Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3

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–”