenly sitting down and gazing at her. “Why did he hate me?”</p> - -<p>Then they looked at each other without a word. Clare’s great blue eyes, -dilated with grief and wonder, and two big tears which filled them to -overflowing, were fixed upon her brother’s face. But she had no -elucidation to give. She only put out her hands to him, and took his, -and held it close, with that instinctive impulse to tender touch and -contact which is more than words. She followed her brother with her eyes -while he faced this new wonder. “Well,” he was saying to himself, “of -course you must have known he meant something by breaking the entail. Of -course it was not for your sake he did it. What could it be for? You -never asked—never thought. Of course it could only be to take it from -you. And why not give it to Clare? If not to you, of course it must go -to Clare; and but for that she could not have had it. It is very well -that it should be so. It is best; is it not best?” Thus he reasoned -according to his nature, while Clare sat watching him with wistful -dilated eyes. While he calmed himself down she was rousing herself. Her -agitation rose to the intolerable pitch, while his was slowly coming -down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> to moderation and composure. The sudden cloud floated away from -him, and the light came back to his eyes. “I begin to see it,” he said -slowly. “Don’t be vexed, Clare, that I did not see it all at once. It is -not that I grudge you anything; he might have given you all, and I don’t -think I should have grudged it. It is the mistrust—the preference. It -is so strange. One wonders what it can mean.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Clare, impulsively, “I wonder too. But, more than that, -Edgar; you did not know—you did it in ignorance; and I will never, -never, take advantage of that! I was bewildered at first; but it is your -right, and I will never take it from you——”</p> - -<p>Then it was he, who had been robbed of his birthright, who had to exert -himself to reconcile her to his loss. “Nay, that is nonsense,” he said. -“It is done, and it cannot be done over again. The will must not be -interfered with: it is my business to see to that. No, Clare; don’t try -to make me do wrong. Nothing we can say will change it, nor anything you -can do either. What has been given you is yours, and yours it must -remain.”</p> - -<p>“But I will not accept it,” said Clare; “I will give it all back the -moment I come of age. What! rob you and your children, Edgar—all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> -Ardens that may come after you! That is what I will never do.”</p> - -<p>“It is time enough to think of the Ardens who may come after me,” said -Edgar, with an attempt at a laugh. But Clare was not to be pacified so -easily. He drew closer to her side, and sat down by her, and took her -hand, and spoke softly in her ear, arguing it out as if the question had -not been a personal one. “It startled me at first,” he said; “it was -strange, very strange, that he should think of taking this, as you say, -Clare, not only from me, but from all the Ardens to come; but then you -were the dearest to him, and that was quite natural. And it must have -been my fault that he did not tell me. I never asked any questions about -it—never thought of inquiring. He must have taken me for a kind of -Esau, careless of what was going to happen. If I had shown a little more -interest, no doubt he would have told me. Of course, he must have felt -it would have been for your advantage had I known all about it, and been -able to stand by you. I am so glad you have told me now. You may be sure -he would have done so had I behaved myself properly. So, you see, it was -my fault, Clare. I must have been ungracious, boorish, indifferent. It -is clear it was my fault.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fazakerley, sir, is in the library,” said Wilkins, opening the -door. There was a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> breath of agitation in the air about the two -young people which the servants had scented out; and the eager eyes of -Wilkins expressed not only his own curiosity, but that of the household -in general. “He was a patting of her and a smoothing of her down,” was -the butler’s report downstairs, “and Miss Clare in one of her ways. I -daresay they have quarrelled already, for she is her father’s daughter, -is Miss Clare.” The brother and sister were quite unconscious of this -comment; but though they had not quarrelled, the conflict of feeling had -risen so high that Mr. Fazakerley’s arrival was a relief to both. “I -must go and see him,” Edgar said, loosing his sister’s hand, and laying -his own tenderly upon her bowed head. “Don’t let it trouble you so much. -You will see it as I do when you think of it rightly, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Never!” Clare cried among her tears. Edgar shook his head, with a soft -smile, as he went away. Of course, she would come to see it. Reason and -simple sense must gain the day at last. So he thought, feeling perfectly -persuaded that such were his own leading principles—calm reason and -sober sense. Edgar rather prided himself upon their possession; and thus -fortified with a conviction of what were the leading characteristics of -his own mind, went to meet the family lawyer, and hear all about it in a -sober and business-like way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Fazakerley</span> was a little brown man, with a wig—a man who might have -appeared on any stage as the conventional type of a crafty solicitor. He -was very much like a fox, with little keen red-brown eyes, and whiskers -which were grizzled, yet still retained the reddish colour of youth. His -wig, too, was reddish-brown, and might have been made out of a foxskin, -so true was it to the colour and texture of that typical animal. As may -be divined from the fact of his outward appearance, he was not in the -very least like a fox or a conventional solicitor, but was a good, -little, kind, respectable sort of man, chiefly distinguished for his -knowledge of Lancashire families—their intermarriages, and the division -of their properties and value of their land; on which points he was an -infallible guide. He came forward to meet the young Squire with both his -hands extended, and a smile beaming out of every wrinkle of his brown -face. “Welcome home, Mr. Edgar,” he said; “welcome home, welcome to your -own house,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> with a warmth and effusion which betrayed that there was -more than the usual occasion for such a welcome. He shook the young -man’s hand so long, and so energetically, swaying it between both of -his, that Edgar felt as if it must come off. “You don’t remember me, I -can see,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “I never happened to be at home while you -were at Arden; but I know you well, and how nobly you have behaved. So -you must think of me as your old friend, and one always ready to serve -you—me and everybody belonging to me—you must indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” said Edgar, taken by surprise; “a thousand thanks. I never -knew how rich I was in friends till now. Clare has just been telling me -I ought to have known you all my life.”</p> - -<p>“So you ought, and so you should, but for—ah—circumstances, Mr. -Edgar,” said the lawyer, “circumstances of a painful character—over -which we had no control. Miss Clare said that, did she? And quite right -too. Your sister is a very sweet young lady, Mr. Edgar. You may be proud -of her. I don’t know her equal in Lancashire, and that is saying a great -deal, for we are proud of our Lancashire witches. I have two daughters -of my own, pretty girls enough, and I am very proud of them, I can tell -you; but I don’t pretend that they come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> within a hundred miles of Miss -Arden. You must not think me an impudent old fellow to talk of her so, -for, as she says, I have known her all her life.”</p> - -<p>In this way Mr. Fazakerley chatted on, doing, as it were, the honours of -his own house to Edgar, inviting him to sit down, and gradually -beginning to arrange before him on the table a mass of papers. Then he -changed the subject; gave up Clare, whose trumpet he had blown for about -half-an-hour; and began a disquisition upon “your worthy father,” at -which Edgar winced. And yet there was nothing in it to hurt him; it was -not full of inferences which he could not understand, like the sayings -of Mr. Fielding and Dr. Somers. It had not a hidden meaning, like so -much that Clare said on the same subject. Mr. Fazakerley was in his way -very straightforward. “I won’t attempt to disguise either from myself or -from you that there was much in his conduct that was very -extraordinary,” said the lawyer, “very extraordinary—so much so, that -monomania is the only word that occurs to me. Monomania—that is the -only explanation, and I don’t know that it is a satisfactory -explanation; but it is the best we can make. We need not enter into that -matter, Mr. Edgar, for it is very unintelligible; but the question -is—Why did you give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> in to any arrangement about breaking the entail -without my advice?”</p> - -<p>“I did what my father wished me to do,” said Edgar, with a deep colour -rising over his face. “It appeared to me that in so doing I could not -but be right.”</p> - -<p>“You were very wrong, Mr. Edgar,” said the lawyer. “What! rob your -children because it pleased your father! Your father was a very worthy -man—an excellent landlord—a good staunch Tory—everything a country -gentleman need wish to be; but he was only one of the family, Mr. Edgar, -only the head of it in his time, as your son will be. You had no more -right to consult the one than the other. I don’t want to hurt your -feelings, but you were wrong.”</p> - -<p>“My son is not born yet, nor, so far as I can see, any chance of him,” -said Edgar, laughing, “so he could scarcely be consulted.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well,” said Mr. Fazakerley, bending over his papers. -“I do not object to a laugh; but at the same time it was very foolish, -and worse than foolish—wrong. I don’t blame you so much, for of course -you were taught to be generous, and magnanimous, and all that; but your -worthy father, Mr. Edgar, your worthy father—it was more than wrong.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Fazakerley shook his head for at least five minutes while he -repeated these words; but Edgar made no reply. If he could have found -the shadow of an excuse for the old Squire, or even perhaps if it had -not been for that look which he remembered so distinctly, he would have -said something in his defence. But his mouth was closed, and he could -not reply.</p> - -<p>“If it had been any other part of the estate, or if Miss Clare had not -been well provided for already, I could have understood it,” the lawyer -continued; “but she is very well provided for. Monomania, Sir, it could -be nothing but monomania; and to give up Old Arden was quite -inconceivable—permit me to say it, Mr. Edgar—on your part.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know much about old Arden,” said Edgar, shyly putting forth -this excuse for himself, almost with a blush. It was not his fault; but -he looked much as if it had been a voluntary abandonment of his duty.</p> - -<p>“The more shame to—ah,” said Mr. Fazakerley, with a frown, feeling that -his zeal had led him too far; and then he paused, and coughed, and -recovered himself. “The thing to be done now is to set it right as far -as possible,” he went on. “We may be quite sure that Miss Clare, as soon -as she knows of it, will be but too eager to aid us. She is only a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> -girl, but she has a fine spirit, and hates injustice. What I would -suggest to you would be to effect an exchange. Old Arden lies in the -very centre of the property, besides being the oldest part of it, and -all that. I don’t insist upon the sentimental reasons; but the -inconvenience would be immense—especially when Miss Clare marries, as -of course she will soon do. I advise you to offer her an equal portion, -by valuation, of some other part of the estate—say the land between -this and Liverpool—which she could make untold wealth of——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think we must interfere with the existing arrangement,” said -Edgar. “Pray don’t think of it. My father must have had some reason. I -can’t divine it, nor perhaps any one; but some reason he must have had.”</p> - -<p>“Reason—nonsense! Caprice, monomania,” said Mr. Fazakerley, getting -excited. “That was the reason. He indulged himself so that at the last -every impulse became irresistible. That is my theory. I don’t ask you to -accept it, but it is my way of explaining the matter. One day or other -he looked at Miss Clare, and perceived how like she was to the family -portraits (she is an Arden all over, and you are like your mother’s -family), and he said to himself, no doubt, ‘Old Arden must be hers.’ -Some such train of ideas must have passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> through his mind. And nobody -ever opposed him. You did not oppose him, not knowing any better. He had -come to take it for granted that he must have his own way. It is very -bad for a man, Mr. Edgar, to have everything his own way. It led your -worthy father on to a great piece of injustice and even folly. But, now -that the time has come when the folly of it is apparent—if we give her -acre for acre of the land near Liverpool——”</p> - -<p>“Why should you take so much trouble?” said Edgar. “If such was his -desire, it is my duty to see it carried out. And I do not insist on the -compactness of the property. Why should I? I who am the one who knows -least about it. If this division pleased my father——”</p> - -<p>“Tut, tut,” said the lawyer, “pleased a man who was a monomaniac and had -a fixed idea! I had formed a higher opinion of your good sense and -judgment; but to stand out for a piece of nonsense like this! Miss Clare -herself would be the first to say otherwise. When dead men do justly and -wisely by those they leave behind them, I am not the man ever to -interfere. I hold a will sacred, Mr. Edgar, within fit bounds; but when -a dead man’s will wrongs the living——”</p> - -<p>“He is dead, and cannot stand up for it,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> Edgar, who was very -pale; “and it was his own to do as he liked.”</p> - -<p>“There’s the fallacy,” cried Mr. Fazakerley triumphantly, “there is just -the fallacy. It was not his own. He had to get you to help him, and -cheated you in your ignorance. Besides, even had he not required your -help, which convicts him, it still was not his own. He was but one in -the succession. What is the good of an old family but for that? Why, it -is the very bulwark and defence of an aristocracy. I ought to know, for -I see enough of the reverse. You may say the money these fellows make in -Liverpool is their own—they may do what they like with it; and so they -do, and the consequences are wonderful. But Squire Arden, good heavens, -what was the good of him, what was the meaning of him, if he dismembered -his property and broke it up! My dear Mr. Edgar, you are a charming -young fellow, but you don’t understand——”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Edgar, warming under the influence of the lawyer’s -half-whimsical vehemence, “perhaps you are right, but it does not matter -entering into that now. Before Clare marries——”</p> - -<p>“There is no time like the present,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “When she -marries she will have other things in her mind, and her husband, that -is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> to be, might interfere. Besides, that land near Liverpool is the -most valuable part of the property. You have nothing to do but build -villas upon it, or let other people build villas, and you will make a -fortune. Your worthy father would never hear of it; but it really was a -prejudice, and a waste of opportunity——”</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to fly in his face in everything, and do just what he -did not wish to be done?” said Edgar, with a smile, which he tried to -suppress.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fazakerley shrugged his narrow brown shoulders. “New monarchs, new -laws,” he said. “I don’t see why you should be bound by his fancies. He -did not show much respect for yours, if you had any. No, I mean to -suggest very important modifications, if you will permit me, in the -management of the estate. Perhaps, if we were to have up Tom Perfitt and -the map, and go over it——”</p> - -<p>Edgar consented with a sigh, which he also suppressed. It was not that -he disliked the initiation into his real work in life, or objected to -throw off the idleness in which he had spent all these years. On the -contrary, he had chafed again and again over the inaction—the wretched -aimlessness of his existence. But there was something in this sudden -plunge into all its new responsibilities and trials,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> and, more than -all, in this posthumous conflict with the will and inclinations of the -father who had hated him, which sent a thrill through his mind, and -moved his whole being. And in this life which was about to begin there -was a mystery concealed somewhere—the secret of his own existence, -which some time or other would have to be found out. Nobody seemed to -feel this, not even those who were the most fully conscious that an -explanation was wanted of the old Squire’s ceaseless enmity to his son. -They all took it for granted that it was over; that the Squire’s death -had ended everything; and that the heir who had succeeded so tranquilly -would reign in peace in his unkind father’s stead. But Edgar’s mind was -not so easily satisfied. It seemed to him that on this road which he was -entering there stood a great signpost, with a shadowy hand pointing to -the secret, and he shrank, knowing that secret would bring him trouble. -However, to oppose this visionary sense of risk and danger to Mr. -Fazakerley and his papers or to Perfitt and his map would have been -folly indeed. So Perfitt, who was the Scotch steward, came, and the -young Squire was drawn unconsciously within the charmed circle of -property, and began to feel his heart beating and his head throbbing -with a certain exhilarated sense of importance and responsibility.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> When -he heard of all that was his, he, who never up to this moment had -possessed anything but his personalities, a curious feeling of power -came over him. He was young, and his mind was fresh, and the emotions of -nature were still strong in him. He had seen a great deal of the world, -but it had not been that phase of the world which makes a young man -<i>blasé</i>. He sat and listened to the discussion of rents and boundaries, -of what ought to be done with one farm and another, of the wood that -ought to be cut, and the moor that ought to be reclaimed, with a puzzled -yet pleasant consciousness that, discuss as they liked, they could not -decide without him. He knew so little about it that he had to content -himself with listening; but the talk was as a pleasant song to him, -pleasing his newborn sense of importance. “You’ll understand fine, Sir, -when once you’ve been over the estate with me,” said Perfitt, with a -certain condescension which amused Edgar mightily. They seemed to him to -be playing at government, suggesting so many things which they had no -power to carry out, which must wait for his approval. All his graver -anticipations floated away from him in his sense of the humour of the -situation. He made mental notes in his mind as they settled this and -that, saying to himself, “Wait a little; I will not have it so” with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> a -boyish delight in the feeling that he could put all their calculations -out by any sudden exercise of his will. If this was very childish in -Edgar, I don’t know what excuse to make for him. It was so amusing to -him to feel himself a great man, with supreme power in his hands—he who -had never been master of anything all his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> day was a long day. Just before luncheon the Thornleighs called, as -Clare had expected. The Thornleighs were next neighbours to the Ardens -in the county; and in the general estimation they were more fashionable -than the Ardens, in so much that Mr. Thornleigh had married Lady Augusta -Highton, a daughter of the Duke of Grandmaison; whereas the late Mr. -Arden had married a wife whose antecedents were very little known, and -who had been dead for years. So that while the Thornleighs had a house -in town, and went a great deal into society, the Ardens had not budged -for years from Arden Hall, and were very little known in the great -world. This, however, was counterbalanced by the fact that while Clare -was quite fresh and unworn, the five Thornleigh girls were rather too -well known, and were talked about with just that shade of <i>ennui</i> which -so speedily creeps over a fashionable reputation. “One sees them -everywhere,” said the fastidious rulers of that capricious world; and as -there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> were five of them, it was not easy to invite them to those -choicest little gatherings in which Fashion is worshipped with the most -perfect rites, and distinctions are granted or withdrawn. None of the -Thornleigh girls were yet married, and many people were disposed to -censure Lady Augusta for bringing out little Beatrice, who was just -seventeen, while she had still Ada, and Gussy, and Helena, and Mary on -her hands. How could she ever expect to be able to take them all -out—people said?—which was very true.</p> - -<p>But, however, the thing was done, and could not be mended. Lady Augusta -was not a matchmaker, in the usual sense of the word; neither were her -daughters trained to the pursuit of elder sons or other eligible members -of society, as it is common to suppose such young women to be. But it -cannot be denied that as a reasonable woman, much concerned about the -wellbeing of her children, Lady Augusta now and then allowed, with a -sigh, that if Gussy and Ada were comfortably married it would be a very -good thing, and a great relief to her mind. “Not to say that they could -take their sisters out,” she would sometimes say to herself, with a sigh -reflecting upon all the cotillions to which little Beatrice, in the -fervour of seventeen, would no doubt subject her mother. And it would be -vain to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> attempt to deny that a little thrill of curiosity was in Lady -Augusta’s mind as she drove up the avenue to Arden. Edgar was their -nearest neighbour, he was young and “nice,” so far as anybody knew—for, -of course, he had been met abroad from time to time by wandering sons -and cousins, and reports of him had been brought home—and just a -suitable age for Gussy, or, indeed, for any of the girls, should the -young people by any chance take a fancy to each other. I cannot see why -Lady Augusta should be condemned for having this speculation in her -mind. If she had been quite indifferent to the future fate of her -daughters she would have been an unnatural woman. It was her chief -business in the world to procure a happy life for them, and provide them -with everything that was best; and why—a good husband being placed, by -common consent, foremost in the list of those good things—a mother’s -efforts towards the securing of him should not be thought the very -highest and best of her occupations, it is very hard to say. As a matter -of fact, everywhere but in England it is her first and most clearly -recognised duty. And I for one do not feel in the least disposed to -sneer at Lady Augusta. She went with her husband to look at this young -man with a sense that one day he might be very important to her. It is -possible that Edgar might not have liked it had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> the idea occurred to -him that he was thus already a subject of speculation, and that his -tenderest affections—the things which belong most exclusively to a -man’s personal being—were already being directed, whether potentially -or not, by the imagination of another, into channels as yet totally -unknown to him. I believe such a thought is not pleasant to a young man. -But still it was quite natural—and, indeed, laudable—on the part of -Lady Augusta, and demands neither scorn nor condemnation. She had made -Mr. Thornleigh give up a morning’s consultation with the keeper on some -interesting young moorland families and the general prospects of the -game, in order that no time might be lost in making this call. Of -course, she said nothing to him as he sat rather sulkily by her side, -thinking all the time of the young pheasants; but on the whole, perhaps, -the mother’s were not the least elevated thoughts.</p> - -<p>“I am so very glad to be the first to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” she -said. “We don’t know each other yet—at least we two individuals don’t -know each other; but the Ardens and the Thornleighs have been friends -these hundreds of years. How many hundreds, Clare? You girls are so -dreadfully well-informed now-a-days, I never dare open my lips. And I -hope now your sister will go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> out a little more, and come to us a little -more. She has been such a little hermit all her life.”</p> - -<p>“She shall not be a hermit now, if I can help it,” said Edgar. And he -was pleased with the kindness of the elder woman, who was still a -handsome woman, and gracious in her manner, as became a great lady. He -sat down by her, as was his duty, but without thinking it was his -duty—another sign of the spontaneousness which puzzled Clare, and gave -Edgar’s simple ways their greatest charm.