Arthur Arden went back to the Pimpernels’ with no very comfortable
feelings. He had gone to the Red House, he said, in order to be near
Arden, and that he might make frequent visits to the central object of
his pursuit; but he had not been aware how far Clare carried out her
principles, and that she really declined to know the people whom she did
not think her equals. Arthur was accustomed to people who sneer yet
visit and take advantage of all the wealth and luxuries of the _nouveaux
riches_. Make use of them: was not that what all the world did,
accepting their costly dinners and fine carriages, and laughing at them
behind their backs? How was it that Clare refused to do this like other
people? Her kinsman could not tell. He thought it foolish of her, if
Clare could do anything foolish, and in his own mind quoted the example
of a great many very fine people indeed who did it freely. Why should
one be so much better than others? he thought to himself; and so went
back disconcerted to join the Pimpernels.
Clare was wrong in the conclusion she had jumped at, and still she was
not altogether wrong. Alice was pretty and quite inoffensive, and she
would have thirty thousand pounds. When a young man of good family
without any money or any profession has arrived at the borders of forty,
various questions present themselves to him in a very decided way, and
demand consideration. What is to become of him? You may keep time at bay
if you have all the aids and preventives at hand for doing so; but when
that is not the case, when you have, on the other hand, anxieties
instead of cosmetics, and increase your wrinkles by every hour’s
thought, the crisis is a very formidable one. Arthur Arden had been
brought up, like so many young men, with vague thoughts of an
appointment which was to do everything for him. This expectation had
quieted the consciences of everybody belonging to him. He had been
waiting for an appointment as long as he could recollect, and he was
still waiting for it now. To tell the truth, the progress of years did
not make it more likely or bring it any nearer; but still, he knew a
great many people who had in their hands the giving of appointments, and
it was not impossible that such a thing might drop from the skies at
any moment. What he would have done with it when it came, after so many
years’ lounging about the world without anything definite to do, is a
different question. But, in the meantime, Alice Pimpernel, as a _pis
aller_, was as good as an appointment, and Clare a great deal better,
and it seemed only natural that the best should claim his devotion
first. He had not attempted to exercise upon Alice the full force of
those fascinations which he had poured forth upon Clare; but he kept her
in hand, as it were, ready for an emergency. He cleared the cloud off
his face as he approached the door of old Sarah’s cottage, where the
ladies had just appeared. Young Denbigh, the curate, had left them when
they went in, so that Arthur was their sole escort. He arrived in time
to hear Mrs. Pimpernel’s parting words.
“Don’t think any more about the loss. It was not very expensive lace,
you know, and I have plenty. Thank heaven, I am not in circumstances to
be obliged to consider every trifle. I was annoyed at first, of course,
and it was dreadfully careless of the girl. What does she expect is to
become of her, I wonder, if she takes no more pains? I have known a girl
just simply ruined by such carelessness. Oh, you need not cry--crying
does very little good. I assure you I have, indeed.”
“It’s what I’m atelling ’em morning, noon, and night,” said old Sarah,
while the culprit retired into her apron, and sobbed, and curtsied,
being past all power of speech.
“Simply ruined,” said Mrs. Pimpernel with solemn iteration; “but I trust
you will think what you are doing, and never be so wicked again. I am
very much interested in your lodgers, Sarah. What a very nice old woman,
and so clean! Mr. Arden did you observe? But there is no use speaking to
you gentlemen--you are always thinking of something else. So very clean!
If anything should ever be wanted for her or for the sick girl, you may
send to me freely. We are never without some little delicacy, you
know--something that would tempt an invalid. Mr. Pimpernel is so very
particular about what he eats. All you gentlemen are. I dare say you
want it more after being out in the world all day knocking about. Well,
Mr. Arden, and so you went and made your peace with your cousin? I hope
everything is right now.”
“Nothing was wrong,” said Arthur hastily. “I had no peace to make. I was
only anxious to ask Miss Arden about--Edgar. I don’t know where he is,
and I wanted his address.”
