“I am speaking of Miss Arden’s brother,” said Jeanie, introducing her
grandmother into the conversation without a moment’s pause. “Granny,
tell Miss Arden. He’s like faces we ken, and his voice is like a kent
voice. If I was in trouble I would go and ask him. I would trust him,
and I would be safe. Granny!”
“She speaks as others of her age would scarcely speak,” said the
grandmother, quietly. “She’s no like others, Miss Arden. Her trouble is
like a shield about her, like an angel o’ the Lord. You think she should
not name like that a gentleman that’s far, far above her, but it’s in
her innocence she speaks. She has taken a fancy into her head that your
brother is like her brother----”
“So he is,” said Jeanie, softly. “She would have thought so too, if she
had seen my Willie; no like yon grand, dark, hard man that comes and
troubles me with his e’en; but oh, so friendly and so kind, and like a
real brother. The other gives me a thrill at my heart. I’m feared
still, though it’s no _him_!”
“What other?” said Clare in some amazement. Except the Rector and the
Doctor there was no gentleman in Arden of whom Jeanie could have spoken,
and neither of them could be so described--a grand, dark, hard man! Her
heart began to flutter painfully, and no one answered her question.
Perhaps it was because there was a rustle and movement outside, and
Sarah appeared on the threshold. “Mrs. Pimpernel’s acoming, Miss Clare,
with her daughter and the gentlemen,” said Old Sarah. “T’ou’d lady’s
awful pushing, and you’re not one as likes that sort; and Mrs. Murray,
it’s best for you and for me as Jeanie should go upstairs.”
“I will go upstairs too,” said Clare, hurriedly; and she rose and went
hastily up the narrow staircase, forgetting that any invitation was
necessary. But Mrs. Murray did not forget. She made a little ceremonious
speech to the unceremonious young lady of the manor. “It’s a poor
place,” she said, “but such as it is Miss Arden is very welcome.” Clare,
however, was far too deeply convinced of her own importance to see any
reproof in these words.
“Come and sit here,” said Jeanie, softly, stealing a little hand, which
was like a child’s, into Clare’s. “I see all the folk passing from this
window. Granny says no to do it; but I say what harm? And there he is,
that dark man. I saw him with you, and once since then, and he spoke
soft and kind; but oh, Miss Arden, I’m feared for that man! You canna
see into his heart; whiles I think, has he a heart at all? And what does
he want coming here?”
Clare’s curiosity, or rather her anxiety, was great. She allowed herself
to be drawn to the lattice window, which stood half open, all embowered
in honeysuckle. She kept Jeanie’s soft hand in hers with a sense of
clinging to it, as if there was help in its soft childlike pressure. The
new-comers were walking down the village street, filling the breadth of
the road--Mrs. Pimpernel full-blown and gorgeous as usual; her pretty
daughter half smothered in her finery; at one hand the young curate, Mr.
Denbigh, whose head was supposed to be turned by croquet and Alice; and
on the other---- Clare said to herself she had known it all along. She
had divined it from the first moment when Jeanie spoke. She stood
leaning one arm against the half-opened window, and with the other hand
holding Jeanie fast. Yes, of course, it was he; she had known it all
along. The scene looked so familiar to her that she seemed to have seen
it somewhere in a picture ages ago. Pretty Alice Pimpernel, blushing,
and saying two words by intervals now and then--“Oh, no, Mr. Arden,”
and “Oh, yes, Mr. Arden” (was not that the sort of conversation Alice
Pimpernel kept up? somebody, she could not remember who, had once told
Clare)--and stooping over her, doing his best to entertain her, smiling
that smile she knew so well---- Clare grasped Jeanie’s hand so hard that
it hurt the girl, who gave a half-suppressed cry; and then the young
Princess of Arden dropped suddenly into the nearest chair. Her heart
seemed to sink somewhere into unimaginable depths. It was no surprise to
her. She had known it all along. And yet----
Jeanie stood by her, unaware of what was passing through her companion’s
mind; or was she somehow aware, though Clare said not a word? “He thinks
little, little of her he’s speaking to,” said Jeanie, softly. “He thinks
nothing of her. If it was me, I would not let a man speak to me and look
at me like that, and scorn me, Miss Arden. They’re rich and grand, but
he thinks he’s better than them----”
“And he _is_ better than them,” said Clare, under her breath. “He is an
Arden. Better than them! They are nobody. You are better. Hush! you
don’t understand----”
And she held the little hand clasped tight, and almost leaned upon
Jeanie, not knowing it. The party came nearer; their voices became
audible from the window, and it annoyed Clare to hear sounds behind her,
Mrs. Murray moving about, which prevented her hearing what was said. She
uttered an imperative “Hush!” and turned round, half angrily, to command
silence; but still she could hear nothing but the well-accustomed
tones--the voice she knew so well. “You must see her. She is the
prettiest creature,” she heard him say just as they passed into the room
below; and then Clare loosed Jeanie’s hand, and looked at her with a new
inspiration. It was not for Alice Pimpernel; it was for Jeanie this
visit was made.
“You pretended to be afraid of him when you met him with me,” she said
sharply, and then turned to the grandmother. “She fainted or something
at the sight of him, and now he brings people to make a show of her. How
is this?” she cried. “Do you know that this village is mine, and I have
the charge of it? I must know what it means. You must explain this to
me.”