</p> - -<p>And the fact was that Lady Augusta, without in the least meaning it, was -captivated by the young man. “He is not the least like an Arden,” she -said to her husband, as they drove away; “he has not their stiffness, -any more than their black hair. I think he is charming. There is -something very nice in a foreign education, you know. One would not -choose it for one’s own boys; but it does give a certain character when -you meet with it by accident. Young men in general are so frightfully -like each other,” she added, with a sigh. Mr. Thornleigh gave a half -articulate grunt, being full of calculations about the partridges; -besides, the young men did not trouble him much. He was not called upon -to remember which was which, and to hear them say exactly the same -things to his girls ball after ball. Lady Augusta’s sigh turned into a -half yawn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> as she glanced back upon all her experiences. He was just -about the age and about the height for Gussy. Gussy was a small, little -thing, and Edgar was not tall. He would not answer at all for the -stately Helena, who was five feet ten. And then, if the mother had a -weakness, it was for little Gussy of all her children. And it would be -so nice to have her settled so near. “But just because it is so nice, -and would be so desirable, of course it will never come to pass,” she -said to herself, with another sigh. She had left an invitation behind -her, and had made up her mind it should not be her fault if it came to -nothing. Thus Edgar was assailed by altogether unexpected dangers the -very day after his return.</p> - -<p>And then there was the dinner in the evening, which was not so pleasant -to think of as the dinner to which the brother and sister had been -invited at Thorne. There were only three gentlemen—the Rector, and the -Doctor, and Mr. Fazakerley—all twice as old as Edgar, and all -patronising and explanatory. They knew his affairs so much better than -he did, that it was not wonderful if they alarmed him. So long as Clare -sat at the other end of the table her brother did not mind, for she was -used to them, and used to having her own way with them; but Edgar felt -it would be hard upon him when he was left to their tender mercies. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> -was very anxious to detain Clare, so as to shorten the awful hour after -dinner. “Why should you go away?” he said, “wait till we are all ready. -Are we such bears in England that ladies can’t stay with us for an hour? -We don’t mean to smoke; that is the only thing that need send you away.”</p> - -<p>“Smoke!” said Mr. Fielding, with horror. “Edgar, I hope you don’t mean -to introduce these new-fangled foreign ways. I shall have to retire with -the ladies if you do. I detest smoke, except in the open air.”</p> - -<p>“That is one of his old-fashioned notions,” said Dr. Somers, “but you -must have a smoking-room fitted up: then the ladies can’t object. The -old Squire resisted such an innovation. He was of the antique school, -like Fielding here, and hated everything that was new.”</p> - -<p>“Just the reverse of our young friend,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “I and Tom -Perfitt have been giving him a great many ideas to-day. You will find -Tom a very satisfactory fellow, I am sure. He is broad Scotch, and he is -fond of having his own way, but he knows every inch of the land, and -what is best for it. If you do any amateur farming you could not have a -better man. If that sort of thing ever was anything but ruinous, Tom is -the man to make it pay.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span></p> - -<p>“I must take a little time to think what I am going to do,” said Edgar, -“and to make acquaintance with the place. You forget that I don’t know -Arden, though you all do. Clare, why should you go away?”</p> - -<p>“I am going to make you some tea,” said Clare, with a smile, as she went -away. And she took no notice of his appealing look. She was half vexed, -indeed, that he should have suggested such an innovation. It was a bad -symptom for the time to come. Why should not Edgar be content, as -everybody else was, with the usual customs of society? She was annoyed -that he should show his foreign breeding even before his old friends. It -seemed to her that Dr. Somers’ keen eye launched a gleam of mockery at -her as she went out. They would laugh at him, even these old gentlemen; -and of course other people would laugh still more.</p> - -<p>“Let her go,” the Doctor said, as the door closed behind the young -mistress of the house. “Don’t disturb the customs of your country, -Edgar. It is all very well just now when you are young; but the time -will come, my boy, when you will prefer having an hour’s serious talk, -without any women to interfere with it. And they like it themselves, my -dear fellow; they like a moment to put their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> hair straight and their -ribbons, and have their private gossip. Don’t train Clare into evil -ways.”</p> - -<p>“I think they are much pleasanter ways,” said Edgar; but he was put down -by acclamation. To suggest an innovation in Arden of all places in the -world! the three old men looked at him as if he were a natural -curiosity, and studied his unusual habits with a mixture of amusement -and alarm.</p> - -<p>“I don’t object to young men being fond of ladies’ society,” said Mr. -Fielding, in his gentle voice; “it is a great preservative to them; but -still not too much, not too much, my dear boy. Your sister, of course, -will be a kind of guardian angel to you; but you know there are a great -many Liverpool people about with large families—nice people enough, and -of course they will be very friendly, if you will let them; and pretty -girls, and all that. But you must be careful, you must be very careful. -You must remember a great deal depends on the circle you collect round -you at first.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how I can collect a circle round me,” said Edgar, laughing. -“I have always supposed it was the great ladies who did that—Lady -Augusta, for instance, who called here to-day——”</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, “take care of that woman. She has -five daughters, and she will play the pretty comedy of the spider and -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> fly with you for the amusement of the county, if you don’t mind. If -you let yourself be drawn into her net, you will have to marry one of -the girls, and that is a severe price to pay for a few dinners. You must -take care what you are about.”</p> - -<p>“The Miss Thornleighs are nice girls,” said Mr. Fazakerley, “but they -will have very little money. Young Thornleigh has been dreadfully -extravagant at Oxford. I know for certain that his father has paid his -bills three times. Of course they have so much under the marriage -settlements; but when there are five, and only a certain sum to be -divided, there can’t be very much for each.”</p> - -<p>“She has Edgar booked for one, you may be sure,” said the Doctor, “and a -very nice thing, too—for them. Next neighbours, and a fine old place, -and a nice young fellow. For my part, I think Lady Augusta is quite -right.”</p> - -<p>“If you don’t mind,” said Edgar, “I’d rather not have myself suggested -as the subject of anybody’s calculations. Suppose one of the Miss -Thornleighs should do me the honour to marry me hereafter, do you think -I should like to remember how you talked of it? I am aware I have -ridiculous notions——”</p> - -<p>Dr. Somers laughed; Mr. Fazakerley chuckled, interrupting the young -man’s speech; but Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> Fielding, who was of a gentler nature, peered at -him through his short-sighted old eyes with kindly sympathy. “Edgar, I -think you are quite right,” he said. “We all talk about women in a most -unjustifiable way. The Miss Thornleighs are very nice girls, and never -gave any one reason to speak of them without respect—nor their mother -either, that I know of; but we all talk as if they were put up to -auction, and you might buy which you please. You are quite right.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know whether I am right or not,” said Edgar, with some -vehemence; “but I know I should punch any man’s head who spoke so of -Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Clare! Ah, that’s different,” said the Doctor; “where Clare is -concerned, I give you full leave to punch anybody’s head——”</p> - -<p>“Miss Clare is an heiress,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “She is as great a -prize in the matrimonial market as her brother. If I took the liberty to -speak on such a subject at all, I should represent her, not as the -huntress, but the hunted. Penniless girls are in a very different -position; and why should we blame them? It is their natural way of -providing for themselves, after all.”</p> - -<p>“Then, money is everything,” said Edgar, “and to provide for one’s self -one’s first duty. I have not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> been very well brought up, you know, but I -thought I had heard something better than that.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be too severely virtuous, my boy,” the Doctor said, pushing back -his chair. “You may be sure that, from the savage to the swell (two -classes not so far apart), to provide for one’s self is one’s highest -duty. Love, &c., are very nice things, but your living comes first of -all. Now, come, we are getting metaphysical; let us join Clare.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Tell</span> me something about the Thornleighs,” Edgar said on the morning of -the day they were to dine at Thorne. “I like to know what sort of people -I am about to make acquaintance with. Are they friends of yours, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“Pretty well,” Clare answered, with just that little elevation of her -head which Edgar began to know. “What is the use of describing them when -you will see them to-night, and then judge for yourself? Ada is nice. -She is the eldest of all, and she talks very little. I like her for -that. Gussy is short, with heaps of light hair; and Helena is very tall, -and rather dark, like her father. They are not at all like each -other—not much more like each other than you and me.”</p> - -<p>“That is a consolation,” said Edgar, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Not so much as you think, for they are like in their ways; and then you -can tell in a moment which side of the house they belong to,” said -Clare, with a shade crossing her face. “Whereas, Edgar—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span>don’t be vexed -with me for saying so—but you are not even—like mamma.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know?” said Edgar, a little sharply; for that he was like -his mother had been one of the established principles of his life.</p> - -<p>“I have a little miniature in a bracelet. Nobody knows of it, I think, -but myself. She must have been fair, to be sure; but you are not <i>very</i> -like her, Edgar. You are not vexed? Of course, you must be like her -family. But Helena Thornleigh is like her father, and Ada and Gussy are -like Lady Augusta. You can’t mistake it; and then they all have little -ways of speaking, and little movements: if you are going to like any of -them, I wish it may be Ada. She is really nice. But Gussy is a -chatterbox, and Helena is superior; and as for Mary and Beatrice——”</p> - -<p>“Is it certain that I must like one more than another?” said Edgar. “I -mean to like them all, as they are our next neighbours. Is there any -reason why I should confine myself to one?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I suppose not,” said Clare, with a suppressed laugh; “only somehow -one always thinks where there are girls—— Look! Edgar; here is some -one coming up the avenue. Who can it be? The servant is in livery, and I -don’t recognise the carriage, nor anything. It can’t be the Thorpes, or -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> Mandevilles, or the Blundells; and it can’t be the Earl, for he is -in town. Look! they don’t see us and I do so want to make them out.”</p> - -<p>“The servants are in purple and green, and there is an astounding coat -of arms on the panel,” said Edgar. “You must know that—arms as big as a -saucer—and somebody very big inside.” The two were in a little morning -room which opened from the great drawing room, where they could see the -avenue and even the flight of steps before which the carriage stopped. -Clare uttered an exclamation of horror as she stood gazing out at the -new comers. She seemed to her brother to shiver with sudden dismay. “It -cannot be possible!” she said. What could she mean? Perhaps it was some -secret enemy whom she recognised but he did not know; somebody, perhaps, -connected with the secret which more or less weighed on Edgar’s life.</p> - -<p>“Who is it?” he said, in serious alarm, coming close to her. “Any one we -have reason to be afraid of? Don’t tremble so. Nobody can harm you while -I am here.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, they would never have ventured had not you been here!” -said Clare, with vehement indignation. “They never could have <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span>had the -presumption—— Edgar, it is an insult! We ought to send and say we are -not at home. There are some things one ought not to bear——”</p> - -<p>“Who are they?” he asked, beginning to perceive that there was no -serious cause for fear.</p> - -<p>But Clare’s flushed and indignant countenance showed no signs of -softening. “I knew they were presuming, but I never could have imagined -anything so bad as this,” she cried. “Edgar, it is the Pimpernels!”</p> - -<p>“The Pimpernels?” Edgar repeated, confused and wondering; but before he -could ask another question the door was thrown open, and Wilkins -appeared in front of the invading party. Wilkins’ face was a study of -suppressed consternation and dismay. He did his office as if he were -going to the stake, stern necessity compelling him in the shape of those -three solid figures behind. “Mr., Mrs., and Miss Pimpernel,” said -Wilkins, with a voice in which the protest of a martyr was audible -behind the ordinary formality. Edgar did not know anything about the -Pimpernels. He saw before him a large man, made larger by light summer -costume, which magnified his breadth and diminished his height, with -sparkling jewelled studs in his shirt, and a great coil of watch-chain -spreading across his buff waistcoat; and a large lady, enveloped in -black silk and lace, which somehow, though so totally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> different, seemed -to have the same effect of enlarging and setting forth her amplitude of -form. Behind these two there appeared, seen by intervals, the slim -figure of a tall girl, with a pretty blushing face. Nothing could have -made Edgar uncivil—not even the terrible fact, had he known it, that -Mr. Pimpernel was a Liverpool cotton-broker, such a man as had never -before made his appearance in the capacity of visitor within the stately -shades of Arden. But he was not aware of that awful fact. He knew only -that Clare had been moved by horror at the sight of them, and that she -stood now at as great a distance as possible, and made a very solemn -curtsey, and looked as if she were assisting at a funeral. The -Pimpernels, who had produced this melancholy effect, were themselves so -utterly unlike it, at once in manners and appearance, that the situation -affected Edgar rather with comic than with solemn feelings.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to see you, and to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” said -Mr. Pimpernel, when they had all sat down in the form of a semicircle, -of which Edgar and Clare formed the base. “I can’t pretend to be an old -neighbour, but we have been here long enough to take an interest in the -county. I have always taken a great interest in the county, as my wife -knows.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said that ample woman. “Since ever we settled here Mr. -Pimpernel has quite thrown himself into Arden ways. We were so very -lucky in getting the Red House—the only one in the neighbourhood. It is -wicked to say so, but I felt so much obliged to poor Mr. Dalton when he -died and let us have it—I did indeed. It was quite obliging of him to -die.”</p> - -<p>Upon this Miss Pimpernel laughed shyly, and Mr. Pimpernel smiled; and -Edgar, seeing it was expected of him, would have smiled too had he not -encountered Clare’s stormy countenance, without a gleam of light upon -it. It embarrassed him sadly, poor fellow; for of course he did not want -to wound his sister, and yet he could not be uncivil. “I am such a -stranger in my own country,” he said, “that I really don’t know where -the Red House is. I know only the village, and nothing more.”</p> - -<p>“It is the sweetest village,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “We were so glad to -hear that there were no building sites to be given, though, of course, -in one way it must have been a sacrifice. It is selfish of us, because -we have been so fortunate as to secure the only house; but the moment -you begin to build villas you spoil the place. It never would have been -the same sweet old place again. Mr. Pimpernel drives over every morning -to Farnham Green, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> station. Of course, he could not do it unless he -was able to afford horses; but we <i>are</i> able to afford them, I am glad -to say. I don’t know if you have ever remarked his Yankee waggon, with -two beautiful bright bays? I hope I am not horsey, which is very -unladylike, but I do like to see a fine animal. It is next to a pretty -girl, my husband always says.”</p> - -<p>“The only thing wanting in Arden is a little society,” said Mr. -Pimpernel; “and I hope, Mr. Arden, that your happy return, and the new -life you must bring with you, will change all that. We hoped you would -perhaps dine with us on Monday week? Young Newmarch is coming, the -Earl’s eldest son, a very nice young fellow—quite a man of his century; -but of course you must know him better than I do; and we expect some -young Oxford men with my son, who is at Christchurch. My wife wanted to -write, but I think it is always best to settle such things by word of -mouth.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid Miss Arden may think all this a little abrupt,” said Mrs. -Pimpernel, taking up the strain when her husband paused. “Of course, if -it had not been for the change, and Mr. Arden coming, as it were, fresh -to the place, it was not our part to call first; but all this last year -I have done nothing but think of you, so lonely as you must have been. I -have said to Alice a hundred times—‘How I wish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> I could go and call -upon that poor dear Miss Arden.’ But I never knew whether you would like -it. I am sure, many and many a time, when I have seen all my own young -ones so merry about me, I have thought of you. ‘If we could only have -her here, and cheer her up a little,’ I used to say——”</p> - -<p>“It was kind of you to think of my sister. I am very much obliged to -you,” said Edgar, warmly. Clare made a little bow, and after her brother -had spoken murmured something vaguely under her breath.</p> - -<p>“I know what it is to have no mother,” continued the large lady, “and to -be left alone. I was an only daughter myself; and when I looked at all -mine, and me spared to them, and thought ‘Oh, that poor dear girl, all -by herself!’ I could have cried over you; I could, indeed.”</p> - -<p>“You were very kind,” said Edgar once more, and Clare uttered another -faint murmur, as if echoing him, unable to originate any sentiment of -her own.</p> - -<p>“But I fear Miss Arden has poor health,” Mrs. Pimpernel continued, -fixing her eyes, which had been contemplating the company in general, -upon Clare. And Mr. Pimpernel, who had been inspecting the room with -some curiosity, looked too at the young lady of the house; and the slim -daughter gave her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> a succession of shy glances, so that she was hemmed -in on every side, and could no longer meet with silence, or with her -haughty little bow, those expressions of friendly interest.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I am very well—quite well,” she said. “I must have been getting -sympathy on false pretences. There is no lack of society had I wanted -it. It was my choice to be alone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, <i>that</i> I have no doubt of,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; “in your -position, of course, you can pick and choose; but still, when you are -not in good spirits, nor feeling up to much exertion—— However, I do -hope you will waive ceremony, and come in a friendly way with your -brother to dine at the Red House on Monday. It would give me so much -pleasure. And Alice has been looking forward to making your acquaintance -for so long.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; for a very long time,” said pretty Alice, under her breath. -She was as pretty as Clare herself, though in a different way; and sat a -little behind her mother, looking from one to the other of her parents, -like a silent chorus, softly backing them with smiles and sympathy. When -she caught Edgar’s eyes during this little performance, she blushed and -cast down her own, and played with the fringe of her parasol; and with a -certain awe now and then, her looks strayed to Clare’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> beautiful, -closed-up, repellent face. She was shy of the brother, but downright -frightened for the sister; and besides these two sentiments, and a faith -as yet unbroken in her father and mother, showed no personal identity at -all.</p> - -<p>“I do not go out at present,” said Clare, looking at her black dress; -upon which Mrs. Pimpernel rushed into remonstrance and entreaty. Edgar -sat looking on, feeling almost as much bewildered as Alice; for, -notwithstanding her black dress, Clare had shown no particular -unwillingness to go to Thorne.</p> - -<p>“For the sake of your health you ought not to shut yourself up,” urged -Mrs. Pimpernel; “a young creature at your age should enjoy life a -little; and for the sake of your friends, who would be so glad to have -you—and for your brother’s sake, my dear, if you will let me say so—I -speak freely, because I have daughters of my own.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, you are very kind,” said courteous Edgar; while his sister shut -her beautiful lips close. And then there was a pause, which was not -comfortable. Mrs. Pimpernel began to smooth the gloves which were very -tight on her plump hands, and Mr. Pimpernel resumed his inspection of -the room.</p> - -<p>“That is a Turner, I suppose,” he said, pointing to a very poor daub in -a dark corner. “I hope you are fond of art, Mr. Arden. When you come to -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> Red House I can show you some rather pretty things.”</p> - -<p>“It is not a Turner; it is very bad,” said Edgar. “We have no pictures -except portraits. I don’t think the Ardens have ever taken much interest -in art.”</p> - -<p>“Never,” said Clare, with a little emphasis. She said so because she had -heard a great deal about Mr. Pimpernel’s pictures, and felt it her duty -to disown all participation in any such plebeian taste; and then she -recollected herself, and grew red, and added hurriedly—“The Ardens have -always had to think of their country, Edgar. They have had more serious -things to do.”</p> - -<p>“But I am not much of an Arden, I fear, and I am very fond of pictures,” -said Edgar carelessly, without perceiving the cloud that swept over his -sister’s face.</p> - -<p>“Then I assure you, though I say it that shouldn’t, I have some pretty -things to show you at the Red House,” said Mr. Pimpernel. Thus it came -to be understood that Edgar had accepted the invitation for Monday week, -and the party rose,—first the mother, then Alice, obedient to every -impulse, and finally Mr. Pimpernel, who extended his large hand, and -took into his own Clare’s reluctant fingers. “I hope we shall soon see -you with your brother,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> said, raising his other hand, as if he was -pronouncing a blessing over her. “Indeed, I hope so,” said Mrs. -Pimpernel, following him with outstretched hand. Alice put out hers too, -but withdrew it shyly, and made a little curtsey, like a school girl, -Clare thought; but to her brother there was something very delicate, and -gentle, and pretty in the girl’s modest withdrawal. He went to the door -with them to put Mrs. Pimpernel in her carriage, and came back to Clare -without a suspicion of the storm which was about to burst upon his -head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Clare</span> was standing by the table with her hands clasped tightly, her -mouth shut fast, her tall figure towering taller than usual, when Edgar, -all unconscious, returned to her. She assailed him in a moment, without -warning. “Edgar, how can you—how could you?” she said, with an -impatient movement, which, had she been less fair, less delicate, less -young, would have been a stamp of her foot. Her tone and look and -gesture were so passionate that the young man stood aghast.</p> - -<p>“What have I done?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“What have you done? You know as well as I do. Oh, Edgar, you have given -me such a blow! I thought when you came home, and we were together, that -all would be well; but to see you the very first day—the very first -opportunity—throw yourself into the arms of people like these—people -that never should have entered this house——”</p> - -<p>“Who are they? What are they? Have they done us any harm?” said the -astonished Edgar. “If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> they are enemies you should have told me. How was -I to know?”</p> - -<p>“Enemies!” said Clare, with increasing indignation; “how could such -people be <i>our</i> enemies? They are a great deal worse—they are the -vulgar rich, whom I hate; they are trying to force themselves in among -us because they are rich; they are trades-people, pretending to be our -equals, venturing to ask you to dinner! Oh, Edgar, could not you see by -my manner that they were not people to know?”</p> - -<p>“I saw you were very rude to them, certainly,” he said. “But, Clare, -that goes against me; even—may I say it?—it disappointed me. I do not -understand how a lady can be rude.”