Clare was all alone when Arthur reached the Hall. She had been all alone
the whole day. She had not even received a letter from anybody, to help
her through its long hours. She had looked after her accounts, and
arranged something for the schools, and answered an application which
some one in Liverpool had made in respect to one of the girls whom old
Sarah had trained. And then she sat down and read for half-an-hour, and
then rose and stood for ten minutes at the window, and then had taken
her tapestry-work, and then gone to the window again. From that window
the view was very fair. It would have lightened the burden off the
shoulders of many a careworn man and woman only to have been able to go
and look at it from time to time in the midst of their work. There were
the woods, in all their summer wealth, stretching as far as the eye
could see; and under their shade a gleam of water catching the
sunshine--water which was one of the charms of Arden--a series of old
fish-ponds threaded upon the thin silvery string of a little stream. It
glimmered here, and it glimmered there, through the rich foliage--and
now and then the elms and beeches stood apart, as it were, drawing their
leafy skirts about them, to open a green glade, all brightened up with a
flash of that fairy water; and between the window and the wood was the
great wealthy stretch of immemorial turf, the park, with here and there
a huge tree standing with modest consciousness by itself--a champion of
the sylvan world. People had been heard to say that the mere sight of
all that lordly, silent scene--so profuse in its verdure, so splendid in
its space and freedom--was enough to drive care and pain far from Arden.
Nothing knew Nature there of pain or evil. She lay and contemplated
herself, wrapped in a holy, divine content, listening to the rustle of
the leaves, taking thought for the innumerable tiny lives that buzzed
and fluttered in the air, watching the grasses grow and the little fish
leap. It was all very lovely, and to Clare it was dear, as only such a
home can be. But when she went to the window her heart grew sick of the
silence and the calm. Oh, only for a little movement and commotion! A
storm would have been better than nothing; but still a storm would only
have moved these great, strong, self-sufficing, unsympathetic trees. It
could not have given the _secousse_ she wanted to Clare herself, who,
for the first time in her life, had ceased to be self-sufficing. No, not
self-sufficing--longing for anything, it did not matter what, to disturb
the stagnation about her. How different it had been before Edgar came
home! Even when she was absorbed by her first grief for her father, time
did not hang heavy on her hands. Once before, it is true, a similar
feeling had come over her--after Arthur Arden went away the first time.
Clare clasped her hands together and blushed crimson, with sudden shame,
when she identified the previous moment at which she had felt lonely and
weary of everything as she was now: violent shame seized upon
her--though there was nobody to see, even if any one could have seen
into her mind and surprised the unspoken thought. And then she turned
her back upon the weary window, and represented to herself that the
misery of that former time had passed away. Time had gone on, and other
thoughts had come in, and it had passed away. A little patience, and
again it would pass away now. Everything does in this world.
Clare’s experience was not great, but yet even she knew something of
that terrible tranquillising force of time. How wretched she had been
about Edgar, again and again, during those years when he had been
absent, and her father never mentioned his name. But these
wretchednesses had all floated away, one after another. And when the
Squire died, it had seemed to Clare that she never could get beyond that
sense of desolation which filled the house and all the familiar scenes
in which he had been the first figure. But she had got over it. She had
not forgotten her father; her memory of him was so vivid that she could
think she saw him, could think she heard him, so clear in her
recollection were his voice and his face. And yet the world was no
longer desolate because he was not there. It was a curious train of
thought for a girl of her age. But Clare was very reasonable, and she
was very much alone, with nobody in the world to whom she could
legitimately go for consolation. She had no mother into whose ear she
could pour her woes; she had been compelled to be a mother to herself.
And thus, as if she had been her own mother, she represented to herself
that this pain also would pass away in time. Let her but occupy herself,
keep doing something, bear it as patiently, and think as little about it
as possible, and in time it would come to an end. This is a hard,
painful, inhuman way of consoling one’s self; but yet when one is alone,
and has nobody else to breathe a word of comfort, perhaps it is as good
a way as any. “It will not last,” she said to herself. “It is miserable
now, and shameful, and I hate myself. To think that _I_ should feel like
that! But one has only to be patient and put up with it. It cannot
last.” And she had just fed herself with this philosophy, and taken what
nourishment she could out of it, when all her loneliness, and
miserableness, and philosophisings were put to flight in a moment.
Arthur Arden was ushered in solemnly by Wilkins, who had half a mind to
remain himself, to make sure that the rules of perfect propriety were
observed; and all at once the tedium and the unprofitableness departed
out of Clare’s life.
