Two or three days elapsed after this commencement of operations, and the
Pimpernels had begun to be seriously affronted. Day by day Arden
deserted them after luncheon without even taking the trouble to
apologise. Now and then it happened that the croquet came absolutely to
a stand-still, and once Mrs. Pimpernel drove into Liverpool without any
captive knight to exhibit, which was very hard upon her. She was a
hospitable woman, ready to invite any well-born, well-mannered
individual of the (fashionable) houseless and homeless class; but then,
on the other hand, she expected something in return. “Proper respect,”
she called it; but it meant a good deal of social work--attendance upon
her daughter and herself, a sort of combination of the amateur footman
and the amusing companion. At this rate she would have given Arthur
Arden board and lodging for as long a period as he might desire. So long
as she could have it in her power to explain to any of her friends whom
she met that he was “one of the Ardens of Arden--indeed, the next heir
to the property,” she was able to feel that she had something for her
money. But to give him the green room, which was one of the nicest in
the house, and to feed him with truffles and champagne and all the
delicacies of the season, in order that he might spend half the day--the
really useful part of the day--with his cousin, was a thing she had not
bargained for. She showed her displeasure to the culprit himself in a
manner which would have been much more plain to him had he cared more
about it; and she complained to her husband, stating her grievance in
the plainest terms. “That Arthur Arden is an utter nuisance,” she said.
“I consider it most impudent of him, Mr. Pimpernel. He comes and stays
here, making a convenience of our house, but never thinks of paying
proper respect, such as any man who was a gentleman would. He sees Alice
and me drive out by ourselves, and actually has the assurance to wave
his hand to us, and wish us a pleasant drive. Yesterday I said to him--I
really could not help it--‘You don’t do much to make our drive pleasant,
Mr. Arden,’ and he simply stared at me. Fancy, having to drive into
Liverpool shopping, Alice and I, without a soul!--when everybody knows I
like to have a gentleman to do little things for us--and _that_ Arden
actually staying in the house!”
“It was cool of him,” said her husband. “He is what I call a cool hand,
is Arden. I’ll speak to him, if you like. I am not one of the men that
beat about the bush. Make yourself understood, that’s my motto. There is
just one thing to be said for him, however, and that is, that it may be
business. He told me he was hunting through the Arden papers; confounded
silly of that girl to let him; but that is no business of mine.”
“Oh, business indeed!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Business that takes him to
Clare Arden’s side every afternoon! I don’t much believe in that kind of
business. What he can see in her I am sure I cannot divine. A stuck-up
thing! looking down upon them that are as good as she is any day! Just
fancy a man leaving our Alice hitting the balls about all day by
herself, poor child, on the lawn!--a man staying in the house!--and
going off to the Hall to Clare Arden! Do you call that proper respect?
As for good taste, I don’t speak of that, for it is clear he has not got
any. And you take my word for it, business is nothing but a pretence.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr Pimpernel. “You see, if he really is
doing anything, it’s his policy to make himself agreeable to that girl.
She gives him access to the papers, you know. The papers are the great
thing. Don’t you be too exacting for a day or two. If Alice mopes let me
know; by Jove! I won’t have my little girl crossed. It’s odd if I can’t
buy her anything she takes a fancy to. But all the same he’s an old
fellow is Arden, and he hasn’t a penny to bless himself with. I can’t
see much reason why she should set her heart on him.”
“Upon my word and honour, Mr. Pimpernel!” said the lady, “if that is all
the opinion you have of your own child---- Set her heart on Arthur
Arden, indeed! She would never have looked at him if it hadn’t been for
that talk about the property. And if it turns out to be a mistake about
the property, do you think I’d ever----? I hope I have more opinion of
my girl than that. But when I ask a man to my house, I own I look for
proper respect. I consider it’s his business to make himself agreeable
to me, and not to strangers. My house ain’t an inn to be at the
convenience of visitors to Arden. If he likes best being there, let him
go and live there. I say Arden is Arden, and the Red House is the Red
House, and the one don’t depend upon the other, nor has nothing to do
with the other. If there’s one thing I hate it is pride and mean ways.