</p> - -<p>Once more she repeated his last word with a certain contempt. “Rude! The -man is a tradesman. They have thrust themselves into the village; and -now they have seized an opportunity—which was in reality no -opportunity—to thrust themselves into the house. Edgar, I have no -patience; I ought not to have patience. They have been impertinent. And -you as civil as if they were the best people in the county—and going to -dine with them! I did not expect this.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry, Clare, if it hurts you,” he said. “They seemed very kind; -and how could I help it? Besides, you made them very uncomfortable, and -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> owed them amends. And you know I am but an indifferent Arden; I have -not any horror of trade.”</p> - -<p>“You told them so!” said Clare—“you took people like these into your -confidence, and confessed to them that you were not an Arden like the -rest of us! Oh, please, Edgar, don’t! you might think how unhappy it -makes me. As if it was not enough——”</p> - -<p>“What, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, can’t you understand?” she cried. “Is it not enough to <i>see</i> that -you are not a thorough Arden; that you don’t care for the things we care -for, nor hate the things we hate. But to have to hear you say so as if -it did not matter!—it is the grief of my life.”</p> - -<p>And she threw herself into a chair, and cried—weeping a sudden shower -of passionate tears, which were so hot and rapid that they seemed to -scorch her, yet dried as they fell. Her brother came and stood by her -chair, putting his hand softly on her bent head. Edgar was sorry, but -not only because she wept. He was grieved, and perplexed, and -disappointed. A half smile came over his serious face at her last words. -“My poor Clare—my poor Clare,” he repeated softly, smoothing the dark -glossy locks of her hair. When the thunder shower was over he spoke, -with a voice that sounded more manly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> and mature and grave than anything -Clare had heard from him before.</p> - -<p>“You must take my character and my training a little into -consideration,” he said. “If I had been brought up like you I might have -thought with you. But, Clare, though I love you more than anything in -the world, and would not vex you for all Arden, still I cannot change my -nature. Arden is only a very small spot in England, dear, not to speak -of the world; and I can’t look at the big world through Arden -spectacles. You must not ask it of me; anything else I will do to please -you. I will give up dining with these people if you wish it. Of course I -don’t care for their dinner; but they looked as if they wanted to be -kind——”</p> - -<p>“They wanted to come to Arden, to know you and me, and get admittance -among the county families,” said Clare in one breath.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps. I suppose we are all mean wretches more or less,” he -said. “Suppose we give up the Pimpernels; but you must not ask me to -avoid everybody who has anything to do, or to content myself with the -old groove. For instance, I like pictures, though you say the Ardens -don’t——”</p> - -<p>“That is not what I meant,” said Clare, with a blush; “I meant——”</p> - -<p>“You meant opposition, and to snub that fat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> good-tempered man; and you -only made me uncomfortable—<i>he</i> did not feel it. But I like pictures, -Clare, and the people who paint them. I have known a great many in my -life; and when I like any man I cannot pause to ask what is his -pedigree, or what is his occupation. Putting aside the Pimpernels, you -must still make up your mind to that.”</p> - -<p>“But you will put aside the Pimpernels?” said Clare, with pleading -looks.</p> - -<p>“I will see about it,” said Edgar. It was the first time he had not -yielded, and Clare felt it. She felt too that a shade of real difference -had stolen between them—almost of separation. She had been -unreasonable, and had put herself in the wrong; and he had set up a -principle of action, erected as it were his standard, and made it -clearly apparent what he would and what he would not do. She went away -to her own room with a certain soreness in her heart. She had committed -herself. Certain words of her own and certain words of his came back to -her with the poignant shame of youth—what she had said about the -pictures, and what Edgar had said of her rudeness, and of the antagonism -which only made him uncomfortable. She had made herself ridiculous, she -thought—that worst of all offences against one’s self. It seemed to the -proud Clare as if neither she nor any one else<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> could forget how -ridiculous she had made herself; and more than ever with tenfold force -of enmity she hated those unlucky Pimpernels.</p> - -<p>It was brilliant daylight, the sun was setting, and the air full of -light and sweetness, when they set off upon their drive to Thorne. Clare -was all black, as her mourning demanded—black ornaments, black -gloves—everything about her as sable as the night—a dress, which was -not perhaps so becoming to her dark hair and pale complexion as it would -have been to pretty Alice Pimpernel, or the fair-haired Gussy, whom -Edgar was going (though he did not know it) expressly to see. Probably -Clare did not waste a thought on the subject, for she was young and -entirely fancy free, a condition of things which frees a girl from any -keen anxiety in respect to her appearance. She was wrapped in a large -white cloak, however, which relieved the blackness, and brought out the -delicate pale tints of her face as only white can do; and Edgar, as he -took his place by her side, found himself admiring her as if he had seen -her for the first time. The high, proud features, so finely cut, the -perfect roundness of youth in the cheek, the large, lovely blue eyes, -were of a kind of beauty which you may like or dislike as you please, -but which it is impossible to ignore. Clare was beautiful, there was no -other word for it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span>. Not pretty, like that pretty Alice; and her proud -looks and air of reserve enhanced her beauty, just as the sweet wistful -frankness of the simpler girl added a charm to hers. “I don’t suppose I -shall see any one like my sister where we are going,” Edgar said, with -that admiring affection which is so pleasant in a brother.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, they are all quite a different style,” Clare answered with -a laugh, turning aside the compliment, which nevertheless pleased her. -This did much to restore the former delightful balance of affairs -between them. About half-a-mile from the village they came upon a house, -just visible through the trees, a very old solid mass of red brick, -shining with a subdued glow in the midst of the green wealth of foliage, -which looked the greener for its redness, and heightened its native -depth of colour. There was a fine cedar on the lawn, and many great old -trees within the enclosure, which was so arranged that it might be taken -for a park. Edgar gave an inquiring glance at his sister, who answered -him by shaking her head, and putting up her hands as if to shut out the -hateful vision.</p> - -<p>“So that is the Red House?” said Edgar. “I had forgotten all about it. -It is a nice house enough. If I should ever happen to be turned out of -Arden, I should like to live there.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<p>“What nonsense you do talk!” said Clare. “Who can turn you out of Arden, -unless there was a revolution, as some people think?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there will be a revolution. But have we no cousins who -might do one that good turn?” he said, laughing. “How? Oh, I can’t tell -how. It is impossible, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Simply impossible,” said Clare with energy. “We are the elder branch. -The Ardens of Warwickshire were quite a late offshoot. You are the head -of the name.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad to hear it,” said Edgar; “and I am sure it is a very proud -position. Does that Red House belong to us, Clare? But if it had -belonged to us, I suppose you would not have let it to those -respectable—I mean objectionable—Pimpernels?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak of the Pimpernels,” she said. “Oh, Edgar, if you only knew -how much I dislike those sort of people—not because they are common -people—on the contrary, I am very fond of the poor; but those -presumptuous pushing <i>nouveaux riches</i>—don’t let us speak of them! We -have got a cousin—only one; and if you were not to have any children, I -suppose the estates would go to his son. But I hope they never will.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Edgar. “Is there any reason to suppose that his son would be -less satisfactory than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> mine? I hope he is less problematical. Tell me -about him—who is he—where is he? I feel very curious about my heir.”</p> - -<p>“And I hate to hear you speak in such a careless way,” said his sister. -“Why should you show so much levity on so serious a subject? Arthur -Arden is a great deal older than you are. I dislike him very much. Pray, -don’t speak of him to me.”</p> - -<p>“Another subject I must not speak of!” said Edgar. “Why do you dislike -him? Is it because he is my heir? You need not hate a man for that.”</p> - -<p>“But I do hate him,” said Clare, with a clouded brow; and the rest of -the way to Thorne was gone over in comparative silence. The jars that -kept occurring, putting now one string, now another out of tune, -vibrated through both with an unceasing thrill of discord. There was no -quarrel, and yet each was afraid to touch on any new subject. To be -sure, it was Clare who was in the wrong; but then, why was he so light, -so easily moved, so free from all natural prejudices, she said to -herself? Men ought not to run from one subject to another in this -careless way. They ought to be more grave, more stately in their ways of -thinking, not moved by freaks of imagination. Such levity was so -different from the Arden disposition that it looked almost like -something wrong to Clare.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span></p> - -<p>Thorne was a great house, but not like Arden. It stood alone, not -shadowed by trees, amid the great green solitude of its park; and -already lights were glimmering in the open windows, though it was still -day. The servants were closing shutters in the dining-room, and the -table gleamed inside under the lamplight, making itself brightly -visible, like a picture, with all its ornaments and flowers. It was Lady -Augusta’s weakness that she could not bear to dine in daylight. In the -very height of summer she had to support the infliction; but as long as -she could she shut out the intrusive day. Edgar felt his head swim as he -walked into the cool green drawing-room after his sister into the midst -of a bevy of ladies. He was fond of ladies, like most well-conditioned -men; but the first moment of introducing himself into the midst of a -crowd of them fluttered him, as was quite reasonable. There was Ada, the -quiet one, on a sofa by herself, knitting. Edgar discriminated her at -once. And that, no doubt, was Gussy, with the prettiest tiny figure, and -a charming little rose-tinted face, something between an angel and a -Dresden shepherdess. “That will be my one,” he said to himself, -remembering with natural perversity that Ada was Clare’s favourite. That -little indication was enough to raise in the young man’s mind a certain -disinclination to Ada.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> And he did not know that Lady Augusta had -already decided upon the advisability of allotting to him her second -daughter. He could not see the others, who were busied in different -corners with different occupations. It was the first English party of -the kind he had ever been at, and he was very curious about it. And then -it was so perfectly orthodox a party. There was the nearest squire and -his wife, one of the great Blundell family; and there was a younger son -of the Earl’s, with his young wife; and the rector of the parish, and a -man from London. Such a party is not complete without the man from -London, who has all the news at his finger-ends, and under whose -manipulation the biggest of cities becomes in reality that “little -village” which slang calls it. “Will you take in my daughter, Mr. -Arden?” said Lady Augusta; and Edgar, without any thought of his own -dignity, was quite happy to find Gussy’s pretty curls brushing his -shoulder as they joined the procession into the dining-room. He thought -it was kind of his new friends to provide him with such a pleasant -companion, while Clare was making herself rather unhappy with the -thought that he should have taken in, if not the Honourable Mrs. -Everard, at least Mrs. Blundell, or, at the very least, Ada, who was the -Princess Royal of the House of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> Thorne. “I am so glad all the solemn -people are at the other end of the table,” Gussy whispered to him, as -they took their places. “Mr. Arden, I am sure you are not solemn. You -are not a bit like Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Is Clare solemn?” asked Edgar, with a half sense of treachery to his -sister; but he could not refuse to smile at Gussy’s pretty up-turned -face.</p> - -<p>“I love her dearly; she is as good as gold,” said Gussy, “but not such -fun as I am sure you are. If you will promise never to betray me to -mamma, I will tell you who everyone here is.”</p> - -<p>“Not if I went to the stake for it,” said Edgar; and so his first -alliance was formed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">You</span> know mamma, of course,” said Edgar’s pretty cicerone. “I suppose I -need not enter into the family history. You know all us Thornleighs, as -we have known you all our lives.”</p> - -<p>“I am ashamed of my ignorance; but I have never been at home to have the -chance of knowing the Thornleighs,” said Edgar. “Don’t imagine it is my -fault.”</p> - -<p>“No; it is quite romantic, I know,” said Gussy. “You have been brought -up abroad. Oh yes; I know all about it. Mr. Arden nearly died of losing -your mother, and you are so like her that he could not bear to look at -you. Poor dear old Mr. Arden, he was so nice. But I thought you must -have known us by instinct all the same. That is Ada sitting opposite. I -must begin with us young ones, for what could I say about papa and -mamma? Everybody knows papa and mamma. It would be like repeating a -chapter out of Macaulay’s history, or that sort of thing. Harry is the -eldest, but he is not at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> And that is Ada opposite. She is the -good one among us. It is she who keeps up the credit of the family. Poor -dear mamma has plenty to do with five girls on her hands, not to speak -of the boys. And Ada looks after the schools, and manages the poor -people, and all that. All the cottagers adore her. But she is not <i>fun</i>, -though she is a dear. There is not another boy for ever so long. We -girls all made a rush into the world before them. I am sure I don’t know -why. As if we were any good!”</p> - -<p>“Are not you any good?” said Edgar, laughing. He was not used to -advanced views about women, and he thought it was a joke.</p> - -<p>“Of course, we are no good,” said Gussy. “We are all very well so long -as we are young—and some of us are ornamental. I think Helena is very -ornamental for one; but we can’t do anything or be anything. You should -hear what she says about that. Well, then, after Ada there is nothing -very important—there is only me. I am the chattering one, and some -people call me the little one, or the one with the curls. I have not any -character to speak of, nor any vocation in the family, so it is not -worth while considering me. Let us pass on to Helena. That is Helena, -the one who is so like papa. I think she is awfully handsome. Of course, -I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> mean that I expect you to think so, or to say so; but all her -sisters admire her very much. And she is as clever as a dozen men. All -the boys put together are not half so clever as she is. She ought to -have been in Parliament, and that sort of thing; but she can’t, for she -is a girl. Don’t you think it is hard? Well, I do. There is nothing she -could not do, if she only had the chance. That is the Rector who is -sitting beside her. He is High, but he is Broad as well. He burns -candles on the altar, and lets us decorate the church, and has choral -service; but all the same he is very philosophical in his preaching. -Helena thinks a great deal of that. She says he satisfies both the -material and intellectual wants. Do you feel sleepy? Don’t be afraid to -confess it, for I do myself whenever anybody uses long words. I thought -it was my duty to tell you. For anything I know, you may be intellectual -too.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I am intellectual, but I am not in the least sleepy,” -said Edgar; “pray go on. I begin to feel the mists clear away, and the -outlines grow distinct. I am a kind of Columbus on the shores of a new -world; but he had not such a guide as you.”</p> - -<p>“Please wait a little,” said Gussy, shaking her pretty curls, “till I -have eaten my soup. I am so fond of white soup. It is a combination of -every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> sort of eatable that ever was invented, and yet it does not give -you any trouble. I must have two minutes for my soup.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is my turn,” said Edgar. “I should like to tell you all my -difficulties about Arden. Clare is not such an able guide as you are. -She does not tell me who everybody is, but expects me to know. And when -one has been away from home all one’s life, instinct is a poor guide. -Fancy, I should never have known that you were the chattering one, and -Miss Thornleigh the good one, if you had not told me! I might have -supposed it was the other way. And if you had been at Arden I never -should have made such a dreadful mistake as I made this morning.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, tell me! what was it?” said Gussy, with her spoon suspended in her -hand, looking up at him with dancing eyes.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will not think the worse of me for such a confession. I was -so misled as to say I would go and dine with a certain Mr. -Pimpernel——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know,” said Gussy, clapping her hands, and forgetting all about -her soup. “I wish I could have seen Clare’s face. But it is not at all a -bad house to dine at, and I advise you to go. He is a cotton-merchant or -something; but, you know, though it is all very well for Clare, who is -an only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> daughter and an heiress, we can’t afford to stand on our -dignity. All the men say it is a very nice house.”</p> - -<p>“Then I have not behaved so very badly after all?” said Edgar. “You -can’t think what a comfort that is to me. I rather thought I deserved to -be sent to the Tower.”</p> - -<p>“I should not think it was bad at all,” said Gussy. “I should like it of -all things; but then I am not Clare. They have everything, you know, -that can be got with money. And such wine, the men say; though I don’t -understand that either. And there are some lovely pictures, and a nice -daughter. I know she is pretty, for I have seen her, and they say she -will have oceans of money. Money must be very nice when there are heaps -of it,” Gussy added softly, with a little sigh.</p> - -<p>Edgar paused for a moment, taken aback. He had not yet met his ideal -woman; but it seemed to him that when he did meet her, she would care -nothing for money, and would shrink from any contact with the world. A -woman was to him a soft, still-shadowy ideal, surrounded by an -atmosphere of the tenderest poetry, and celestial detachment from earth -and its necessities. It gave him a gentle shock to be brought thus face -to face with so many active, real human creatures, full of personal -wants and wishes, and to identify them as the maiden-queens<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> of -imagination. Clare had not helped him to any such realisation of the -abstract woman. There was no sort of struggle in her being, no -aspiration after anything external to her. It was impossible to think of -her as capable of advancement or promotion. Edgar himself was by no -means destitute of ambition. He had already felt that to settle himself -down with all his energies and powers into the calm routine of a country -gentleman’s life would be impossible. He wanted more to do, something to -aim at, the prospect of an expanding existence. But Clare was different. -She was in harmony with all her surroundings, wanted nothing, was -adapted to every necessity of her position—a being totally different -from any man. It seemed to Edgar that so all women should be—passive, -receiving with a tender grace, which made their acceptance a favour and -honour, but never acquiring, never struggling; regarding, indeed, with -horror, any possibility of being obliged to struggle and acquire. Gussy, -though she charmed him, gave him at the same time a gentle shock. That -it should be hard for Helena not to be able to go into Parliament, and -that this fair creature should sigh at the thought of heaps of money, -sounded like sacrilege to him. He came to a confused pause, wondering at -her. Gussy was as keen as a needle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> notwithstanding her chattering, and -she found him out.</p> - -<p>“Do you think it is shocking to care for money?” she said.</p> - -<p>“N-no,” said Edgar, “not for some people. I might, without any -derogation; but for a lady—— You must remember I don’t know anything -about the world.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Gussy, “of course you don’t; but a lady wants money as much -as a man. We girls are dreadfully hampered sometimes, and can’t do what -we please because of money. The boys go and spend, but we can’t. It is a -little hard. You should hear Helena on that. I don’t mind myself, for I -can always manage somehow; but Helena gives all sort of subscriptions, -and likes to buy books and things; and then she has to keep it off her -dress. Papa gives us as much as he can afford, so we have nothing to -complain of; for, fancy five girls! and all to be provided for -afterwards. Of course, we can’t go into professions like the boys. I -don’t want to change the laws, as Helena does, because I don’t see how -it is to be done; so then the only thing that remains is to wish for -heaps of money—quantities of money; and then everybody could get on.”</p> - -<p>Edgar was very glad to retire into an <i>entrée</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> while this curious -statement of difficulties was being made. It seemed so strange to him, -with all his own wealth, to hear any of his friends wish for money -without offering his purse. Had Gussy been Gus, he would have said—“I -have plenty; take some of mine,” with all the ready goodfellowship of -youth. But he dared not say anything of the kind to the young lady. He -dared not even suggest that it was possible: this wonderful difference -was beyond all aid of legislation. Accordingly, he was silent, and ate -his dinner, and was no longer the agreeable companion Gussy expected him -to be. She did not like her powers of conversation to be thus -practically undervalued, nor was she content, as her sister Helena would -have been, with the feeling that she had made him think. Gussy liked an -immediate return. She liked to make her interlocutors, not think, but -listen, and laugh, and respond, giving her swift repayment for her -trouble. She gave her curls another shake, and changed the subject, -having long ere this got done with her soup.</p> - -<p>“I have not half finished my <i>carte du pays</i>,” she resumed; “don’t you -want to hear about the other people, or have you had enough of Thorne? I -feel sure you must be thinking about your new friends. If I ride over to -see Clare the day after your dinner, will you tell me all about the -Pimpernels? I do so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> want to have a credible account of them, and the -Lesser Celandine, and all——”</p> - -<p>“Who is the Lesser Celandine?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, do not look so grave, as if you could eat me. I believe you -are a little like Clare after all. Of course it is the pretty daughter: -they say she is just like it; peeps from behind her leaves—I mean her -mamma—and never says a word. Don’t you think all girls should do so? -Now, confess, Mr. Arden. I am sure that is what you think, if you would -allow yourself to speak.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose all girls should follow one rule any more than all -boys,” said Edgar, with polite equivocation; and then Gussy returned to -her first subject, and gave him sketches of everybody at the table. Mr. -Blundell, who was stupid and good, and his wife, who was stupid and not -very good; and the Honourable pair, who were close to their young -historian—so close, that she had to speak half in whisper, half in -metaphor. “They have both been so dreadfully taken in,” Gussy said. “She -thought his elder brother was dying; and he thought she was as rich as -the Queen of Sheba; whereas she has only got a little money, and poor -Newmarch is better again. Hush, I can’t say any more. Yes, he is better; -and they say he is going to be married, which would be dreadfully hard -upon them. How wicked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> it is to talk like this!—but then everybody does -it. You hear just the same things everywhere till you get to believe -them, and are so glad of somebody fresh to tell them to. Oh yes, there -is <i>that man</i>. If you were to listen to him for an hour, you would think -there was not a good man nor a good woman in the world. He tells you how -all the marriages are made up, and how she was forced into it, and he -was cheated; or how they quarrelled the day before the wedding, and -broke it off; or how the husband was trapped and made to marry when he -did not want to. Oh, don’t you hate such men? Yet he is very amusing, -especially in the country. I don’t remember his name. He is in some -office or other—somebody’s secretary; but there are dozens just like -him. We are going to town next week, and I shall hate the very sight of -such men; but in the country he is well enough. Oh, there is mamma -moving; do pick up my glove for me, please.”