“Miss Arden,” said Mrs. Murray, “you mistake me and mine, I canna tell
why. I have lived sixty years in this world, and nobody has bidden me
humble myself as you have done--though it is justice upon me, but you
know nothing of that. I owe ye no explanation. I am not of your parish
nor in your charge; but out of courtesy, and because of something ye
never heard of, I’ll satisfy you this time. The man is nothing to her
nor to me. He was like a man that once we knew, as I told you. But he
came here three days ago, and I was glad, for the poor bairn saw it was
another face and another voice, and got over her fear. He’s clever and
soft-spoken, as ye ken; but he should never speak to my Jeanie more,
never with my will. That is all I have to say. You should not be here,
spying on your kinsman, you that’s such a proud lady. You should not
watch at that window, nor catch his words unawares. I would do more for
you than for anybody in the world that’s not my ain----”
“Why do you talk such nonsense to me,” cried Clare, angrily. “Am I such
a fool as to be deceived by it? What reason have you to care for me? I
thought you were proud and gave yourself airs, but I did not think you
would make false pretences like this. Why should you care for me----”
“I canna tell ye why, and ye will never ken,” said Mrs. Murray with a
sigh, “though I would give my life for you or your brother, if that
would serve you. But you say well, I have no right to make pretences.
You’re young and I’m old, Miss Arden, and when your kinsman is below
you should not be watching him here.”
“I am not watching him,” said Clare; and she sat with an obstinate
stateliness by the window, her face deeply flushed, her heart beating
high. It was not her fault. She would not have stolen here into this
coign of ’vantage had she thought of Arthur. It was but to avoid the
Pimpernels, not to watch him. But, even had she known he was coming,
would it not have been better in any case to keep out of his way? Had
not Edgar left home on purpose to send him away from Arden?--Edgar,
whose fault it was, who had thus thrown his cousin into the arms of the
Pimpernels, into the way of temptation. Clare was unreasonable, as was
natural. She forgot--as it is so easy to forget--that Arthur Arden was
much older than her brother, far more experienced, a man doubly learned
in the ways of the world. The first thing that occurred to her had been
to suspect poor little Jeanie, to blame Mrs. Murray; and now her
imagination fell upon Edgar, putting all the responsibility on his
shoulders. He had sent his cousin away. It was a new beginning which
poor Arthur was making--an attempt, poor fellow, at that pure domestic
life which had never been within his reach before. And Edgar, who had
all the lands and all the prosperity, had refused to this other Arden
even the poor shelter of his roof--the chance of learning to love
something that was better than his past had been. And thus he had been
thrown back upon the Pimpernels. To look at these good people in the
mirror of Clare’s fancy, one would have supposed they were everything
that was disorderly and improper, instead of being the most respectable
of households, correct in every possible point, and domestic to a degree
only possible to a British nature with commercial associations. Clare
sat and listened to the hum of voices down-stairs with the strangest
emotion. What was he doing there? What had he come for? Why was he
making himself the attendant of Alice Pimpernel? He had no money, and
her father was rich--was he, thwarted in his affections, intent upon
marrying and indemnifying himself by securing money at least? All these
thoughts passed through Clare’s mind with the rapidity of lightning.
Very different would have been her brother’s thoughts, even of Arthur
Arden; but Clare’s mind was more sophisticated than Edgar’s, and leapt
in a moment at this vulgar danger, which to her felt so real. And, as we
have said, the idea of marrying for money did not in itself revolt her.
If he could not secure the woman he loved, and her fortune, what could
he do but at least attempt to secure another fortune?--something he
could live on, and which would give him something to live for. Alice
Pimpernel! How much would she have? Clare wondered, in her feverish
suspense. Something, surely, not worth the sacrifice--a share of her
father’s money only--not an estate or ancient barony in her own right.
And then it occurred to her suddenly, she could not tell why, that Old
Arden was the seat of an ancient barony. It had dropped away from the
family in some of the civil wars; but the Squires had once been Barons,
and Lord Arden was a title that might easily be renewed in a generation
unfriendly to attainders, and which had a respect for old memories.
Should it be Edgar who would bear the recovered title? Edgar, Lord
Arden! The idea was absurd somehow. And then, Old Arden was not Edgar’s,
but hers--hers to bestow. Good heavens!--that it should be so! And all
the time, Arthur Arden--he who was the truest representative of the
family, in look, and thought, and disposition--he who would be the ideal
Lord Arden--was wasting his time upon a cotton-broker’s daughter--a
Liverpool girl, with a little paltry money--down-stairs! These may have
been deemed strange thoughts for a girl who had just seen her lover
absorbed in attendance upon another. She had been miserable
enough--angry enough for the first moment. She had loathed the innocent
Jeanie, and hated the stupid Alice; but while she thus sat waiting and
listening, it was another channel into which her thoughts flowed. It was
because he had been sent away from her own side that he was driven to
“amuse himself”--poor fellow! And she could give him all that was
needful, and the higher life along with it! Clare’s heart beat high with
impatience as she heard the sound of the voices. Should she go down and
reveal herself? Should she wait? What should she do? It was while her
excitement thus gradually grew stronger--after she had risen and seated
herself again twice over, and felt herself almost carried away by the
torrent of her thoughts--that the stir down-stairs took a definite form;
there was a sound of approaching footsteps and voices, which came nearer
and nearer. Mrs. Murray divined what it meant sooner than Clare did; and
hastily taking Jeanie’s hand, led her into the inner room. “Take your
seam, my bonnie lamb, and never you mind what they say or what they do,”
said the grandmother; and she closed the door upon her charge, and drew
a chair to the table, and took up her own knitting. The room grew
suddenly a place full of protection and safety, Clare could not tell
how. The first sensation of fright, and horror, and excitement, at the
sound of their approach, died out of her mind. “Thanks,” she said, under
her breath. And then there came a sudden knock and flutter of voices
close by; and Arthur Arden, smiling and introducing the pretty figure of
Alice Pimpernel, suddenly appeared at the door.