Let her take him in and keep him if she wants him. But I won’t keep him,
and feed him with the best of everything, and champagne like water, for
Miss Clare Arden’s sake, or Miss anything that ever was born!”
Mrs. Pimpernel was tying on her nightcap as she spoke, and the act
deafened her a little, for the nightcap strings were stiff and well
starched--which was perhaps the reason why she delivered the concluding
words in so loud a voice. Mr. Pimpernel was a courageous man enough, but
when it came to this he was too prudent to do anything to increase the
storm.
“I’ll speak to him if you like,” he said. “It’s always best to know
exactly what one is about. I’ll put it in the plainest terms; but I
think we might wait a day or two all the same. Arden’s a fine property,
and Arthur Arden is a clever fellow. He knows what’s what as well as any
man I know: and if he’s making a cat’s-paw of his cousin you can’t blame
him. If I were you I’d give him a day or two’s grace.”
“I am sick of him and everything about him. He is no more use than that
poker,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, seating herself in disgust in a chair which
stood in her habitual corner, at the side of the vacant fireplace. The
poker in question gleamed in brilliant steel incongruity from amid the
papery convolutions of an ornamental structure which filled the grate.
Nothing could well be more useless: it was a simile which went to her
husband’s heart.
“To think that I was poking the fire with that identical poker not six
weeks ago!” he said, “and now the heat’s enough to kill you. If you had
felt it in the office at three o’clock to-day! I can tell you it was no
joke.”
“Do you think I didn’t feel it?” said his wife; “driving into Liverpool
under that broiling sun, without a soul to amuse you, or offer you his
arm, or anything; and _that_ Arden quite comfortable, enjoying himself
in the big cool rooms at the Hall. Ah, fathers little know what one has
to go through for one’s children. All this blessed afternoon was I
choosing sleeves and collars and things for Alice, and summer frocks for
the children. The way they grow, and the number of changes they want!
And we had to allow half-an-inch more for Alice’s collars. She is
certainly getting stout. I am stout myself, and of course at my age it
don’t matter; but the more that child takes exercise the more she fills
out. I don’t understand it. You might have drawn me through a good-sized
ring when I was her age.”
“It must have been a very good-sized ring,” said Mr. Pimpernel. “And I
don’t like your maypoles of girls. I like ’em nice and round and
fat----”
“Good heavens, Mr. Pimpernel, you speak as if you were going to eat
them!” said his wife.
“If they were all as nice, healthy, plump, red and white as my Alice,”
said the indulgent father. And then there followed a few parental
comments on both sides on the comparative growths of Jane, Eliza, and
Maria-Anne. Thus the conversation dropped, and the danger which
threatened Arthur Arden was for the moment over. But yet he felt next
morning that something explosive was in the air. It was his interest to
stay at the Red House as long as possible, to have his invitation
renewed, if that was possible; and he felt instinctively that something
must be done to mend matters. It was a great bore, for though he had
discovered nothing as yet, he had been living in the closest intercourse
with Clare, and had been making, he felt, satisfactory progress in that
pursuit--indeed, he had made a great deal more progress than he himself
was aware; for the fact was that his own feelings (such as they were)
were too much engaged to make him quite so clear-sighted on the subject
as he might have been. A bystander would probably have seen, which
Arthur Arden did not, that everything was tending towards a very speedy
crisis, and that it was perfectly apparent how that crisis would be
decided. Had he himself been cool enough to note her looks--her
tremulous withdrawals and sudden confidences--her mingled fear of him
and dependence upon him, he would have spoken before now, and all would
have been decided. But he was timid, as genuine feeling always
is--afraid that after all he might be deceiving himself, and that all
the evidences which he sometimes trusted in might mean nothing. Things
were in this exciting state when his eyes were opened to see the cloudy
countenance of Mrs. Pimpernel and the affronted looks of Alice. He was
late at breakfast, as he always was--a thing which had been regarded as
a very good joke when he first came to the Red House. “Papa has been
gone for an hour,” Alice had been wont to say, looking at her watch; and
Mrs. Pimpernel would shake her head at him. “Ah, Mr. Arden, it is just
as well you have no house to keep in order,” she would say. “I can’t
think whatever you do when you are married, you fashionable men.” But
now the comments were of a very different character. “I am afraid the
coffee is cold,” Mrs. Pimpernel said, looking hot enough herself to warm
any amount of coffee. “It is so unfortunate that we cannot make our
hours suit; and I must ask you to excuse me--I must give the
housekeeper her orders before it is quite the middle of the day----”
“Am I so very late--I am dreadfully sorry,” said Arthur, appealing to
Alice, who sat at the end of the table looking shyly spiteful, and who
remained for a moment undecided whether to follow her mother or to put
on an aspect of civility and stay.