</p> - -<p>Thus Gussy was swept away, leaving her companion a little uncertain as -to the impression she had made upon him. It was a new world, and his -head swam a little with the novelty and the giddiness. When the -gentlemen gathered round the table, and began to talk in a solid -agricultural way about steady-going politics, and the state of the -country, and the prospects of the game, he found<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> his head relieved a -little. Clare had given him a glance as she left the room, but he had -not understood the glance. It was an appeal to him not to commit -himself; but Edgar had no intention of committing himself among the men -as they drank their wine and got through their talk. He was far more -likely to do that with Gussy, to make foolish acknowledgments, and -betray the unsophistication of his mind. But he did not betray himself -to Mr. Blundell and Mr. Thornleigh. They shook their heads a little, and -feared he was affected by the Radical tendencies of the age. But so were -many of the young fellows, the Oxford men who had distinguished -themselves, the young dilettante philanthropists and revolutionists of -the time. If he sinned in that way, he sinned in good company. There was -Lord Newmarch, for instance, the Earl’s eldest son, and future magnate -of the county, who was almost Red in his views. Edgar got on very well -with the men. They said to each other, “Old Arden treated that boy very -badly. It is a wonder to see how well he has turned out;” and the ladies -in the drawing-room were still more charitably disposed towards the -young Squire. There was thus a certain amount of social success in Edgar -Arden’s first entrance into his new sphere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> the dinner at Thorne there was nothing said between Edgar and -Clare about that other humbler invitation which had caused the first -struggle between them. She took Mr. Fielding into her confidence, but -she said nothing more to her brother. As for the Rector, he was not so -hard on the Pimpernels as was the young lady at the Hall. “They are -common people, I allow,” he said. “They have not much refinement, -nor—nor education perhaps; and I highly disapprove of that perpetual -croquet-playing, which wastes all the afternoons, and puts young Denbigh -off his head. I do not like it, I confess, Clare; but still, you -know—if I may say exactly what I think—there are worse people than the -Pimpernels.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose they steal,” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“My dear, no doubt it is quite natural, with your education and -habits—but I wish you would not be quite so contemptuous of these good -people. They are really very good sort of people,” said Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> Fielding, -shaking his head. She looked very obdurate in her severe young beauty as -the Rector looked at her, bending his brows till his eyes almost -disappeared among the wrinkles. “They find us places for our boys and -girls in a way I have never been able to manage before; and whenever -there is any bad case in the parish——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fielding, that is our business,” said Clare, almost sharply. “I -don’t understand how you can talk of our people to anybody but Edgar or -me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean the people here,” said Mr. Fielding meekly, “but at the -other end of the parish. You know that new village, which is not even on -Arden land—on that corner which belongs to old Stirzaker—where there -are so many Irish? I don’t like to trouble you always about these kind -of people. And when I have wanted anything——”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t want anything from them again,” said Clare. “I don’t like -it. What is the good of our being lords of the manor if we do not look -after our own people? Mr. Fielding, you know I think a great deal of our -family. You often blame me for it; but I should despise myself if I did -not think of our duties as well. All that is our business. -Please—please don’t ask anything of those Pimpernels again!”</p> - -<p>“Those Pimpernels!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> his head. “Ah, Clare! -they are flesh and blood like yourself, and the young lady is a very -nice girl; and why should I not permit them to be kind to their -fellow-creatures because you think that is your right? Everybody has a -right to be good to their neighbours. And then they find us places for -our boys and girls.”</p> - -<p>“I have forgotten about everything since Edgar came,” said Clare, with a -blush. “I have not seen old Sarah since the first day. Please come with -me, and I will go and see her now. What sort of places? They are much -better in nice houses in the country than in Liverpool. The girls get -spoiled when they go into a town.”</p> - -<p>“But they get good wages,” said Mr. Fielding, “and are able to help -their people. I have not told you of this, for I knew you were -prejudiced. Old Sarah has a lodger now, a relation of Mr. Perfitt—an -old Scotchwoman—something quite new. I should like you to see her, -Clare. I have seen plenty of Scotch in Liverpool, both workmen and -merchants; but I do not understand this old lady. She is a new type to -me.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose being Scotch does not make much difference,” said Clare, -discontentedly. “I do not like them much for my part. Is she in want, or -can I be of any use to her? I will go and see her in that case—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Fielding, in alarm, “Want! I tell you she is a -relation of Perfitt’s, and they are all as proud as Lucifer. I almost -wonder, Clare,” he added more softly, dropping his voice, “that you, who -are so proud yourself, should not have more sympathy with the pride of -others.”</p> - -<p>“Others!” cried Clare, with indignation, and then she stopped, and -looked at him with her eyes full. If they had not been in the open air -in the village street she would have eased herself by a burst of tears. -“I am all wrong since Edgar came home,” she cried passionately out of -the depths of her heart.</p> - -<p>“Since Edgar came home? But my dear child—my dear child!” cried Mr. -Fielding, “I thought you were so proud of your brother.”</p> - -<p>“And so I am,” said Clare, hastily brushing away the tears. “I know he -is good—he is better than me; but he puts me all wrong notwithstanding. -He will not see things as I do. His nature is always leading him the -other way. He has no sort of feeling—no—Oh! I don’t know how to -describe it. He puts me all wrong.”</p> - -<p>“You must not indulge such thoughts,” said the Rector, with a certain -mild authority which did not misbecome him. “He shows a great deal of -right feeling, it appears to me. And we must not discuss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> Edgar’s -qualities. He is Edgar, and that is enough.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t need to tell me that,” cried Clare, with sudden offence; and -then she stopped, and controlled herself. “I should like to go and see -this old Scotchwoman,” she added, after a moment’s pause. What she had -said was true, though she was sorry for having said it. Edgar, with his -strange ways of thinking, his spontaneousness, and freedom of mind, had -put her all wrong. She had been secure and certain in her own system of -life so long as everybody thought with her, and the bonds of education -and habit were unbroken. But now, though she was still as strong in her -Ardenism as ever, an uneasy, half-angry feeling that all the world did -not agree with her—nay, that the person of most importance to her in -the world did not agree with her—oppressed Clare’s mind, and made her -wretched. It is hard always to bear such a blow, struck at one’s -youthful convictions. It is intolerable at first, till the young -sufferer learns that other people have really a right to their opinions, -and that it is possible to disagree with him or her and yet not be -wicked. Clare could not deny that Edgar’s different views were -maintained with great gentleness and candour towards herself—that they -were held by one who was not an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> evil-minded revolutionary, but in every -other respect all that she wished her brother to be. But she felt his -eyes upon her when she said and did many little things which a few weeks -ago she would have thought most right and natural; and even while she -chafed at the tacit disapprobation, a secret self-criticism, which she -ignored and struggled against, stole into the recesses of her soul. She -would not acknowledge nor allow it to be possible; but yet it was there. -The natural consequence was that all her little haughtinesses, her airs -of superiority, her distinctions between the Ardens and their class and -all the rest of the world, sharpened and became more striking. She was -half-conscious that she exaggerated her own opinions, painted the lights -whiter and the shadows more profound, in involuntary reaction against -the new influences which began to affect her. She had not noticed the -Pimpernels, though she knew them well by sight, and all about them; but -she had no active feeling of enmity towards them until that unfortunate -day when they ventured to call, and Edgar, in his ignorance, received -them as if they had been the family of a Duke. Since then Clare had come -to hate the innocent people. She had begun to feel rabid about their -class generally, and to find words straying to her lips such as had -struck her as in very bad taste when old Lady Summerton<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> said them. Lady -Summerton believed the poor were a host of impostors, and trades-people -an organised band of robbers, and attributed to the <i>nouveaux riches</i> -every debasing practice and sentiment. Clare had been disgusted by these -opinions in the old days. She had drawn herself up in her youthful -dignity, and had almost reproved her senior. “They are good enough sort -of people, only they are not of our class,” Clare had said; “please -don’t call them names. One may be a Christian though one is not -well-born.” Such had been her truly Christian feeling while yet she was -undisturbed by any doubt that to be well-born, and especially to be born -in Arden, was the highest grace conceded by heaven. But now that doubt -had been cast upon this gospel, and that she daily and hourly felt the -scepticism in Edgar’s eyes, Clare’s feelings had become as violent as -old Lady Summerton’s. The sentiment in her mind was that of scorn and -detestation towards the multitude which was struggling to rise into that -heaven wherein the Ardens and Thornleighs shone serene. “The poor -people” were different; they made no pretences, assumed no equality; but -the idea that Alice Pimpernel came under the generic title of young lady -exactly as she herself did, and that the daughter of a Liverpool man -might ride, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> drive, and dress, and go everywhere on the same footing -as Clare Arden, became wormwood to her soul.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fielding walked along by her side somewhat sadly. He was Clare’s -godfather, and he was very proud of her. His own nature was far too mild -and gentle to be able to understand her vehemence of feeling on these -points; but he had been grieved by it often, and had given her soft -reproofs, which as yet had produced little effect. His great hope, -however, had been in the return of her brother. “Edgar must know the -world a little; he will show her better than I can how wrong she is,” -the gentle Rector had said to himself. But, alas, Edgar had come home, -and the result had not been according to his hope. “He is young and -impetuous, and he has hurried her convictions,” was the comment he made -in his grieved mind as he accompanied her along the village street. Mr. -Fielding blamed no one as long as he could help it; much less would he -blame Clare, who was to him as his own child. He thought within himself -that now the only chance for her was Life, that best yet hardest of all -teachers. Life would show her how vain were her theories, how harsh her -opinions; but then Life itself must be harsh and hard if it is to teach -effectual lessons, and it was painful to anticipate any harshness for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> -Clare. He went with her, somewhat drooping and despondent, though the -air was sweet with honeysuckle and early roses. The summer was sweet, -and so was life, at that blossoming time which the girl had reached; but -there were still scorching suns, as well as the winds of autumn and the -chills of winter, to come.</p> - -<p>Old Sarah had more ways than one of gaining her homely livelihood. The -upper floor of her cottage, on which there were two rooms, was furnished -out of the remains of some old furniture which an ancient mistress had -bequeathed to her; and there at distant intervals the old woman had a -lodger, when such visitors came to Arden. They were homely little rooms, -low-roofed, and furnished with the taste peculiar to a real cottage, and -not in the least like the ideal one; but people in search of health, -with small means at their disposal, were very glad to give her the ten -or twelve shillings a week, which was all she asked. Down below, in the -rooms where Sarah herself lived, she was in the habit of receiving one -or two young girls, orphans, or the children of the poorest and least -dependable parishioners, to train them to household work and plain -sewing. It was Clare’s idea, and it had worked very well; but for some -time past Clare had neglected her <i>protégées</i>. Edgar’s arrival and all -the dawning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> struggles of the new life had occupied and confused her, -and she had left her old nurse and her young pupils to themselves. She -could scarcely remember as she went in who they were, though Sarah’s -pupils were known in the parish as Miss Arden’s girls. There were two on -hand at the present moment in the little kitchen which was Sarah’s -abode. One stood before a large white-covered table ironing fine linen, -while the old nurse sat by in her big chair, spectacles on nose, and a -piece of coarse needlework in hand, superintending the process, with -many comments, which, added to the heat of the day and the irons, had -heightened Mary Smith’s complexion to a brilliant crimson. The other sat -working in the shady background, the object of Mary’s intensest envy, -unremarked and unreproved. It was the unfortunate clear-starcher who had -to make her bob to the gentlefolks, and called forth Miss Arden’s -questions. “I hope she is a good girl,” Clare said, looking at Mary, who -stood curtseying and hot, with the iron in her hand. “She is none so -good but she might be better, Miss Clare,” said old Sarah; “I don’t know -none o’ them as is; but she do come on in her ironing. As for collars -and cuffs and them plain things, I trust her by herself.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to hear it,” said Clare, “and I hope Jane is as -satisfactory; but we have not time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> to talk about them to-day. Mr. -Fielding says you have a new lodger, whom he wishes me to go and see. Is -she upstairs? Is she at home? Does she like the place? And tell me what -sort of person she is, for I am going to see her now.”</p> - -<p>Sarah got up from her chair with a bewildered look, and took off her -spectacles, which she always did in emergencies. “I beg your pardon, -Miss Clare,” she said with a curtsey, “but—— She ain’t not to say a -poor person. I don’t know as she’d—be pleased—— Not as your visit, -Miss, ain’t a compliment; but——”</p> - -<p>“The Scotch are very proud,” said Mr. Fielding, in his most deprecating -tone; “they are dreadfully independent, and like their own way. And, -besides, she does not want anything of us. She is not, as Sarah says, a -poor person. I think, perhaps, another day——”</p> - -<p>“Then why did you bring me here to see her?” said Clare, with some -reason. Was it to read her a practical lesson—to show her that she was -no longer queen in Arden? A flush of hasty anger came to her pale cheek.</p> - -<p>“I only meant——” Mr. Fielding began; “all that I intended was—— Why, -here is Edgar! and Mr. Perfitt with him. About business, I suppose, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> -you two are going together. My dear boy, I am so glad you are taking to -your work.”</p> - -<p>“We have been half over the estate,” said Edgar, coming in, and putting -down his hat on Mary Smith’s ironing table, while she stood and gaped at -him, forgetting her curtsey in the awe of so close an approach to the -young Squire; “but Perfitt has some one to visit here, and I have come -to see Sarah, which is not work, but pleasure. I did not expect to find -you all. Perfitt, go and see your friend; never mind me. Oh, I beg your -pardon,” said Edgar, standing suddenly aside. They all looked up for the -moment with a little start, and yet there was nothing to startle them. -It was only Sarah’s Scotch lodger, Mr. Perfitt’s relative, who had come -into the little room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">She</span> was a woman of about sixty, with very dark eyes and very white -hair—a tall woman, quite unbent by the weight of her years, and -unshaken by anything she could have met with in them; and yet she did -not look as if she had encountered little, or found life an easy passage -from the one unknown to the skirts of the other. She did not look -younger than her age, and yet there was no sentiment of age about her. -She was not the kind of woman of whom one says that they have been -beautiful, or have been pretty. She had perhaps never been either one or -the other; but all that she had ever been, or more, she was now. Her -eyes were still perfectly clear and bright, and they had depths in them -which could never have belonged to them in youth. The outline of her -face was not the round and perfect outline which belongs to the young, -but every wrinkle had its meaning. It was not mere years of which they -spoke, but of many experiences, varied knowledge, deep acquaintance with -that hardest of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> all sciences—life. Not a trace of its original colour -belonged to the hair—slightly rippled, with an irregularity which gave -a strange impression of life and vigour to it—which appeared under her -cap. The cap was dead white too, tied under her chin with a solid bow of -white ribbon; and this mass of whiteness brought out the pure tints of -her face like a picture. These tints had deepened a little in tone from -the red and white of youth, but were as clear as a child’s complexion of -lilies and roses. The slight shades of brown did but mellow the -countenance, as it does in so many painted faces. The eyes were full of -energy and animation, not like the eyes of a spectator, but of one -accustomed to do and to struggle—acting, not looking on. The whole -party assembled in old Sarah’s living-room turned round and looked at -her as she came in, and there was not one who did not feel abashed when -they became conscious that for a moment this inspection was not quite -respectful to the stranger. So far as real individuality and personal -importance went, she was a more notable personage than any one of them. -The Rector, who was the nearest to her in age, drew a little aside from -before the clear eyes of this old woman. He had been a quiet man, -harboured from all the storms, or almost all the storms of existence; -but here was one who had gone through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> them all. As for Edgar, there was -something in her looks which won his heart in a moment. He went up to -her with his natural frankness, while the others stood looking on -doubtfully. “I am sure it is you whom Perfitt has been talking to me -about,” he said. “I hope you like Arden. I hope your granddaughter is -better. And I trust you will tell Perfitt if there is anything than can -be done to make you more comfortable; my sister and I will be too -glad——”</p> - -<p>Here Clare stepped forward, feeling that she must not permit herself to -be committed. “I am sure Sarah will do her very best to make you -comfortable,” she said, with great distinctness, not hurrying over her -words, as Edgar did—and not disposed to permit any vague large promises -to be made in her name. She was not particularly anxious about the -stranger’s comfort; but Edgar was hasty, and would always have his way.</p> - -<p>“I am much obliged to ye both,” said the newcomer, her strong yet soft -Scotch voice, with its broad vowels, sounding large and ample, like her -person. She gave but one glance at Clare, but her eyes dwelt upon Edgar -with curious interest and eagerness. No one else in the place seemed to -attract her as he did. She returned the touch of his hand with a -vigorous clasp, which startled even him. “I hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> ye’re but late come -hame,” she said, in a deep melodious tone, lingering upon the words.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Edgar, somewhat surprised by her air of interest. “I am -almost as much a stranger here as you are. Perfitt tells me you have -come from the hills. I hope Arden will agree with the little girl.”</p> - -<p>“Is there some one ill?” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“My granddaughter,” said the stranger, “but no just a little -girl—little enough, poor thing—the weakliest I ever trained; but she’s -been seventeen years in this world—a weary world to her. Her life is a -thread. I cannot tell where she got her weakness from—no from my side.”</p> - -<p>“Na; not from your side,” echoed Perfitt, who had been standing behind. -“But Mr. Arden has other things ado than listen to our clavers about our -family. I’ll go with you, with his leave, up the stair.”</p> - -<p>“Has Dr. Somers been to see her?” said Clare. “If she is Mr Perfitt’s -relation, perhaps we could be of some use; some jelly perhaps, or -fruit——”</p> - -<p>“I am much obliged to the young lady, but I’ll not trouble anybody,” was -the answer. “Thank ye all. If I might ask the liberty, when Jeanie is -able, of a walk about your park——”</p> - -<p>She had turned to Edgar again, upon whom her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> eyes dwelt with growing -interest. Even Mr. Fielding thought it strange. “If she wants anything, -surely I am the fit person to help her,” Clare could not help saying -within herself. But it was Edgar to whom the stranger turned. He, too, -was a little surprised by her look. “The park is open to everybody” he -said; “that is no favour. But if you would like to go through the -gardens and the private grounds—or even the house—Perfitt, you can -arrange all that. And perhaps you might speak to the gardener, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“Whatever you wish, Edgar,” said his sister, turning away. She was -displeased. It was she who ought naturally to have been appealed to, and -she was left out. But the new-comer evidently was honestly oblivious of -Clare’s very presence. She had no intention of disrespect to the young -lady, or of neglecting her claims; but she forgot her simply, being -fascinated by her brother. It was him whom she thanked with concise and -reserved words, but a certain strange fulness of tone and expression. -And then she made the party a little bow, which took in the whole, and -turned and led the way up the narrow cottage stair—Perfitt following -her—leaving them all considerably puzzled, and more moved than Clare -would have allowed to be possible. “If this is your Scotchwoman,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span>” she -said, turning to the Rector, “I don’t wonder you found her original;” -and Clare went hastily out of the cottage, without a word to Sarah, -followed by the gentlemen, who did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>“Listen to her story before you begin to dislike her,” said Edgar. -“Perfitt told me as we came along. It appears she had her daughter’s -family thrown on her hands a great many years ago. She has a little farm -in Scotland somewhere, and manages it herself. When these children came -to her, she set to work as if she had been six men. She has brought up -and educated every one of them,—not to be ploughmen, as you would -think—but educated them in the Scotch way; one is a doctor, another a -clergyman, and so on. If you don’t respect a woman like that, I do. -Perfitt says she never flinched nor complained, but went at her work -like a hero. And this is a granddaughter of another family whom she has -taken charge of in the same way.”</p> - -<p>“I felt sure she was something remarkable,” said Mr. Fielding, “I told -Clare I had never seen any one quite like her; now, didn’t I? Scotch, -you know—very Scotch; but to me a new type.”</p> - -<p>“I think I prefer the old type,” said Clare, with a feeling of -opposition, which she herself scarcely understood; “one knows what to do -with them; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> then they are civil, at least. I am going to see some -now,” and she turned back suddenly, waving her hand to her companions, -and went on past Sarah’s cottage to pay her visits. The people she was -going to see were quite of the old type. They had no susceptibilities to -<i>menagér</i>, no over-delicate feelings to be studied. They were ready to -accept all that could be procured, and to ask for more. Clare knew, when -she entered these cottages, that she was about to hear a long list of -wants, and to have it made apparent to her that the comfort, and health, -and happiness of her pensioners was entirely in her hands. It was more -flattering than the independence of the stranger, who wanted nothing; -but yet the contrast confused the mind of the girl, who had never had -anything of the kind made so clearly apparent to her before. One of her -old women had an orphan granddaughter too; but her complaints were many -of the responsibility this threw upon her, and the trouble she had in -keeping her charge in order. “Them young lasses, they eats and they -drinks, and they’re never done; when a cup o’ tea would serve me, -there’s a cooking and a messing for Lizzy; and out o’ evenings when I -just want her; and every penny a going for nonsense. At my time o’ life, -Miss, it ain’t bother as one wants; it’s quiet as does best for ou’d -folks.