Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3
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“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–”