But she would have given her life, as was perfectly natural, rather than
let him see that his arrival was anything to her. “I am taking advantage
of Edgar’s absence to do quantities of things,” she said, looking into
his face, “clearing away my old pieces of work. No, perhaps I was never
very fond of work; I have always had so many other things to do.----
Thanks; I heard from him yesterday; Edgar is quite well.”
“I hope he is enjoying himself in town,” said Arthur, subduing himself
to her tone.
“He talks only of the Thornleighs,” said Clare, with that familiar
pucker in her brow. Pretending to be anxious about Edgar was so much
more easy than adopting that air of absolute calm for herself. “Of
course I know I ought to be very glad that he has chosen such nice
friends. There is nothing to object to in the Thornleighs. Still, to go
to town only to see them, when he can see them as much as he pleases at
home----”
“Lady Augusta, I should think, likes to have such a captive at her
chariot-wheels,” said Arthur. “How much anxiety it must cost you! Poor
dear Arden! What a pity he knows so little of the world.”
“Oh, my brother will do very well,” said Clare, with a sensitive
movement of offence; and then it occurred to her that it was safest to
carry the war into the other camp. “I should like to know how you get on
at the Red House?” she said. “Miss Pimpernel is quite pretty, I think.
Is she always buttoning her glove? I hear they play croquet a great
deal. Are you fond of croquet, Mr. Arden? If you are, it must have been
so dull for you, never having it while you were here.”
“I hate croquet,” he said, almost rudely (but Clare was not offended).
“I hope the man who invented it died a violent death. Miss Arden, I know
I have put myself in a false position by going to visit the
Pimpernels----”
“Oh, no, indeed no, not at all,” said Clare, with majestic suavity;
“why should not you visit them if you like them? I object to visiting
that sort of people myself, you know. Not that they are not quite as
good as I am--but---- And then one acts as one has been brought up. I
never supposed it was a wrong thing to do----”
“It would not be right for you,” said her cousin. “With us men, of
course, it don’t matter; but you---- I should not like to see you at the
Red House with a mallet in your hand. I must not tell you my motive in
going there, I suppose?”
“Oh, please, do,” said Clare, with queenly superiority, but a heart that
beat very quick under this calm appearance. “I think I can divine--but
you may be sure of my interest--in whatever concerns you. Miss Pimpernel
is very pretty; she has the loveliest complexion. And I was not in
earnest when I spoke about--buttoning her glove.”
“Why should not you be in earnest? She does nothing but button her
glove. But I don’t know what Miss Pimpernel has to do with it,” said
Arthur, putting on an air of surprise. He knew very well what she had to
do with it. He understood Clare’s meaning at once, and he knew also that
there was a certain truth in the suggestion. If he was utterly foiled
concerning herself, he was by no means sure that Alice Pimpernel was
not the next best; but he put on an air of surprise, and gravely waited
for a reply. Clare, however, was not quite able to reply. She smiled,
and waited till he should say more. It was the wisest and the safest
way.
“I think, after what you have implied, I must tell you why I am at the
Pimpernels,” he said, after a pause. “It was very silly of me, of
course; but I never thought---- In short, I did not know you were so
consistent. I thought you would do as other people did, and that you
visited them like the rest of the world. All this, Miss Arden, I told
you before; but I don’t suppose it was worth remembering. When your
brother turned me out----”
“Mr. Arden, you forget yourself; Edgar never turned any one out. Why
should he?” said Clare; and then she stopped, and said to herself--“Yes;
it was quite true.”
“Of course, I could not expect he was to stay here for me; but he did
turn me out. And very right too,” said Arthur, sadly. “He divined me
better than you did. Had I been Edgar, and he me, I should have done
just the same.”
“I do not understand you, Mr. Arden,” said Clare, raising her lofty
head. “Edgar is the very soul of courtesy and kindness. You do not
understand my brother.” She knew so well that she was talking nonsense,
and he knew it so well, that here Clare paused, confused, not able to go
on with her fiction under his very eye.
“Well,” he said, with a sigh, shaking his head, “we must not discuss
that question. I could throw light upon it perhaps, but for the present
I dare not. And I thought in my stupidity that the Red House was near
Arden. I find it is a thousand miles away. Is not that strange? Miss
Arden, I am going to do something genealogical, or historical. I think I
will write a book. Writing a book, people say, is a very nice amusement
when you don’t know what to do with yourself, and if you happen to be
rather wretched now and then. I am going to write something about the
family. I wonder if Edgar and you would let me see the old family
papers--if any papers exist?”