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<p>“But she has nobody to take care of her except you,” said Clare, -pondering her new lesson.</p> - -<p>“Eh, Miss! They ben’t good for nothing for taking care o’ young ones -ben’t ou’d folks.”</p> - -<p>Clare turned away with a little disgust. She promised to supply all the -wants that had been indicated to her, and they were many. But she did it -with less than her usual kindness, and a sensation of indignation in her -mind. How different was this servile dependence and denial of all -individual responsibility from the story she had just heard! She was -wrong, as was natural; for the old egotist was in reality very fond of -her Lizzy, and only made use of her name in order to derive a more -plentiful supply from the open hand of the young lady. Had there been no -young lady to depend on, probably old Betty would have made no -complaint, but done her best, and grudged nothing she had to her -grandchild. Clare, however, was too young and inexperienced in human -kind to know that what is bad often comes uppermost, concealing the -good, and that there are quantities of people who always show their -worst, not their best, face to the world. She went away in suppressed -discontent, revolving in her mind without knowing it those questions of -social philosophy with which every alms-giver must more or less come in -contact. It was right for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> Ardens, as lords of the manor, to watch -over their dependents; of that there could be no doubt. Clare would have -felt, as one might imagine a benevolent slaveholder to feel, had there -been any destitution or unrelieved misery in her village: but the -question had never occurred to her whether it was good for the people to -be so watched over and taken care of? Supposing, for instance, such a -case as that of Mr. Perfitt’s relative, Sarah’s lodger. Was it best for -a woman in such circumstances to toil and strive, and deny herself all -ease and pleasure, and bring up the children thus cast upon her with the -sweat of her brow, according to that primeval curse or blessing which -was not laid upon woman? Or would it be better to appeal to others, and -make interest, and establish the helpless beings in orphan schools and -benevolent institutions? The last was the plan which Clare had been -chiefly cognisant of. When any one died in the village, it had been her -wont to bestir herself instantly about their children, as if the -responsibility was not upon the widow or the relatives, but upon her. -She had disposed of them in all sorts of places—here one, and there -another; and she had found, in most cases, that the villagers were but -too willing to transfer their burdens to the young shoulders which were -so ready to undertake them. But was that the best?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> If Edgar had -enunciated this new doctrine in words, no doubt she would have combated -it with all her might, and would have been very eloquent about the -duties of property and the bond between superiors and inferiors. But -Edgar had not said a word on the subject, probably had not thought at -all about it. He was as liberal as she was, even lavish in his bounty, -ready to give to anybody or everybody. He had said nothing on the -subject; but he had told the story of that strange new-comer, who was -(surely) so out of place, so unlike everything else in the little Arden -world.</p> - -<p>Clare passed by Sarah’s house again as the thoughts went through her -mind. The window of the upper room was a broad lattice window with -diamond panes, half concealed by honeysuckles, which were not in very -good trim, but waved their long branches in sweet disorder over the -half-red half-white wall, where the original bricks, all stained with -lichens, peered through the whitewash. The casement was open, and -against it leaned a little figure, the sight of which sent a thrill -through the young lady’s heart. The face looked very young, and was -surrounded by softly curling masses of hair, of that ruddy golden hue -which is so often to be seen in children’s hair in Scotland, and which -is almost always accompanied by the sweetest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> purity of complexion. It -was a lovely face, like an angel’s, with something of the half-divine -abstraction about it of Raphael’s angel children. She had never seen -anything so strangely visionary, fair, and wild, like something from -another world. Clare stood still and gazed, forgetting everything but -this strange beautiful vision. The stranger’s eyes were turned towards -Arden, to the great banks of foliage which stood up against the sky, -hiding the house within their depths. What was she thinking of? whom was -she looking for? or was she thinking of, looking for no one, abstracted -in some dream? Clare’s heart began to beat as she stood unconscious and -gazed. She was brought back to herself and to the ordinary rules of life -by seeing that the old woman had come to the window, and was looking -down upon her with equal earnestness. Then she went on with a little -start, trembling, she could not tell why. Was it a child or a woman she -had seen? and why had she come here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> next day after these events occurred the dinner at the Pimpernels. -Miss Arden had made no further allusion to it in her brother’s presence. -He had said he would stay away if she exacted it, but Clare was much too -proud to exact. She stood aside, and let him have his will. She was even -so amiable as to fasten a sprig of myrtle in his coat when he came to -bid her good night. “That is very sweet of you, as you don’t approve of -me,” he said, kissing the white hand that performed this little sisterly -office. They were two orphans, alone in the world, and Edgar’s heart -expanded over his sister, notwithstanding the many doubts and -difficulties which he was aware he had occasioned her.</p> - -<p>“Why should I disapprove?” she said. “You are a man; you are not so -easily affected as a girl; but only please remember, Edgar, they are not -people that it would be nice for you to see much of. They are not like -us.”</p> - -<p>“Not like you, certainly,” said light-hearted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> Edgar. “I rather liked to -see you, do you know, beside them; you looked like a young queen.”</p> - -<p>Clare was pleased, though she did not care to confess it. “It does not -require much to make one look like a queen beside that good, fat Mrs. -Pimpernel,” she said, with more charity than she had ever before felt -towards her recent visitors. “If you are not very late, Edgar, perhaps I -shall see you when you come home.”</p> - -<p>And she watched him as he drove his dogcart down the avenue with a less -anxious mind. “He is not like an Arden,” she said to herself; “but yet -one could not but remark him wherever he went. He has so much heart and -spirit about him; and I think he is clever. He knows a great deal more -than most people, though that does not matter much. But still I think -perhaps he would not be so easily carried away after all.”</p> - -<p>Edgar, for his part, went away in very good spirits. He liked the rapid -sense of motion, the light vehicle, the fine horse, the swiftness which -was almost flight. He rather liked making a dive out of the formal world -which had absorbed him, into another hemisphere; and he even liked, -which would have vexed Clare had she known it, to be alone. He would not -suffer himself to think so, for it seemed ungrateful, unbrotherly, -unkind; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> still a man cannot get over all the habits of his life in -three weeks, and it was a pleasure to him to be alone. He seemed to have -thrown off the burden of his responsibilities as he swept through the -village and along the rural road to the Red House. He expected to be -amused, and he was pleased that in his amusement he would be subject to -no criticism. Criticism is very uncomfortable, especially when it comes -from your nearest and dearest. To feel in your freest moments that an -eye is upon you, that your proceedings are subject to lively comment, is -always trying. And Edgar had not been used to it. Thanks to the sweetest -temper in the world, he took it very well on the whole. But this night -he certainly did feel the happier that he was free. The Pimpernels -greeted him with a cordiality that was almost overpowering. The father -shook both his hands, the mother pounced upon him and introduced him to -a dozen people in a moment, and as for poor Alice, she blushed, and -smiled, and buttoned her gloves, which was her usual occupation. When -the business of the introduction was over Edgar fell back out of the -principal place, and took a passing note of the guests. A dozen names -had been said to him, but not one had he made out, except that of Lord -Newmarch, who was a tall, spare young man in spectacles, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> thin -intellectual face. There were two men of Mr Pimpernel’s stamp, with vast -white waistcoats, and heads slightly bald—men very well known upon -’Change, and holding the best of reputations in Liverpool—with two -wives, who were ample and benign, like the mistress of the house; and -there were two or three men in a corner, with Oxford written all over -them, curiously looking out through spectacles, or as it were out of -mists, at the other part of the company. Lord Newmarch did not attach -himself to either of these parties. It was not very long indeed since he -had been an Oxford man himself, but he was now a politician, and had -emerged from the academical state.</p> - -<p>There was one other among the guests who attracted Edgar’s attention, he -could not tell why—a tall man about ten years older than himself, with -black hair, just touched in some places with grey, and deep-set -dark-blue eyes, which shone like a bit of frosty sky out of his dark -bearded face. The face was familiar to him, though he felt sure he had -never seen this individual man before; and though he kept himself in the -background there was an air about him which Edgar recognised by -instinct. Among the old merchants and the young Dons—men limited on one -hand within a very material universe, and on the other by the still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> -straiter limitations of a purely intellectual sphere—this man looked, -what he was, a man of the world. Edgar came to this conclusion -instinctively, feeling himself drawn by an interest which was only half -sympathy to the only individual in the party who deserved that name. -Chance or Mrs. Pimpernel arranged it so that this man was placed at the -opposite end of the table at dinner, quite out of Edgar’s reach. Mr. -Arden of Arden had to conduct one of the most important ladies present -to dinner, and was within reach of Mrs. Pimpernel with Alice on his -other hand; but the stranger who interested him was at the foot of the -table, being evidently a person of no importance. It was only Edgar’s -second English party, and certainly at this moment it was not nearly so -pleasant as the dinner at Thorne, with pretty Gussy telling him -everything. Mrs. Buxton, who sat between him and Lord Newmarch, was too -anxious to attend to her noble neighbour’s conversation to give very -much attention to Edgar. Now and then she turned to him indeed, and was -very affable; but her subject was still Newmarch, and they were too near -to that personage to make the discussion agreeable. “You should hear -Lord Newmarch on the education question,” the lady said; “his ideas are -so clear, and then they are so charmingly expressed. I consider his -style<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> admirable. You don’t know it? How very strange, Mr. Arden! He -contributes a good deal to the <i>Edinburgh</i>. I thought of course you must -have been acquainted with his works.”</p> - -<p>“I never read any of them,” said Edgar; and I trust I never shall, he -felt he should have liked to have said; but he only added instead, “I -have spent all my time wandering to and fro over the face of the earth, -which leaves one in the depths of ignorance of everything one ought to -know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do you think so?” said Mrs. Buxton. “For my part, I think there is -nothing like travelling for expanding the mind. Lord Newmarch published -a charming book of travels last year—From Turnstall to Teneriffe. -Turnstall is one of his family places, you know. It made quite a -commotion in the literary world. I do think he is one of the most rising -young men of the age.”</p> - -<p>“Do you admire Lord Newmarch very much?” Edgar whispered to Alice, who -was eating her fish very sedately by his side. Poor Alice grew very red, -and gave a little choking cough, and put down her fork, and cleared her -throat. She looked as if she had been caught doing something which was -very improper, and dropped her fork as if it burned her. And it was a -moment before she could speak. “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” was the reply she -made,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> giving a shy glance at him, and then looking down upon her plate.</p> - -<p>“But don’t you think he looks a little too much as if the fate of the -country rested on his head?” said Edgar, valiantly trying again. “Tell -me, please, is he a bore?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, Mr. Arden!” said Alice, and she looked at her plate again. “Does -she want to finish her fish, I wonder?” Edgar asked himself; and then he -turned to Mrs. Buxton, to leave his younger companion at liberty. But -Mrs. Buxton had tackled Lord Newmarch, and they were discussing the -question of compulsory education, with much authoritative condescension -on the gentleman’s part, and eager interest on the lady’s. Edgar was not -uninterested in such questions, but he had come to the Red House with a -light-hearted intention of amusing himself, and he sighed for Gussy -Thornleigh and her gossip, or anything that should be pleasant and -nonsensical. Alice had returned to her fish, not that she cared for the -fish, but because it was the only thing for her to do. If Edgar had but -known it, she was quite disposed to go on saying, “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” -and “Oh no, Mr. Arden,” all the time of dinner, without caring in the -least for the <i>entrees</i>, or even for the jellies and creams and other -dainties with which the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> banquet wound up. But then he did not know -that, and could not but imagine that her fish was what she liked best.</p> - -<p>In his despair, however, he caught Mrs. Pimpernel’s eye, who was looking -bland but disturbed, saying “There is no doubt of that,” and “Education -is very necessary,” and “I am sure I am quite of Lord Newmarch’s -opinion,” at intervals. She was amiable, but she was not happy with that -wise young nobleman at her right hand, and such an appreciative audience -as Mrs. Buxton beside him. Edgar glanced across at her, and caught her -look of distress. “I do not care anything about education,” he said, -firing a friendly gun, as it were, across her bows. “I hate it when I am -at dinner.” And then Mrs. Pimpernel gave him a look which said more than -words.</p> - -<p>“Oh, fie,” she said, leaning across the corner, “you know you should not -say that. Do you think we English are behind in light conversation, Mr. -Arden? For more important matters I know we can defy anybody,” and she -gave Lord Newmarch an eloquent look, which he returned with a little -bow; “but I daresay,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, with that cloud of uneasiness -on her brow, “we are behind in chitter-chatter and table-talk.”</p> - -<p>“I like chitter-chatter,” said Edgar; “and besides,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> I want to know who -the people are. Who is that pretty girl on Mr. Pimpernel’s left hand? -You must recollect I know nobody, and am quite a stranger in my own -place.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Arden, that is Miss Molyneaux, Mrs. Molyneaux’s eldest -daughter,” said the gracious hostess, indicating the lady on her left -hand, who smiled and coloured, and looked at Edgar with friendly eyes. -“She <i>is</i> pretty—such a complexion and teeth! Did you notice her teeth, -Mr. Arden? They are like pearls. My Alice has nice teeth, but I always -say they are nothing to compare to Mary Molyneaux’s. And that’s Mr. -Arden, your namesake, beside her. He is considered a very handsome man.”</p> - -<p>“Do you approve of personal gossip, Mr. Arden?” said Mrs. Buxton, -breaking in; but Edgar was too much interested to be stopped, even by -motives of civility.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Arden, my namesake! Then that explains it.” He said these last -words, not aloud, but within himself, for now he could see that the face -which this man’s face recalled to him was that of his own sister, Clare. -It gave him the most curious sensation, moving him almost to anger. A -stranger whom he knew nothing of, who was nothing to him, to resemble -Clare! It looked like profanity, desecration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> After all, there was -something evidently in the Arden blood—something entirely wanting to -himself—a secret influence—which he, the first of the name, did not -share.</p> - -<p>“Not only your namesake,” said Lord Newmarch, in his thin voice, much to -Mrs. Buxton’s disgust. The young lord was very philosophical, and full -to overflowing with questions of political importance, and the progress -of the world, and all the knowledge of the nineteenth century; but still -he was patrician born, and could not resist a genealogical question. -“Not only your namesake. He is old Arthur Arden’s son, who was your -father’s first cousin. He is the nearest relative you have except your -sister; and, as long as you don’t have sons of your own, he is the next -heir.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Edgar, as if he had sustained a blow. He could not explain -how it was that he received the information thus. Why should he object -to Arthur Arden, or be anything but pleased to see the next in the -succession—the man who, of all the men in the world, should be most -interesting to him? “The same blood runs in our veins,” he tried to say -to himself, and gazed down curiously at the end of the table, raising -thereby a little pleasurable excitement in the bosom of Mrs. Molyneaux, -who sat opposite to him. “He is struck with my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> Mary,” the mother -thought; and Edgar was so good a match that it was no wonder she was -moved a little. Fortunately, Mary knew nothing about it, but sat by the -other Arden, and chattered as much as Gussy Thornleigh had done, and -could not help thinking what a pity it was so handsome a man, and one so -like the family, should not be the true heir. “I have been over Arden -Hall, and you are so like the portraits,” Mary Molyneaux was saying at -that very moment, while Lord Newmarch explained who her companion was to -Edgar. “The present Mr. Arden is not a bit like them. I can’t help -feeling as if you must be the rightful Squire.”</p> - -<p>“I have got only the complexion, and not the lands,” said Mr. Arthur -Arden. “It is a poor exchange. And this is the first time I ever saw my -cousin. He does not know me from Adam. We are not a very friendly race; -but I know Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Arden? Don’t you think she is quite beautiful—but awfully -proud?” said the girl. “She will not know the Pimpernels; though all the -best people have called on them, she will never call. Don’t you think it -is horrid for a girl to be so proud?”</p> - -<p>“She has the family spirit,” said her kinsman, with a look which Mary, -in her innocence, did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> comprehend. The talk at the table at Thorne -was more amusing, but perhaps there was a deeper interest in what was -then going on at the Red House.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was impossible for Edgar not to look with interest upon this other -Arden, who was so like his family, so like his own sister, with the very -same air about him which the portraits had, and in which the young man -felt he was himself so strangely wanting. Perhaps if Gussy Thornleigh -had been by his side, or even that pretty Miss Molyneaux, who was -entertaining his unknown relation, his eyes and thoughts would not have -been so persistently drawn that way. But between Alice Pimpernel, who -said, “Oh no, Mr. Arden,” and “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” and Mrs. Buxton, who -was collecting the pearls which dropped from the lips of Lord Newmarch, -the dinner was not lively to him; and he caught from the other end of -the table tones of that voice which somehow sounded familiar, and turns -of the head full of that vague family resemblance which goes so far in a -race, and which recalled to him not only his sister whom he loved, but -his father whom he did not love. How strange it was that he should have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> -been so entirely passed over amid all those family links that bound the -others together! It proves, Edgar said to himself, that it is not blood -that does it, but only association, education, the impressions made upon -the mind at its most susceptible age. He reasoned thus with himself, but -did not find the reasoning quite satisfactory, and could not but feel a -mingled attraction and repulsion to the stranger who was his nearest -relation, his successor if he died, and surely ought to be his friend -while he lived. When the ladies left the room, and the others drew -closer round the table, he could no longer resist the impulse that moved -him. It was true that Clare had expressed anything but friendly feelings -for this unknown cousin; but anyhow, were he bad or good, it was Edgar’s -duty, as the chief of the family, to know its branches. It did not seem -to him even that it was right or natural to ask for any introduction. -After a little hesitation he changed his place, and took the chair by -Arthur Arden’s side. “They tell me you are of my family,” he said, “and -your face makes me sure of it—in which case, I suppose, we are each -other’s nearest relations, at least on the Arden side.”</p> - -<p>The landless cousin paused for a moment before he replied to the young -Squire. He looked him all over with something which might have seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> -insolence had Edgar’s nature led him to expect evil. “I suppose, of -course, you are my cousin the Squire,” he said, carelessly, “though I -certainly should never have made you out to be an Arden by your face.”</p> - -<p>“No; I am like my mother they tell me,” said Edgar; but for the first -time in his life he reddened at that long understood and acknowledged -fact. There was nothing <i>said</i> that insulted him, but there was an -inference which he did not understand, which yet penetrated him like a -dagger. It was unendurable, though he had no comprehension what it -meant.</p> - -<p>“I never knew rightly who Mrs. Arden was,” said Arthur; “a foreigner, I -believe, or at least a stranger to the county. I don’t think I should -like my eldest son to be so unlike me if I were a married man.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Arden, I don’t pretend to understand your meaning; but if you wish -to be offensive perhaps our acquaintance had better end at once,” said -Edgar, “I have no desire to quarrel with my heir.”</p> - -<p>Another pause followed, during which the dark countenance of the other -Arden fluctuated for a moment between darkness and light. Then it -suddenly brightened all over with that smile for which the Ardens were -famous. “Your heir!” he said. “You are half a lifetime younger than I -am,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> and much more likely to be my heir—if I had anything to leave. And -I don’t want to be offensive. I am a bitter beggar; I can’t help myself. -If you were as poor as I am, and saw a healthy boy cutting you out of -everything—land, money, consideration, life——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so,” cried open-hearted Edgar, forgetting his offence; “on -the contrary, if I can do anything to make life more tolerable—more -agreeable—— I am just as likely to die as any one,” he continued, with -a half comic sense that this must be consolatory to his new -acquaintance; “and I have my sister to think of, who in that case would -want a friend. Why should not we be of mutual use to each other? I now; -you perhaps hereafter——”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” cried the other, looking at him keenly. And then he drank off -a large glass of claret, as if he required the strength it would give. -“You are the strangest fellow I ever met.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so,” said Edgar, laughing. “Nothing so remarkable; but I -hope we shall know each other better before long. There is not much -attraction just now in the country, but in September, if you will come -to Arden——”</p> - -<p>“Do you know Miss Arden can’t bear me?” said his new friend.</p> - -<p>“Can’t bear you!” Edgar faltered as he spoke—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span>for as soon as his unwary -lips had uttered the invitation he remembered what Clare had said.</p> - -<p>“Yes; your sister hates me,” said Arthur Arden. “I cannot tell why, I am -sure. I suppose because my father and yours fought like cat and dog—or -like near relations if you choose, which answers quite as well. I am not -at all sure that he did not send you abroad to be out of our way. He -believed us capable of poisoning you—or—any other atrocity,” he added, -with a little harsh laugh.</p> - -<p>“And are you?” said Edgar, laughing too, though with no great heart.