“She does not half like your staying with us,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Oh,
don’t speak to me! I know better. I don’t know what we have ever done
to her, but she hates us, does Miss Arden. She is quite spiteful because
you are staying with us.”
“Oh, mamma, dear!” said Alice, in gentle deprecation.
“You may say what you please, Alice, but I know better. That child is
always standing up for Miss Arden. I don’t know why she should, I am
sure, for she never is barely civil. Not that we want anything from her;
we visit quite as much as I wish to visit; but if I were ever so anxious
to increase my list, Arden Hall, you know!---- It never was very
amusing, I believe. It is not that I care for the airs she gives
herself----”
“You forget that my cousin has been brought up very quietly,” said
Arthur. “Her father was very peculiar. He never saw any society unless
he could not help it. You know, indeed, that poor Edgar, his only
son---- But that is a painful subject to us all.”
“Please, tell me!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “One hears hints, you know; but
it would be so much more satisfactory from one of the family. Do,
please, tell me. He snubbed him dreadfully, and never educated him, nor
gave him any allowance nor anything. Fancy, his own father! But there
must have been some cause.”
“He was a very peculiar man,” said Arthur Arden. “There are things in
families, you know, which don’t bear discussion. If I was more
hard-hearted than I am, or more indifferent to the credit of the
name---- But never mind--it is a question I would rather not discuss.”
“Oh, Mr. Arden!” cried Alice Pimpernel, clasping her hands, and looking
up at him with unfeigned admiration. Yes, he was more interesting than
Mr. Denbigh, with that fine family face, and all its romantic
associations--and sacrificing himself, too, for the good of the family.
How grand it was! The Pimpernels, too, had certain features which were
peculiar to them; but oh! how different from the Ardens. Mr. Denbigh was
interesting too--he was very nice and attractive, and second cousin to
the Earl of Tintagel. But he had not a story to attract the imagination
like this.
“I would never insist upon confidence,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; it is
against my principles, even with my own child. If it’s about money, I
always say, ‘Speak to your papa--he is the one to manage all that;’ and,
between ourselves, he is a great deal too liberal; he never knows how to
say ‘No’ to any of them. But if it’s their feelings, I never exact
anything. I am always ready to do my best, but confidence is a thing I
would never exact.”
“It is a thing I should be most ready to give,” said Arthur Arden, with
a bow and a smile, “if the secret were only mine. But my poor cousin
Edgar--he is a most worthy fellow--an excellent fellow. I confess I was
prejudiced against him, which is not unnatural, you know, considering
that he stands, between me and---- But really it is a question I must
not enter on.”
“Anything you may say to us will be sacred, you may be sure,” Mrs.
Pimpernel said, with breathless interest; and Alice looked up
appealingly in his face. They were quite tremulous with expectation,
looking for some romance of real life, something more exciting than
gossip. Arthur Arden could scarcely restrain the impulse to mystify them
at least; but he remembered that it might be dangerous, and refrained.
“No,” he said, with a sigh, shaking his head, “not even to you. If it
were my own secret you should have it fast enough; but I must not betray
another’s. No, no. And poor Edgar is an excellent fellow--as good a
fellow as ever breathed.”
Mrs. Pimpernel shot a lively glance across him at her daughter, who
replied to it quickly enough, though she was not over-bright. “Depend
upon it, there is some flaw in Edgar Arden’s title,” was Mrs.
Pimpernel’s comment that evening when she repeated the conversation to
her husband. “Depend upon it, all’s not right there. I never saw
anything written more plainly on a man’s face.”
“Then you must have seen fool written after it,” said Mr. Pimpernel.
“Stuff and nonsense! This fellow Arden is very well up to most things.
He knows what he’s about, does Arden; and so he should, if he’s making
up to your daughter, Mrs. Pimpernel.”