“To write a book!” said Clare. Miss Arden had rather a contempt for
literature; but to write a book which was not for money, like the books
of professional authors, but about “the family,” like so many handsome
books she had seen--a glorification, not of one’s self to be sure, but
of one’s ancestors--was a different matter. A slight, very slight,
rose-tint came upon her pale face. It was not the kind of flush which
appeared when Arthur Arden talked of other subjects. It was a thrill of
pleasurable excitement--a movement of sudden interest and pride.
“If you will permit me to see what papers there are,” said Arthur; “I
know there are some which must be interesting, for I remember your
father---- He was peculiar in some things, Miss Arden; but how full of
knowledge and power he was!”
“Oh, was not he?” cried Clare, with sudden tears in her eyes. “Poor
papa! Poor dear papa! I think he knew everything. Mr. Arden, it is so
kind of you to speak of him. No one ever speaks of him to me. People
think it brings one’s grief back--as if one would not give the world to
have it back! And Edgar and I--poor Edgar!--he can’t talk of him as--as
most children can. You know why: it is no one’s fault. Perhaps if I had
been a little more firm---- But, oh, it is so kind of you to talk to me
of papa!”
“I did not mean to be kind,” said Arthur Arden, with a sudden
compunction, feeling his own treachery. “But perhaps I knew him better
than Edgar could,” he added, gently. “And he loved you so--no child was
ever more to a father. But I should not say anything to make you
cry----”
“I like to cry,” said Clare. “I have not cried for months, and it does
me so much good. Nobody ever loved me as poor papa did. I am not
blaming any one. Edgar is very fond of me, Mr Arden--he is very fond of
me and very good to me--but you know--papa----”
“He was like no one else,” said the traitor; and, good heavens, he asked
himself, am I putting all this on by way of getting possession of her
father’s papers? What a horrible villain I must be! But he did not feel
himself a villain. He went on talking about the Squire with the
profoundest seriousness, and feeling what he said, though he was
conscious of his own motive all the time. It was frightful to think of,
but yet thus it was. And Clare, who had so much emotion pent up within
her--so much which she would have been ashamed to trace to its just
source, and which nothing in the world would have persuaded her to
show--when the fountains of her heart were thus opened, and a feasible
occasion given her, Clare’s whole being seemed to flow forth. She talked
of her father, and felt that of him alone could she thus have talked.
And her tears flowed, and were dried, and flowed again. Not all for her
father--a great deal for herself, for the complications of her own
life--for nameless agitations and trouble. But this one legitimate
reason for weeping relieved them all.
“How stupid I am,” she said at last, “entertaining you with my silly
crying, as if that could be anything to you. Mr. Arden, I don’t think
you need wait for Edgar’s leave. I am sure he would let me give it. I
don’t know whether the papers are interesting--but there is that old
bureau in the library. It was papa’s bureau--he always used it as long
as he lived. I have never said anything about it, and I have never had
the heart to go over them myself: but there are quantities of letters in
it. I suppose they ought to be burnt. If you find anything that
interests you, I might go over papa’s papers at the same time--it would
be something to do----”
“And I shall be at hand, if you want anything,” said Arthur. Was it
possible he was to get his wish so easily? This poor little lamb did not
even wait to be asked, she thrust her milk-white head into the wolf’s
mouth. The papers; not only those old papers which he had pretended to
want, but any windfall of modern letters that might fall in his way--and
not only this, but Clare’s society, and full opportunity to work upon
her as he might. He could not believe it was true as he went away. It
was his first visit, and he would not stay too long, nor run any risk.
He left her, as it were, on the verge of a new world. To-morrow even
might bring forth results more important than anything that had yet
dawned on his life--to-morrow he might discover something which would
put Arden within his reach--or to-morrow’s chances might place Clare
within his reach, the next thing to Arden. His head throbbed with
excitement and his heart with hope.
As for Clare, she too was on the verge of a new world--but it was one of
excitement and emotion only. Her dull life quickened into sudden
radiance. She looked out again from the window, and saw the silvery
water gleaming, and the branches waving, and all the face of nature gay.
The day had brightened, the world grown cheery--and to-morrow, with new
things in it, new companionship, new work, new interests, smiled and
invited her. She did not say even to herself “I shall see him again.” On
the contrary, she thought of her father and his papers, and the
melancholy pleasure of setting them in order. It would be, of course, a
melancholy pleasure; and yet she caught herself singing as she ran
upstairs to get her hat, and go out for a walk. Could it be this
prospect only which made her heart so light and so gay?