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I shall try,” said his new kinsman. “My father is dead, -and one is less courageous than two. By Jove! just think what a -difference it would make. Here am I, a poor wretch, living from hand to -mouth, not knowing one year where my next year’s living is to come from, -or sometimes where my next dinner is to come from, for that matter. If -ever one man had an inducement to hate another, you may imagine it is -I.”</p> - -<p>This grim talk was not amusing to Edgar, as may be supposed; but, as his -companion spoke with perfect composure, he received it with equal calm, -though not without a secret shudder in his heart. “I think we might -arrange better than that,” he said. “We have time to talk it over later; -but, in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> opinion, the head of a family has duties. It sounds almost -impertinent to call myself the head of the family to you, who are older, -and probably know much more about it; but——”</p> - -<p>“You are so,” said Arthur Arden, “and fact is incapable of impertinence. -Talking of the country having no attractions, I should rather like to -try a June at Arden. I suppose you bucolics think that the best of the -year, don’t you? roses, and all that sort of thing. And I happen to have -heaps of invitations for September, and not much appetite for town at -the present moment. If it suits you, and your sister Clare does not -object too strenuously, I’ll go with you now.”</p> - -<p>This sudden and unexpected acceptance of his invitation filled Edgar -with dismay. September was a totally different affair. In September -there would be various visitors, and one individual whom she disliked -need not be oppressive to Clare. But now, while they were alone, and -while yet all the novelty of his situation was fresh upon Edgar, -nothing, he felt, could be more inappropriate. Arthur Arden swayed -himself upon his chair, leaving one arm over the back, with careless -ease, while his cousin, suddenly brought to a stand-still, tried to -collect himself, and decide what it was best to do. “Ah, I see,” Arthur -said, after a pause, still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> with the same carelessness, “I bore you. You -were not prepared for anything so prompt on my part; and Madam -Clare——”</p> - -<p>“I cannot allow my sister’s name to be mentioned,” cried Edgar angrily, -“except with respect.”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens, how could I name her with greater respect? If I said -Madam Arden, which is the proper traditionary title, you would think I -meant your grandmother. I say Madam Clare, because my cousin is the lady -of the parish: I will say Queen Clare, if you please: it comes to about -the same thing in our family, as I suppose you know.”</p> - -<p>“As I suppose you don’t know,” was in this arrogant Arden’s tone; but it -was lost upon Edgar, whose mind was busy about the problem how he could -manage between Arthur’s necessities and Clare’s dislike. The party was -in motion by this time to join the ladies, and Lord Newmarch came up to -the two Ardens in the momentary breaking up.</p> - -<p>“I want very much to see more of you,” he said, addressing himself to -Edgar. “I see you two cousins have made acquaintance, so I need not -volunteer my services; but I am very anxious to see more of you. I -daresay there are many things in the county and in the country which you -will find a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> puzzling after living so long abroad; and I hope to -get a great deal of information from you about Continental politics. My -father is in town, so I cannot ask you to Marchfield, as I should like -to do; indeed, I am only off duty for a week on account of this great -social assembly in Liverpool. How shall I manage to see a little of you? -I go back to Liverpool with the Buxtons to-night.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot promise to go to Liverpool,” said Edgar; “but if you could -come to us at Arden——”</p> - -<p>“That would be the very thing,” said the young politician, “the very -thing. I could spare you from the 1st to the 5th. I must be back in town -before the 7th for the Irish debate. My father has Irish property, and -of course we poor slaves have to come up to the scratch; though, as for -justice to Ireland, you know, Arden——”</p> - -<p>“I fear I don’t know much about it; shall we join the ladies?” said -Edgar, a little confused by finding his hospitality so readily embraced.</p> - -<p>“I shall be very happy to give you the benefit of my experience,” said -Lord Newmarch; “there are some things on which it is necessary a young -landed proprietor should have an opinion of his own. Yes, by all means, -let us go upstairs. There is a great deal in the present state of the -country that I should be glad to talk to you about.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> We have become -frightfully empirical of late; whether the Government is Whig or whether -it is Tory, it seems a condition of existence that it should try -experiments upon the people; we are always meddling with one thing or -another—state of the representation—education—management of the -poor——”</p> - -<p>Such were the words that came to Arthur Arden’s ears as his cousin -disappeared out of the dining-room under the wing of Lord Newmarch, -being preached to all the way. The kinsman, who was a fashionable -vagabond, looked after them with a smile which very much resembled a -sneer. “Thank heaven, I am nobody,” he said to himself, half aloud. He -was the last in the room, and no one cared whether he appeared late or -early in Mrs. Pimpernel’s fine drawing-room; no one except, perhaps, one -or two young ladies, who thought “poor Mr. Arden” very handsome and -agreeable, but knew he was a man who could never be married, and must -not even be flirted with overmuch. If he was bitter at such moments, it -was not much to be wondered at. He was more mature, and much better able -to give an opinion than Edgar, better educated, perhaps a more able man -by nature; but Edgar had the family acres, and therefore it was to him -that the politician addressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> himself, and whom everybody -distinguished. Arthur Arden persuaded himself, as he went his way after -the others to the drawing-room, that it was almost a good bargain to be -quit of Lord Newmarch and his tribe, even at the price of being quit of -land and living at the same time; but the attempt was rather a failure. -He would have appreciated political power, which Edgar was too ignorant -to care for; he would have appreciated money, which Edgar evidently -meant to throw away, in his capacity of head of the family, on poor -relations and other unnecessary adjuncts. What a strange mistake of -Providence it was! “He would have made a capital shopkeeper, or clerk, -or something,” the elder Arden said to himself, “whereas I——; but, at -all events, we shall see what effect his proceedings will have upon -saucy Clare.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> would be difficult to imagine anything more uncomfortable than were -Edgar’s feelings as he drove home that evening. He had tried with much -simplicity to avoid his kinsman Arden, thinking, in his inexperience, -that if he did not repeat his invitation, or if no further conversation -took place between them as to that visit in June, that the other would -take it for granted, as he himself would have been quick to do, that -such a visit was undesirable. Edgar, however, had reckoned without his -guest, who was not a man to let any such trifling scruples stand in the -way of his personal comfort. He was on the lawn with some of the other -gentlemen when Edgar got into his dogcart, and shouted to him quickly, -“I shall see you in a few days,” as he drove past. Here was a pleasant -piece of news to take back to Clare. And Lord Newmarch was coming, who, -though a stranger to himself, was none to his sister, and might possibly -be, for anything Edgar knew, as distasteful to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> as Arthur Arden -himself. He laughed at his own discomfiture, but still was discomfited; -for indifference to the feelings of anybody connected with him was an -impossibility to the young man. “Of course, I am master, as people say,” -he suggested to himself, with the most whimsical sense of the absurdity -of such a notion. Master—in order to please other people. Such was the -natural meaning of the term according to all the laws of interpretation -known to him. It was Clare who was queen at the present moment of her -brother’s heart and household; but even if there had been no Clare, -Edgar would still have been trying to please somebody—to defer his own -wishes to another’s pleasure, by instinct, as nature compelled him. It -is a disposition which gives its possessor a great deal of trouble, but -at least it is not a common one. And the curious thing was that he did -not blame Arthur Arden for pushing his society upon him, as anybody else -would have done. It was weakness on his own part, not selfishness on -that of his kinsman. Had he been driven to reason on the subject, Edgar -would have indeed manifested to you clearly how his own yielding temper -was the greatest of sins, as tempting others to be selfish. “Of course -it is my own fault” had been his theory all his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span></p> - -<p>But he was very uncomfortable about it in this case. Up to this time, -when he had been injudiciously amiable he alone had been the sufferer; -but now it was Clare who must bear the brunt. When he reached the -village he threw the reins to the groom, and jumped out of the dogcart. -“If Miss Arden is downstairs let her know that I have gone for an hour’s -chat to Dr. Somers’,” he said; and so started on, with his cigar, in the -moonlight, feeling the stillness and solitude a relief to him. How free -his old life had been! and yet he had felt himself wronged and injured -to be left in enjoyment of so much freedom. Now he was hampered enough, -surrounded by duties and responsibilities which he understood but dimly, -with one of those terrible domestic critics by his side who had the -power which only love has to wound him, and who subjected him to that -terrible standard of family perfection which in his youth he had known -nothing of, and the rules of which even now he did not recognise. Edgar -sighed, and took his cigar from his lips, and looked at it as if he -expected the kind spirit of that soothing plant to step forth and -counsel him; but receiving no revelation, sighed and put it back again, -and thrust his hands into his pockets, and passed along the silent -village street with his disturbed thoughts. All was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> silent in Arden: -the doors closed which stood open all day long, and only here and there -a faint light twinkling. One in John Horsfall’s cottage, in the little -room where Lizzie, his eldest daughter, was dying of consumption; one in -old Simon the clerk’s window, downstairs, where his harsh-tempered but -conscientious Sally was busy with the needlework which she did, as all -Arden knew, “for the shop.” “The shop” meant a certain famous place for -baby-linen in Liverpool, which demanded exquisite work—and Sally alone -of all the neighbourhood was honoured with its commissions. In her aunt -Sarah’s cottage, next door, the upper window showed a faint -illumination, and stood open. These were all the signs of life which -were visible in Arden. The old people, and the hard-working out-door -people who began the day at five in the morning, were all safe in bed, -enjoying their well-won repose. The moon was shining brightly, with all -the soft splendour of the summer—shining over Arden woods, which looked -black under her silver, and making the little street, with its white -lines of broken pavement before each door, as bright as day. Edgar’s -footsteps rang upon the stones as he crossed those little strips of -white one by one. The sound broke the silent awe and mystery of the -night, and with his usual sympathetic feeling he did his best to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> -restrain it. He had thrown away his cigar, and had taken off his hat to -refresh himself with the cool sweet air, when he heard a cry from the -window above. It was the window of old Sarah’s Scotch lodger. He looked -up eagerly, for her aspect had awakened some curiosity in his mind. But -what he saw was a little white figure leaning out so far that its -balance seemed doubtful, spreading out its hands, he thought, towards -himself as he stood looking up. “My Willie! my Willie!” cried the voice; -“is it you at last? Oh, he’s here, he’s here, whatever you may say. -Willie! Willie! How could he rest in his grave, and me pining here?”</p> - -<p>Edgar rushed forward in the wildest alarm. The little creature leaned -over the window-sill, with arms stretched out, and hair streaming about -her, till he felt that any moment she might be dashed upon the pavement -below. The cry of “Willie!” rang into the stillness with a wild -sweetness which went to the listener’s heart. It sounded like the very -voice of despair. “Take care, for God’s sake,” he cried, instinctively -rushing into the little garden below the window and holding out his arms -to catch her should she fall. Just then, however, she was caught from -behind. The grandmother’s face looked suddenly out, ghastly pale and -stern in its emotion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> “I have her safe, sir, thanks to you,” said the -serious Scotch voice, every word of which sounded to Edgar like a chord -in music full of a hundred mingled modulations. “Willie, my Willie!” -cried the younger voice, rising wilder and shriller; and then there -followed a momentary rustle, as of a slight struggle, and then the sharp -decisive closing of the window. He could see nothing more. But it was -not possible to pass on calmly after such an incident. After a moment’s -indecision, Edgar tapped lightly at old Sarah’s window, which was dark. -The sounds upstairs died into a distant murmur of voices, and downstairs -all was still. Old Sarah, if she heard, took no notice of his summons; -but young Sarah, her niece, who was working in the next cottage, roused -herself and came to the door. “It’s best to take no notice, sir, if -you’ll take my advice,” said Sally, with a piece of white muslin wrapped -round her arm, which shone in the moonlight. “It’s nought but the mad -lass next door.”</p> - -<p>“Mad! is she mad?” said Edgar eagerly.</p> - -<p>“Poor lass! they do say as it’s a brother; but I don’t hold for making -all that fuss about brothers,” said Sally. “T’ou’d dame, she’s a proud -one, and never says nought she can help; and the poor wench ain’t -dangerous or that, but as mad as mad, in special when the moon’s at the -full. Don’t you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> take no notice, sir, for there never was a proud un -like t’ou’d dame. T’ poor lass had an only brother as died, and she’s -ne’er been hersel’ since. That’s what they say.”</p> - -<p>“But she looks like a child,” said Edgar, not knowing what to do; for -already complete silence and darkness seemed to have fallen over the -cottage. Old Sarah did not wake, or if she waked, kept still and made no -sign, and the light had disappeared from the upper window. It was hard -to believe, to look at the perfect stillness of the summer night, that -any such interruption had ever been.</p> - -<p>“She do, Squire,” said Sally; “but seventeen they say, and some thinks -her mortal pretty—t’ou’d Doctor for one, as was awful wild in his own -time, I’ve heerd say. But Mrs. Murray she watches her like a dragon. -It’s t’ou’d lady as is my sort. I don’t hold with prettiness nor fuss, -but them as takes that care of their own——”</p> - -<p>Sally jumped aside with a sudden cry, as the door of the next house -softly opened, and Mrs. Murray herself suddenly appeared. In the -moon-light, which blanched even Sally’s dingy complexion, the old woman -looked white as death; but probably it was as much an effect of the -light as of the scene she had just gone through. She laid her hand very -gently, with a certain dignity, upon Edgar’s arm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<p>“Sir,” she said, “you’ll excuse my poor bairn. Willie was her brother, -that we lost a year back. He was lost at sea, and the poor thing looks -for him night and day. He was in a Liverpool ship; that’s why we’re -here. She took you for him,” the grandmother continued, and then made a -pause, as if to recover her voice. Tears were glistening in her eyes. -Her voice thrilled and changed even now, it seemed to Edgar, like -chords. She touched his arm again with her hand, a soft, yet firm, -momentary touch, which was like a caress. And then, all at once, “You’re -like him. Good night,” she said.</p> - -<p>It was as if she could not trust herself to say more. And Edgar stood -gazing at the vacant spot where she had stood, while Sally peered round -the porch of her own house, straining to see and hear. “She’s a queer -’un, t’ou’d dame,” said Sally, with a little gasp of disappointed -excitement; and she stood at her door with the muslin twisted about her -hand, and gazed after him when he went away up the village with a hasty -good night. Edgar heard her close and bolt her door as he hurried on to -the Doctor’s. Poor rural fastenings, what could they shut out? not even -a clever thief, did any such care to enter—much less pain, trouble, -sorrow, madness, or death.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span></p> - -<p>Dr. Somers’ study was a great contrast to the splendour and silence of -the night. It was lighted by a green reading-lamp, which threw its -illumination only on the table, and it was full of smoke from a -succession of cigars. The Doctor was seated in a large old-fashioned -elbow-chair, with a high back and sides, covered with dark leather, -against which his handsome head stood out. On the table stood a silver -claret-cup, and a rough brown bottle of seltzer-water—such were his -modest potations. He had a medical magazine before him on the table, but -it was a novel which was in his hand, and which he pitched away from him -as Edgar entered. “Some of Letty’s rubbish,” he explained, as he threw -it on the sofa in the shade, and welcomed his young guest. “Bravo, -Edgar! Now this is what I call emancipating yourself from petticoat -government. These sisters of ours are as bad as half-a-dozen wives.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t seem to have suffered much under yours,” said Edgar; “and -mine, I assure you——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; yours, I assure you,” cried the Doctor, “is exactly like the -rest—would not curtail any of your pleasures for the world; in short, -would entreat you to amuse yourself, and be heartbroken at the thought -of keeping you at home for her; but once let her find out that you have -wings and can fly, and see what she says. I know them all.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span></p> - -<p>Edgar sat down, and cast a hurried glance round the room as the Doctor -spoke. He asked himself quite involuntarily whether, after all, a cigar -in Dr. Somers’ study was so much more delightful than Clare’s society -and her pretty surroundings, and was not by any means so certain on that -point as the Doctor was. But if he smiled within himself he suffered no -evidence of it to escape, and for this night, at least, he had a -definite object in his visit. “I did not know if I should find you,” he -said. “What has become of the old whist party, of which I used to hear -so much?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, the whist party,” said the Doctor, with a sigh. “Poor Letty made an -end of that. She was always willing to do her best, though she never was -anything of a player; and she bore abuse like an angel. But that won’t -do now, you know. And young Denbigh is the most abject spoon I ever saw. -When he is not dangling after Alice Pimpernel, he is writing verses to -her, I believe. The boy is capable of any folly, and revokes as soon as -look at you. Croquet is the food of love; and that is what the -degenerate cub has abandoned whist for. No wonder the race deteriorates -day by day.”</p> - -<p>“That is just what I wanted to speak to you about,” said Edgar; “I have -just come from the Pimpernel’s.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Let</span> us be correct and categorical,” said Dr. Somers. “That is just what -you wanted to talk to me about? Which? Love, or croquet, or the -Pimpernels?”</p> - -<p>“Neither,” said Edgar, with a little impatience. “These are things -altogether out of my way; and I must ask you to be serious, for what I -have to ask is grave enough. Can you tell me anything about my cousin -Arthur Arden? and why my sister dislikes him? and why——”</p> - -<p>“Whew!” said Dr. Somers, with a prolonged whistle. “You might well tell -me to be serious. Why, and why, and why? Have you met Arthur Arden? And -if so, did nobody warn you that he was the worst enemy you ever had in -your life.”</p> - -<p>“He might very easily be that, and not scare me much,” said Edgar, with -his careless, almost boyish, smile.</p> - -<p>“You silly lad!” said the Doctor. “You simpleton! You think you never -had an enemy in your life, and feel as if this would be something new. -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> wonder if I ought to enlighten you? You remember your father, Edgar? -Which was he, enemy or friend?”</p> - -<p>“Dr. Somers,” said Edgar, gravely, “I have already told you that nothing -shall induce me to discuss my father.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Somers said “Humph!” with sudden confusion, and filled himself out a -large bumper of wine and seltzer water. “That shows a fine disposition -on your part,” he said; “but whether it is safe or expedient to ignore -such things you must judge for yourself. Perhaps I know more about it -than you do, and it seems to me you have had an enemy or two. But, -anyhow, take care of Arthur Arden, for he will be the worst.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I am afraid.”</p> - -<p>“No; I don’t suppose you are,” said the Doctor, looking at him between -two puffs of his cigar; “but whether that is wise or not is a different -matter. Why does Clare hate him? Why, I suppose, because he once made -love to her, and offered ‘his hand,’ as people say, with nothing in it. -Was not that enough?”</p> - -<p>“Surely not enough to make her hate him,” said Edgar, “but enough to -make it horribly embarrassing. Was that all? Don’t people say it is the -highest compliment, &c. I am sure I have read something like that in -books.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span></p> - -<p>“And so have I,” said the Doctor; “and I suppose it is the highest -compliment, &c. Women don’t generally hate us because we love them, or -think we love them. Clare has been petted and spoiled all her life. But -still Arthur Arden is a handsome fellow——”</p> - -<p>While Dr. Somers went on thus philosophically, Edgar winced and shifted -about in his chair. He was not susceptible about himself, but he was -intensely sensitive in respect to his sister. Clare was not to him an -abstract woman, to be discussed by general rules, but an individual whom -he would fain have drawn curtains of profoundest respect about, and -veiled from every vulgar gaze. There is no doubt that this is one of the -first primitive instincts of love. The Turk is the truest symbol of -humanity so far, and there is no man, worth calling a man, who would not -be satisfied in his inmost heart if he could shut up his womankind from -every rash look or doubtful comment. Edgar beat a tune on the table with -his fingers, blew clouds of smoke about him in his restlessness, -shuffled and swayed himself about in his chair; but what could he do to -stop the disquisitions of the man who had known Clare all her life?</p> - -<p>“Arthur Arden is a handsome fellow, and a clever fellow,” continued Dr. -Somers. “If he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> impressed a girl’s imagination, I for one should not -have been surprised. My own theory is that he did, and that it was her -liking for him, combined with her sense of his enmity to you——”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens! what has that to do with it?” cried Edgar, thankful of -some means of expressing his impatience. “How could he show enmity to me -when he had never seen me? and what did it matter if he had? That has -nothing to do with Clare.”</p> - -<p>“It had a great deal to do with Clare,” said the Doctor. “If I tell you -what my theory is, of course you will understand I don’t mean to hurt -your feelings, Edgar. I think he must have proposed some sort of -compromise to your father to exclude you quietly——”</p> - -<p>“To exclude—— me!” Edgar stopped him with an impatient gesture. “Dr. -Somers, you speak in riddles. How could I be excluded? What compromise -was possible? This is something so astounding that I must ask what it -means in so many words——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course it was absolute folly,” said the Doctor, with confusion. -The truth was, he had taken Edgar for a fool, and it seemed to him as if -anything could be said to so amiable, so good-tempered, so unsuspicious -a simpleton. He paused and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> grew red, notwithstanding his ordinary -composure and knowledge of the world. “I speak of the mad notions of a -self-willed man, who thought persistence would overcome everything,” he -went on, embarrassed. “Of course there was no compromise possible. You -were the only son, and the undoubted heir. But, going upon some notion -of his own that the Squire hated—I mean was not fond of you—— In -short, Edgar, I warned you you were not to think I wanted to wound your -feelings—and that Arthur Arden was the worst enemy you ever had in your -life.”</p> - -<p>“You have given me a glimpse of something worse still,” said Edgar. “You -have insinuated the possibility that his enmity might have been of -importance—that there was some harm possible. What could he do? What -could—since you force me to speak of that—my father have done? The -estates were entailed. If he could have cut me off by will, I am not so -simple as to doubt that he would have done it. But being, as I am, heir -of entail——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Somers eagerly; “of course you are heir of entail; -of course it was all nonsense; you can’t imagine for a moment—— But -then there are such very curious things in law and family history. Men -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span>sometimes take an unaccountable aversion—— Did I ever tell you the -story of the Agostinis, a very strange thing that excited everybody when -I was at Rome?”