“I wish you would not be so coarse,” said the lady. “Making up! There is
nothing of the sort. He is an agreeable sort of man, and knows
everybody; though, if there was anything in this story, Alice might do
worse. It would be very nice to have her settled so near us. And Arden
is a good name; and I must say, if there is one thing I am partial to,
it is a good family. Though you never will acknowledge it, or give any
weight to it, it is well known my grandmother was a Blundell----”
“I don’t know anything about your grandmother; but I shan’t give your
daughter, if I can help it, to a fellow who has nothing. Why don’t he
get his appointment? Or, if he wants to marry, let him marry his cousin,
and get her share of the property. That would be the sensible thing to
do.”
“He would not look at his cousin, take my word for it,” said Mrs.
Pimpernel. “He has more sense than that at least. A proud, stuck-up
thing, as vain of her family---- As if it was any virtue of hers to
belong to an old family! She wasn’t consulted about it. For my part, I’d
rather be like Alice, well brought up, with a father and mother she has
no reason to be ashamed of, than Clare Arden, with all her mysteries and
nonsense. I should indeed; and that is a deal for me to say that am
partial to old families. But, if you had a chance, you might just
question Arthur Arden a little, and see what he means by it. I don’t see
why he should sacrifice himself. And if there should be anything in it,
to have Alice settled so near us, on such a pretty property----”
Thus Mrs. Pimpernel showed an inclination not only to count her chickens
before they were hatched, but even before it was quite certain that
there were eggs for the preliminary ceremony. The husband did not say
very much, but he thought the more. He had money to back any claimant,
and would not hesitate to do so. And as for any folly about
self-sacrifice or fine family feeling, the cotton-broker felt that he
would make very short work with that. “Rubbish and nonsense!” he said to
himself. “What were all the feelings in the world in comparison with a
fine property like Arden--a property that might almost double in value
if it were in proper hands. Why, in building leases alone, he could
undertake to add five thousand a-year to the property. There might be
dozens of Arden Villas, Pimpernel Places, &c., which would pay
magnificently, without interfering in the least with ‘the amenities.’
And if nothing was wanted but money for a lawsuit, why he himself would
not mind providing the sinews of war.
“I understand there is some uncertainty about your cousin’s title to
Arden,” he said next morning, in his uncompromising way.
“Good heavens! who said so?” said Arthur, in consternation; for to do
him justice he had meant only to be interesting, and knew that, as
respected Arden, his suspicions, and those of other people, did not
value a brass farthing. “Pray be cautious of repeating such a thing. It
is quite new to me----”
“Why, why, why!--I thought you gave a little colour to it at least, by
something you said yourself--so I heard,” said Mr. Pimpernel. “I am a
practical man, Arden, and I never have any time to beat about the bush.
_Should_ there be anything in it, and _should_ you be disposed to fight
it out, and _should_ you have evidence and all that, why, I should not
mind standing by you, as a matter of business, you know. I don’t
understand fine feelings, but I understand what an estate’s worth; and
if you can prove to my solicitor you have ground to go upon, why, I
shouldn’t mind backing you up. There, I never make mysteries about
anything, and you will follow my example, if you take my advice----”
“My dear sir, how can I thank you for your confidence in me?” said
Arthur. “The truth is, there has always been something very odd; but I
fear that so far as evidence goes---- You may depend upon it, if I ever
should find myself in a position to prove anything, yours would be the
first aid I should seek.”
“Well, well, you know your own affairs best,” said Mr. Pimpernel. And so
there was no more said about it; but Arthur’s brain was set to work as
it had never yet been. What if there might be evidence after
all--something the old Squire had made up his mind not to use? Arden was
worth a great deal of exertion, even a little treachery; and, of course,
if Edgar was not a real Arden, it would be a duty to the race to cast
him out--a duty to the race, and a duty to himself. Duty to one’s self
is a very prevailing principle; there is not much about it in the canons
of Christianity, but there is a great deal about it in the practical
laws which govern the world. Arthur was vaguely excited by this
unexpected proposal. He was not lawyer enough to know much of the
possibilities or impossibilities of the matter. But it was worth
thinking about, worth inquiring into, surely, if anything ever was.