“Oh no, Mr. Arden--I mean I can’t tell--mamma thinks we see so very
little of you now----”
“Do you see little of me? Ah, yes, I remember, you were in Liverpool
yesterday shopping, and I found the house all desolate when I came back.
You can’t think how dreary it looks when you are away. This suggestion
of your father’s gives me so much work in the afternoon----”
“Oh, Mr. Arden! a suggestion of papa’s?”
“Did you not know--did you think it was by my own inclination that I was
at work all day long?” said Arthur. “How much higher an opinion you must
have of me than I deserve! Does Mrs. Pimpernel think it is all my doing?
No, I am not so good as that. I am going over the family papers on your
papa’s suggestion--trying to find out something---- Most likely I shall
write a book----”
“Oh, Mr. Arden!” cried Alice Pimpernel.
“Yes; most likely I shall write a book. You can’t think how many
interesting stories there are in the family. Should you like me to tell
you one this morning before the children are ready for their croquet? I
don’t know if I can do it well, but if you like----”
“Oh, Mr. Arden, I should like it so much!”
“Then, come out on the lawn,” said Arthur. “I know a spot where it will
be delicious this warm morning to lie on the grass and tell you about
our Spanish lady. Did you ever hear of our Spanish lady? It was she who
gave us our olive complexions and our black hair.”
“Oh, Mr. Arden!” Alice cried, dazzled by the prospect; “only wait,
please, till I fetch my work;” and she hurried away into the
drawing-room, leaving him to finish his breakfast. Alice ran across her
mother in the hall, as she crossed from one room to the other. Her
pretty complexion was heightened, and her eyes shining with pleasure and
interest. “Oh, mamma! I am going out to the lawn to hear Mr. Arden tell
a story,” she cried, “about the Spanish lady--a family story; and, oh!
he says he does not go away for his own pleasure, but because of
something papa put into his head. Fancy--papa!”
“That is all very well,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Your papa, indeed!--but
I happen to know better. Your papa only told him, if he could find a
flaw in the title---- Your papa is a great deal too liberal,
Alice--offering to help people that have not a penny to bless themselves
with--as if it could ever be anything to us!--or, as if there was such a
thing as gratitude in the world.”
“Oh, mamma--hush!” whispered Alice, pointing to the open door of the
dining-room, through which Arthur heard every word that was said; and
then she added, plaintively, with ready tears gathering in her eyes,
“Mayn’t I go?”
“I suppose he thinks we are all to be ready as soon as he holds up his
little finger,” said the indignant mother. And then she paused, and
calmed herself down. “I don’t want you to be uncivil, Alice,” she added,
still much to Arthur’s edification, who heard every word. “As long as he
is your father’s guest, of course you must be polite to him. Oh, yes,
you can go. But mind you don’t stay too long, or expose yourself to the
sun; and don’t forget that I expect my daughter to show a little proper
pride.”
Poor Alice lingered for a long time in the hall before she had courage
to rejoin the guest, who must have heard everything that was said. She
made believe to return to the drawing-room to look for something else
which she had forgotten. And it was not till Arthur himself--who was
much more amused than angry--had leisurely ended his breakfast, and
strolled out into the hall, that she ventured to join him. “Oh! Mr.
Arden--I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she cried. “Never mind.
I had nothing to do but wait,” he said, smiling, and took the basket
with her work out of her hand. He took her to the very shadiest seat,
brought her a footstool, arranged everything for her with an air of
devotion which went to the heart of Alice, and then he threw himself on
the grass at her feet, and prepared to tell his tale.