</p> - -<p>Edgar gave a little wave of his hand in impatience. What were the -Agostinis or their story to him?</p> - -<p>“That was almost a case in point,” said the Doctor. “There was supposed -to be no heir, and the estates had gone to the daughter (of course there -was no law of entail to complicate the matter), when all at once starts -up a young man, who had been bred in a public hospital, and yet was -proved beyond dispute to be the Duchess Agostini’s son. She was living, -though her husband was dead, and could not deny it. The proof, indeed, -was so strong that he won his suit, and is now the Duke, and head of one -of the oldest houses in Italy. Brought up in an orphan hospital, and -just as nearly shut out from all inheritance for ever—just as near——”</p> - -<p>“But I suppose there was some explanation,” said Edgar, interested in -spite of himself; “mere aversion of a father could not surely go so far -as that?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, there was a reason given,” said the Doctor, more and more -confused, “something about the mother—some little speck, you know, on -her character: one must not inquire too closely into those family -stories. But he won his suit, and now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> he is Duke Agostini—the hospital -boy! You may imagine what a sensation it made in Rome.”</p> - -<p>“Something about his mother,” Edgar repeated vaguely, under his breath, -with eyes in which a strange light suddenly sprang up. Then he bit his -lip, and restrained himself. Dr. Somers, watching closely, saw that he -had made an impression much more serious than he intended. He did not, -indeed, intend to make any impression. He meant only, in the wantonness -of fancied power, to make an experiment, to pique Edgar’s curiosity, to -give him, perhaps, a passing thrill of alarm and wonder, such as an -operator might give, half in jest, to curious spectators round an -electric machine; but, unfortunately, the operation had been too -successful, the shock overmuch. The young man said nothing farther, but -sat moody, with the cigar between his fingers, and let the Doctor talk. -Dr. Somers said a great deal more, but with the sense that Edgar was not -listening, and that he might as well have been a hundred miles off for -any companionship there was between them. And though he had in general a -very good opinion of himself, for once in his life the Doctor was -abashed, and felt that he had gone too far. He tried to draw the young -man’s attention to other matters—to local interests—to Lord Newmarch -and his enlightened views. “I may be a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> Radical myself,” said the -Doctor, “but I do not belong to that school of Enlightened Youth. -Newmarch is very appalling to me; and if you don’t mind, Edgar, you’ll -find he wants to make up to Clare <i>too</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Too! is there any other?” said Edgar, with a certain languid -haughtiness which was more like the Ardens than anything that had ever -been seen in him before, and which gave Dr. Somers a thrill almost as -sharp and sudden as that he had produced in the young Squire. “Could it -be possible, at this moment, of all others, that his theory was to prove -itself wrong?”</p> - -<p>“I should think there were others,” he said, with an attempt at -carelessness. “Flowers like Clare do not grow in every garden, not to -speak of the <i>dot</i> which you and your father endowed her with. I suppose -nothing has been done about that as yet; or have you been so wise as to -take old Fazakerley’s advice?”</p> - -<p>“I think I shall go home,” said Edgar abruptly, and he got up, and -lighted his cigar by the Doctor’s candle. “There was something I wanted -to speak to you about, but it has gone out of my head.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing about your health, I hope,” said the Doctor anxiously. “You -look quite well——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, nothing about my health,” he said, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> a short laugh, and -went out, leaving Dr. Somers in a state of great discomfort, saying to -himself that he had not meant it, and that he could not have imagined -such a good-tempered careless fellow would have taken anything up so -quickly. “It was nothing,” he said to himself. “I did not even imply -that his circumstances were the same; in short, I did not say a word to -offend—any one; nonsense! Who is Edgar Arden, I wonder, that one should -study his feelings to such an extent? Good heavens, didn’t he insist -upon being told?” Thus the Doctor excused and accused himself, and felt -extremely uncomfortable, and at last went to bed, not feeling able to -drown his remorse either in his seltzer water or his novel. “If Fielding -had done anything as idiotic,” was his comment as he went upstairs, “or -poor Letty—but I, that pretend to some sort of discretion!” His folly -had at least this salutary effect.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Edgar walked home very fast, as if some one were pursuing him. -It was his thoughts which were pursuing him, rushing and driving him on. -The avenue had never looked so stately in the moonlight, nor the woods -so mysteriously sweet. All the soft perfumes of the night were in the -air; the smell of the fresh earth and the dew, the fragrance that -breathed out of here and there an old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> hawthorn, still covered with -blossom, beginning to brown and fade in the daylight, but still sweet in -the darkness. The front of the house lay in a great shadow made of its -own roof and the big trees behind; but lights were twinkling about, as -they ought to be in a house which expects its master. Was it possible -that Arthur Arden could have turned him out, could have replaced him -there? Could it be that Clare knew such a thing was possible? “Something -about his mother.” Edgar did not himself realise what horror it was -which had thus breathed across him. What could it be about his mother? -Could there be anything about her which gave to any man the right of a -possible insinuation? He did not remember her, and had not even a -portrait of her, but was like her, people said. And therefore his father -had hated him. Edgar’s brain burned as this strange thought whirled and -fluctuated about him; he was its victim, he did not entertain it -voluntarily. His father hated him because he was like her; but yet, was -not she the mother, too, of the beloved Clare?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was perhaps fortunate for Edgar that he did not see his sister that -night. She had waited for him till the return of the groom with the -dogcart, and then she had gone upstairs. Probably she had gone with a -little irritation against him for delaying his return, Edgar felt; and a -momentary impatience of all and everyone of the new circumstances which -made his life so different came upon him. What if Dr. Somers’ suggestion -had come true, and he had been shut out of the succession? Why, then, -this bondage on one side or other, this failure in satisfying one and -understanding another, this expenditure of himself for everybody’s -pleasure, would not have been. “I should have been brought up to a -profession, probably,” he said to himself, “or even a trade;” and for -the moment, in his impatience, he almost wished it had been so. But then -he looked out upon the park, lying broad in the moonlight, and the long -lines of trees which he could see from his open window, and felt that he -would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> a coward indeed who would give up such an inheritance without -an effort. The lands of his fathers. Were they the lands of his fathers? -or what did that terrible insinuation mean?</p> - -<p>Clare was cloudy, there could be no doubt of it, when she met her -brother next morning. She thought he might have come back earlier. “What -is Dr. Somers to him?” she said to herself, and concluded, like a true -woman, that he must have fallen in love with Alice Pimpernel. “If he -were to marry <i>that</i> girl I should certainly keep Old Arden,” she said -to herself; for it seemed almost impossible to imagine that, seeing -Alice was the last girl in the world who ought to attract him, he should -have been able to resist falling in love with her. And thus she came -down cloudy, and found Edgar with a face all overcast by the events of -the previous night, which confirmed her in all her fears. “Of course, he -does not like to speak of her,” Clare said to herself. Poor Alice -Pimpernel! who was too frightened for Mr. Arden even to raise her eyes -from her plate.</p> - -<p>“Had you a pleasant party?” she said, with a half angry sound in her -voice.</p> - -<p>“Not very pleasant,” said Edgar. “I suppose that is why I am so tired -this morning; but yet I met some people who interested me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<p>“Indeed!” said Clare, with polite wonder. “Tell me who you took in to -dinner? and who was next you? and in short all about it? One would think -it was I who had been at a party last night, and you who had stayed at -home.”</p> - -<p>“I took in Mrs. Buxton, whoever she may be—and I sat next Miss -Pimpernel—and the one was philosophical, and the other was—— Is there -not some word that sounds pretty, and that means inane? She is a very -nice girl, I am sure. She said, ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Arden,’ and then, ‘Oh, no, -Mr. Arden.’ If I had not kept up the proper alternations I wonder what -the poor girl would have said?”</p> - -<p>“But you did?” said Clare, with all her cloud removed. Had she but known -who was at that party beside Alice Pimpernel!</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I did. And there was Lord Newmarch, who is coming here on the -1st to make my acquaintance. I hope you don’t mind. He was so anxious to -see me, poor fellow, that I could not deprive him of that pleasure. I -hope, Clare, you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least,” she said, in her most genial mood. “If you will not -be shocked, I rather like him, Edgar. He means well; and then if he is a -Radical, it is in a kind of dignified superior way.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span></p> - -<p>“So it is,” said Edgar; “very superior, and very dignified—not to say -instructive—but we might get too clever, don’t you think, if we had too -much of it? There was some one else there, about whom you must pardon -me, Clare. I was led into giving him an invitation—without thinking. It -did not occur to me till after——”</p> - -<p>Edgar grew very red making his excuses, and Clare grew pale listening. -She made a great effort over herself, and clasped her hands together, -and looked at her brother with a forced smile. “Why should you -hesitate?” she said. “Edgar, you are master; I wish you to be master. -Whoever you choose to ask ought to be welcome to me.”</p> - -<p>“I do not wish to be master so long as I have my sister to consult,” he -said; “but this was a mistake, an inadvertence, Clare. You can’t guess? -It was Arthur Arden whom I met at the Pimpernels!”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” Clare said, growing paler and paler. But she made no observation, -and kept listening with her hands clasped fast.</p> - -<p>“I asked him to come in September, remembering you had said you did not -like him much; but he offered himself for June. I did not accept his -proposed visit; but from what I saw and what I hear it seems likely he -will come.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt he will come,” said Clare; and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> her hands separated -themselves. She had heard all that she had to fear. “If I hate him it is -not for myself,” she added hurriedly, “but for you Edgar. He did all he -could to injure you.”</p> - -<p>“So I have heard. But how could he injure me?” said her brother, feeling -that it was now his turn.</p> - -<p>“Edgar, I hate to speak of it. You can’t understand my love for poor -papa. Arthur tried to set him against—— It was—his fault. No; Edgar, -no, I don’t mean that—it was not his fault; but he tried to make things -worse. That is why I hate—no, I don’t hate. If you don’t mind -Edgar—— You kind, good, sweet-tempered boy——!”</p> - -<p>And here, in a strange transport, which he could not understand, Clare -took his hand, and held it close, and pressed it to her heart, which was -beating fast. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes, with a -curious admiration. “You are not like us other Ardens,” she said. “We -ought to learn of you; we ought to look up to you, Edgar. You can -forgive. You don’t keep on remembering and thinking over everything that -people have done and said against you. You can put it away out of your -mind. Edgar, dear, I hate myself, and I love you with all my heart.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p>“Do you, Clare; do you, indeed, Clare?” he said, and went to her side, -and kissed her with brotherly tenderness. “God do so to me and more -also,” he said to himself, if I ever forget her good and her happiness; -or, at least, if he did not say the words, such was the sentiment that -passed through his mind. He was so much moved that he felt able to ask a -question he had been hesitating over all the morning. “Clare,” he said -softly, bending over her, and smoothing her dark hair. His voice had a -certain sound of supplication in it which struck her strangely. She -thought he was about to ask something hard to do—perhaps a -renunciation, perhaps a sacrifice. “Clare, can you tell me anything -about our mother? Do you know?”</p> - -<p>“About mamma?” said Clare, with a sense of disappointment. “Edgar, you -frighten me so; I thought you were going to ask me something that was -very hard. About mamma? Of course I will tell you all I know.”</p> - -<p>“And there is a portrait—you said there was a portrait—I should like -to see that too.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Edgar, I will run and get it. Oh, I wonder if you would have been -very like her—if she had lived? I sometimes think it would have been so -much better for us all.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” said Edgar, with a sadness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> which he could not -control. Would it have been better? But, at all events, Clare knew of -nothing evil that concerned their mother. He walked about the room -slowly while she went to seek the portrait, and finally paused at the -great window, and gazed out. It had the same view over the park which he -had looked at last night under the moon-light. Now, in the morning, with -a certain ache of strange doubtfulness, he looked at it again. The -feeling in his mind was that it might all dissolve as he looked, and -melt away, and leave no sign—that, and the house, and the room he stood -in, with all their appearance of weight and reality. Such things had -been; at least, surely that was what Dr. Somers’ story meant about those -Agostini. What was it? “Something about the mother.” A mist of -bewilderment had fallen over him, and he could not tell.</p> - -<p>Clare’s entrance with a little case in her hand roused him. She came up, -and put her arm within his where he stood, and, thus hanging on him, -opened the case, and showed him the miniature, which formed the clasp of -a bracelet. It was the portrait of a face so young that it startled him. -He had been thinking and talking of his mother, which meant something -almost venerable, and this was the face of a girl younger, ever so much -younger, than himself. “Are you sure this is her?” he said in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> -whisper, taking it out of his sister’s hand. “Of course it is her; who -else could it be?” she answered, in the same tone. “She is so young,” -said Edgar, apologetically. He was quite startled by that youthfulness. -He held it up to the light, and looked at it with wondering admiration. -“This child! Could she be my mother, your mother, Clare?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose everybody is young some time. She must have looked very -different from that when she died.”</p> - -<p>“Will it ever seem as strange, I wonder,” said Edgar, still little above -a whisper, “to somebody to look at your portrait and mine? How pretty -she must have been, Clare. What a sweet look in her eyes! You have that -look sometimes, though you are not like her. Poor little thing! What a -soft innocent-looking child.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar,” said his sister, half horrified, for she had little -imagination, “do you remember you are speaking of mamma?”</p> - -<p>He gave a strange little laugh, which seemed made up of pleasure and -tears. “Do you think I might kiss her?” he said under his breath. Clare -was half scandalized half angry. He was always so strange; you never -could tell what he might do or say next; he was so inconsistent, not -bound by sacred laws like the Ardens; but still his sister herself was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> -a little touched by the portrait and the suggestions it made.</p> - -<p>“She would not have been old now if she had been living, not too old for -a companion. Oh, Edgar, what a difference it would have made! I never -had a real companion, not one I was thoroughly fond of; only think what -it would have been to have had her——”</p> - -<p>“With that face!” Edgar said, with a sigh of relief, though Clare could -not guess why he felt so relieved. Then—“I wonder if she would have -liked me,” he said, softly. “Clare, there has been a kind fiction about -my mother. I am not like her. I don’t think I am like her. But she looks -as innocent as an angel, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Why should not she be innocent?” said Clare, wondering. “We are all -innocent. I don’t see why you should fix upon that. What strikes me is -that she must have been so pretty. Don’t you think it is pretty? How -arched the eyebrows are and dark, though she is so fair.”</p> - -<p>“But I am not like her,” he said, shaking his head. How strange it was. -Was he a waif of fortune, some mere stray soul whom Providence had made -to be born in the house of Arden, quite out of its natural sphere? It -gave him a little shock, and yet somehow he could feel no sharp -disappointment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> on the day he had made acquaintance with this innocent -face.</p> - -<p>“Do you think not?” said Clare, faltering. “Oh, yes; you are like her. -See how fair she is, and you are fair, and the Ardens are all dark; -besides, you know, poor papa—— Don’t change like that, Edgar, when I -mention his name. He was the only one who knew her, and he said——”</p> - -<p>“Did he ever say I was like my mother?” said Edgar, while the sweetness -and softness had all gone out of his voice.</p> - -<p>“I am not sure that he ever said it in so many words. But, Edgar! Why, -everybody here—— What could it be but that? And see how fair she is, -and you are fair——”</p> - -<p>Edgar Arden shook his head. The face in the miniature was not sanguine -and ruddy, like his, but a pensive face; locks too fair to be called -golden surrounding it, and soft blue eyes. Everything was soft, gentle, -tender, composed, in the young face. Even Clare’s grave beauty, though -in itself so different, was less unlike her than Edgar’s warm vitality, -the gleams of superabundant life, which showed as colour in his hair and -as light in his eyes. “I am not like her,” he said to himself, as he -closed the little case and gave it back to his sister; but the shadow -which had been upon him all the morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> had disappeared for ever. -Whatever was the secret of his story, it was not like the story of the -Agostini. Once and for ever he dismissed that dread from his breast.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was, however, some time before Edgar got over the painful impression -made upon his mind by what Dr. Somers had said. He had known very well -for the greater part of his life that his father did not love him; but -the idea that doubt had ever fallen upon his rights, that there had been -a possibility of shutting him out from his natural inheritance, had -never entered his mind. Of course there was really no such possibility; -but still the merest suggestion of it excited the young man. It seemed -to hint at a deeper secret in his own existence than anything he had yet -suspected. He had been able to take it for granted with all the -carelessness of youth that his father disliked him. But why should his -father dislike him? What reason could there be? And then that story of -the Agostini returned to him. Edgar pondered and pondered it for days, -and rejected the suggestions conveyed in it, feeling from the moment he -had seen his mother’s picture a certain fierce sentiment of rage against -Dr. Somers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> as her maligner. But yet this explanation being evidently a -false one, and his mother cleared of all shadow of shame or wrong, there -remained the strange thought that there must be some clue to the -mystery; and what was it? If it had been within the bounds of -possibility that the Squire could have doubted his wife’s faithfulness, -that of course would have explained a great deal. But the evidence of -the portrait was quite conclusive that any such suspicion was out of the -question. Edgar was young and fanciful, and ready to accept the evidence -of a look, and every natural sentiment within him rose up in defence of -his mother. But he could not help asking himself, even though the -question seemed an injury to her—what if it had been possible? Had she -been another kind of woman and, capable of wickedness, what in such -horrible circumstances would it have been a man’s duty to do? He had of -course heard such questions discussed, like everybody else in the world, -as affecting the husband and wife, the immediate parties. But imagine a -young man making such a discovery, finding himself out to be a spurious -branch thus arbitrarily engrafted upon a family tree; in a position so -frightful, what would it be his duty to do? Edgar roamed about the woods -which were his, putting to himself in every point of view this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> -appalling question. A man could take no single step in such -circumstances without taking upon him the responsibility of heaping -shame upon his mother, and giving up her cause. It would be her whom he -would cover with disgrace, much more than himself. He would have to -decide a question which nobody but she could decide, and to give it -against her, his nearest and dearest relation. Could any one willingly -assume such an office? And, on the other hand, how could he retain a -name, an inheritance, a position to which he had no right, and probably -exclude the rightful heir? “Thank heaven,” said Edgar fervently, “<i>that</i> -can never be my case. The son of the woman to whom God gave so angelic a -countenance can never have to blush for his mother. Whatever records -came to light, <i>she</i> never shall be shamed.” He gave up whole days to -this question, pondering it again and again in his mind. The sight of -the portrait gave him for that one day an absolute certainty that such -was not his position: and this force of conviction carried him through -the second and even the third day; but then as the first impression -waned a horrible chill of doubt stole slowly over him. That hypothesis, -terrible as it was, could it but be believed, explained so much. It -explained the Squire’s dislike to himself at once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> and vindicated the -unhappy old man. It explained why he was kept at so great a distance, -brought up in so strange a way; and oh, good God! if such could be the -case, what was Edgar’s duty? His brain began to whirl when he got so -far; and then he would work his way back again through all the -arguments. Dr. Somers had calculated when he threw abroad this winged -and barbed seed that Edgar was too easy-minded, too careless and -good-natured and indifferent to let it rest in his thoughts; and to hide -his consciousness of it, to be blank as a stone wall to any allusion -which might recall it, was clearly now the first duty of Mrs. Arden’s -son. If he could but be absolutely sure of it one way or other; if he -could put it utterly out of his mind, on the one hand, or—a horrible -alternative, which nevertheless would be next best—know absolutely that -it was true! But neither of these things seemed possible to Edgar. He -had to submit to that doubt which was so fundamental and -all-embracing—doubt as to his own very being, the foundations upon -which his life was built—and never to breathe a whisper of it to any -creature on the face of the earth. A hard task.</p> - -<p>It may be thought that Clare must have observed her brother’s -abstraction, his silent wanderings and musings, and the look of thought -and care which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> he could not banish from his face; but the truth was -that Clare herself was occupied by a hundred reflections. She had told -her brother she hated Arthur Arden, and at the moment it was true; but -now that Edgar, for whose sake she hated him, had condoned his offences, -and asked him to the house, Clare, if her pride would have let her, -might have confessed that she loved Arthur Arden, and it would have been -equally true. He had exercised over her when she had seen him last that -strange fascination which a man much older than herself often exercises -over a girl. She had been pleased by the trouble he took to make himself -agreeable, flattered by the attentions which a man of experience knows -how to regulate according to the age and tastes of the subject under -operation, and had felt the full charm of that kindred not near enough -to be familiar, but yet sufficiently near to account for all kinds of -mysterious affinities and sympathies which he knew so well how to make -use of. He was a true Arden—everybody said so. And Clare, who was an -Arden to the very finger tips, felt all the force of the bond. She had -sighed secretly, wishing that her brother might have been like him. The -tears had come into her eyes with affectionate pity that such a genuine -representative of the family should be so poor; and again a little glow -of generous warmth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> had followed, as a faint dream of how it might be -made up to him stole across her mind. A man of such excellence and such -grace—so distinguished by blood and talent, and all the qualities that -adorn a hero, who could doubt that it would be made up to him? Honour -would fall at his feet for the lifting up, and if wealth should be -wanting, why then somebody whom Clare would try to love would endow him -with everything that heart could desire, and herself best of all. She -had nourished these notions until she had heard from Arthur himself, -with one of the inadvertencies common to men whose consideration for -others, however elaborate outside, does not come from the heart, of his -opposition to her distant brother. He had taken it for granted that she -must share her father’s opinion on the subject. “Why, you do not know -him!” he had said, in his astonishment, when he became aware of his -mistake. “I love my brother with all my heart,” was all the answer Clare -had made. Something of the magniloquence of youth was in this large -assertion; but the poor girl’s heart was very sore, and the struggle she -had with herself in this wild sudden revulsion of feeling was almost -more than she could bear. He was Edgar’s enemy, this man who had been -too pleasant, only too tender to herself and she hated him! She had -walked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> away from him at that painful moment, and when they met -afterwards had only looked at him from behind the visor of cold pride -and icy stateliness which the Ardens knew so well how to use. But the -feeling in her heart was only hatred because it had been so nearly love.</p> - -<p>And now that the tables had been so strangely turned, now that Arthur -was coming to Arden as Edgar’s guest, Clare was seized with a sudden -giddiness of mind and heart, which made the outer world invisible to -her, or at least changed, and threw it so awry that no clear impression -came to her brain. As Edgar’s friend—— She could not feel quite sure -whether her feelings were those of excited expectation and delight or of -alarm and terror. And she was not sure either what to think of her -brother. Was he magnanimous beyond all the powers of the Arden mind to -conceive, as had been her first idea; or was he simply careless, -insensible—not capable of the amount of feeling which came natural to -the Ardens? This second thought was less pleasant than the first, and -yet in one way it was a kind of relief from an overpowering and scarcely -comprehensible excellence. “He does not feel it,” Clare said to herself; -but surely Arthur would feel it; Arthur would be moved by a forgiveness -so generous. Even now, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> Edgar was fully aware what his kinsman had -done against him, it did not occur to him to withdraw his invitation or -forbid his enemy to the house. Such a sublime magnanimity could not fail -to impress the mind of the other. But yet, Clare recollected that Arthur -was a true Arden, and the Ardens were tenacious, not addicted to -forgiving or giving up their own way, as was her strange brother. Arthur -might come, concealing his enmity, watching his foe’s weak points and -the crevices in his armour, and laying up in his mind all these -particulars for future use. Such a proceeding was not so foreign to the -Arden mind as was that magnanimity or indifference—which was it?—that -made Edgar a wonder in his race. If her cousin was to do this, what -horrible thing might happen? Between Arthur’s watchfulness and Edgar’s -unwariness, Clare trembled. But then, would not she be there to guard -the one and keep the other in check?</p> - -<p>Thus, Clare was so fully occupied with thoughts of her own that she did -not notice the change in her brother’s looks, nor his sudden love of -solitude. When Mr. Fielding expressed to her his fear that Edgar was -ill, the thought filled her with surprise. “Ill! Oh, no, there is -nothing the matter with him,” she said. “Here he comes to speak for -himself: he looks just the same as usual. Edgar, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> are not ill? Mr. -Fielding has been giving me a fright.”</p> - -<p>“I am not ill in the least,” he said, “but I wanted to see you. Are you -going into the village? I will walk there with Mr. Fielding, Clare, and -you can pick me up on your way.”</p> - -<p>“You see there is not much the matter with him; he is always walking,” -said Clare, waving her hand to the Rector. “I will call for you, Edgar, -in half-an-hour;” and she went away smiling to put on her riding-habit. -The brother and sister were going to Thornleigh to pay their homage -before Lady Augusta should go away.</p> - -<p>“Of course I understand you don’t want to alarm Clare,” said the Rector, -when they were on their way down the avenue; “but, my dear boy, you are -looking very poorly. I don’t like the change in your look. You should -speak to the Doctor. He has known you more or less all your life.”</p> - -<p>“The Doctor! I do not think he knows much about it,” said Edgar, with -vehemence. “But I am not ill. I am as well as ever I was.” Then he made -a little pause; and then, putting his hand on his old friend’s arm, he -said impulsively, yet trying with all his might to hide the force of the -impulse, “Mr. Fielding, you have always been very good to me. I want you -to help me to recollect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> what happened long ago. I want you to tell me -something about—my mother.”</p> - -<p>Old Mr. Fielding’s short-sighted eyes woke up amidst the puckers which -buried them, and showed a diamond twinkle of kindness in each wrinkled -socket. He gave a look of benign goodness to Edgar, and then he turned -and sent a glance towards the village which might almost have set fire -to Dr. Somers’ high roof. “Yes, Edgar,” he said quickly, “and I am very -glad you have asked me. I can tell you a great deal about your mother.”</p> - -<p>“You knew her, then?” cried the young man, turning upon him with eager -eyes.</p> - -<p>“I knew her very well. She was quite young, younger than you are; but as -good a woman, Edgar, as sweet a woman as ever went to heaven.”</p> - -<p>“I was sure of that!” he cried, holding out his hand; and he grasped -that slim hand of the old Rector’s in his strong young grasp, till Mr. -Fielding would fain have cried out, but restrained himself, and bore it -smiling like a martyr, though the water stood in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Somers never saw her,” said Mr. Fielding, waving his hand towards the -village. “He was in Italy at the time; but ask his sister, or ask me. -Ah, Edgar! in that, as in some other things, the old parson is the best -man to come to. Why, boy, it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> not you I care for! How do I know you -may not turn out a young rascal yet, or as hard as the nether millstone, -like so many of the Ardens? but I love you for <i>her</i> sake.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Your</span> mother 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——”</p> - -<p>“Was her marriage not happy?” Edgar interrupted, with a cloud on his -face.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“I was born abroad,” said Edgar, half in the tone of one making an -inquiry, half as asserting a fact.</p> - -<p>“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 good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> deal 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.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me the notion,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“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 beginning -<i>that</i> had begun.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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 saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> her,” 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.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks!” Edgar said below his breath. He was too deeply moved to look -at his old friend, nor could he trust himself to speak.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> It could not arise from anything—found out?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Am I like her?” said Edgar suddenly, looking for the first time in the -Rector’s face.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t I take things much to heart?”</p> - -<p>“My dear boy, you ought to know better than I do. I should not think you -did. The world comes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> more 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Clare</span> rode 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t I return the question, and ask you, ‘Do you ever think that -you must marry, Clare?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span><span class="lftspc">”</span> 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.</p> - -<p>“That is quite a different matter,” she said, impatiently. “I may or may -not; it is my own affair; but you <i>must</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Why must I? I do not see the necessity,” said Edgar, still with a -smile.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“There remains only to indicate the lady,” said Edgar. “Tell me that -too, and then I shall be easy in my mind.”</p> - -<p>“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. She <i>must</i> be 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——”</p> - -<p>“This is a paragon of all virtues and qualities,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> said Edgar; “but -where to be found? and when we find her, why should she condescend to -me?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Clare, I don’t want to marry—either for beauty or -anything else,” said Edgar.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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 -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> the meantime I am very happy. I think, Clare, you should let well -alone.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“He <i>is</i> like the old Ardens,” said Clare, with a faint smile; and then -the conversation dropped. She did not care to prolong it. They went -across<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> the 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> 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 that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> they 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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“But Clare does not go at all,” said Edgar, “and I don’t think she -suffers much.”</p> - -<p>“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 not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> one 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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 their <i>tête-á-tête</i>. Lady Augusta was very kind, and motherly, and -pleasant. She inquired into Edgar’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> plans with genuine interest, and -gave him a great deal of good advice.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> first 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 permanent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> -background 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,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 -fortunately<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> he 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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 one -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span>ceases 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.”</p> - -<p>“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 social <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span>questions—questions which affect the morality and -the comfort of the entire human race——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Except brothers,” said Arthur Arden, almost below his breath.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“Except brothers,” she said calmly, as if the observation had been her -own.</p> - -<p>“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 own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> sake, 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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> was 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> 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 for -<i>her</i>? Was <i>she</i> his 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 her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> money 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——</p> - -<p>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 this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> commotion 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?</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">May</span> I 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 her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> frank 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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 -you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> thought of my brother—if you intended to hate him—why did you -come here?”</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Edgar would be much surprised to see you on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> your knees,” said Clare, -who felt the clouds melting away from her face, in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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 never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> -understand 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.”</p> - -<p>“Does he mean to marry? Lucky fellow!” said Arthur Arden, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“Cold, oh, no cold,” said Mrs. Murray, “but no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> so 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“What does she mean?” said Clare, wondering.</p> - -<p>“That was the worst of all,” said Jeanie, answering for herself. “I -never could forget that it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> me. 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?”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>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!” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> Jeanie—“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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> trembling -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?”</p> - -<p>“What has <i>here</i> to do with it? what do you mean by calling Mr. Arden -<i>that man</i>? 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.”</p> - -<p>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, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> where 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?”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“But she knew Mr. Arden!” said Clare.</p> - -<p>“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 go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> away, and keep yon -gentleman away! If we were to bide here for a year, I could tell ye no -more.”</p> - -<p>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?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Murray</span> was 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 her <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span>knitting—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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> 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 the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> wind 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.</p> - -<p>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. “Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> -Arden’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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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 my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> part 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“I am no afraid of any man,” said Mrs. Murray;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> “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.”</p> - -<p>“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 the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> sleeping -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.</p> - -<p>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 sufficiently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> acquainted 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.”</p> - -<p>“He is very lucky, I am sure, to inspire so warm a feeling,” said -Arthur, with mock respect.</p> - -<p>“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, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> never 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!”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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 all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> those -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——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> -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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray rose slowly at this appeal, and came and stood by the -invalid’s chair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“She’ll take no harm,” said the old woman, “and it’s kind, kind of you -to ask——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am always asking,” said Miss Somers; “but people are so very -impatient. ‘How you do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> run 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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—or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> rather 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.”</p> - -<p>“Unkind!” said Mrs. Murray, with a sudden start.</p> - -<p>“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—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span>—”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Murray, who was not used to Miss Somers, and could not unravel the -maze, or make out which <i>him</i> was 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——”</p> - -<p>“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 I -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span>should 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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 the -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span>excuse. 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——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span>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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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 in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> -this world is any the wiser. Of that I am well aware.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span>quite ready. I am so sorry—— Please come to see me—— and the grass, -and the earwigs—— Oh, John, gently! Good-bye, good-bye!”</p> - -<p>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 had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> opened 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> Miss 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 get<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> over -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“I did no more than any man must have done,” said Arthur. “Your maid -promised to go, and gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> me 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.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed!” said Clare feebly, with white lips, feeling that the crisis of -her fate might be near.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> 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?”</p> - -<p>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 she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> divined 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.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>Poor Clare felt herself ready to sink to the ground with shame and -mortification; and then her pride blazed up in sudden fury. “How <i>can</i> -you 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.</p> - -<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> “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——”</p> - -<p>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?”</p> - -<p>“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 a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> stranger 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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> own special <i>protegée</i> and 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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> “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.”</p> - -<p>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?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> “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!</p> - -<p>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 -sense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> of 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> “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 had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> -some 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.</p> - -<p>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 John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> Hesketh’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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> conversation 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 -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> abroad 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 -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> a 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 the <i>coulisses</i>, 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 -each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> other; 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.</p> - -<p>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.”</p> - -<p>“But they see us, I assure you, on other days besides Sunday,” said -Clare.</p> - -<p>“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 that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> -matter—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.”</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>“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, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> should 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——”</p> - -<p>“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!”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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 to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> Thorne? 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.”</p> - -<p>“But what could she do to mend them?” said Lord Newmarch, “I don’t -suppose she has any money of her own.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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 that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> enthusiasm 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.</p> - -<p>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 -importance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> of 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> 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 the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> bees 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> this 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,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> said, 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 -perceived<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> in 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span></p> - -<p>“Why would not you stand it?” asked Edgar, calmly.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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 might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> lay 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.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> a 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—</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span></p> - -<p>“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——”</p> - -<p>“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?”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“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 -has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> her 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——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>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 at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> once, 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.”</p> - -<p>“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 knowledge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> can only come by -intuition, whereas mine is the result of careful study and——”</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“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.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Arden, how could you speak to him so? You were <i>rude</i> to him,” said -Clare, the moment they were left alone.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>“My kinsman ought not to be rude,” said Clare. But that was all the -punishment she inflicted. Something warped her judgment and blinded her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> -clear 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.</p> - -<p class="c">END OF VOL. 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