SQUIRE ARDEN.
VOL. I.
SQUIRE ARDEN.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”
“SALEM CHAPEL,” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,”
ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HURST & BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1871.
_The Right of Translation is Reserved._
PERTH:
SAMUEL COWAN & CO., PRINTERS.
SQUIRE ARDEN.
CHAPTER I.
“What are the joy bells a-ringing for, Simon?” said an old woman, coming
briskly out to the door of one of the pretty cottages in the pretty
village of Arden, on a pleasant morning of early summer, when all the
leaves were young, and the first freshness of the year was over the
world. “There’s ne’er a one married as I knows on, and it aint
Whitsuntide, nor Holmfirth fair, nor----”
“It’s the young Squire, stoopid,” said the old clerk, gruffly, leaning
his arms upon the little paling of the tiny garden and looking at her.
“He’s come home.”
What he really did say was “he’s coom whoam;” but the reader will be so
kind as take it for granted that Simon Molyneaux was an old Lancashire
man, and talked accordingly, without giving a pen not too familiar with
the dialect the trouble of putting in all the o’s that are necessary.
Simon said coom, and he said loove, and moother; but as there is no
moral meaning in the double letter, let us consent to leave it out.
“The young Squire!” said the old woman, with a start.
She was a tidy fresh old woman, with cheeks of a russet colour, half
brown half red, yet soft, despite all their wrinkles--cheeks that
children laid their little faces up to without feeling any difference of
texture; and eyes which had stolen back during these years deeper into
their sockets, but yet were bright and full of suppressed sunshine. She
had a little shawl pinned over her print gown, and a great white apron,
which shone in the sun, and made the chief light in the little picture.
Simon’s rugged countenance looking at her was all brown, with a deep
dusky red on the tops of the cheekbones; his face was as full of
cross-hatching as if he had been an old print. His eyes were deeper than
were hers, but still at the bottom of the wrinkled caves they abode in
had a spark of light in each of them. In short, there was sufficient
resemblance between them still to show that Simon and Sarah were brother
and sister. A young woman of four and twenty came to the door of the
next cottage at the sound of his voice, and opening it, went in again,
as if her duty was done. She was Simon’s daughter and housekeeper, who
was not fond of gossip, and the two kindred households were next door
to each other. It was a very pretty village, much encouraged to keep
itself tidy, and to cultivate flowers, and do everything that is proper
in its condition of life, by the young lady at the Hall. The houses had
been improved, but in an unobtrusive way. They were not painfully
white-washed, but showed here and there a gleam of red brick in a thin
place. The roses and the honeysuckles were not always neatly trained,
and there was even an old shawl thrust into a broken pane in the window
of Sally Timms, who was so much trouble to Miss Arden with her untidy
ways. Old Simon had nothing but wallflower and southernwood (which was
called lad’s love in that region), and red and white daisies in his
garden. But next door, if you came at the proper season, you might see
picottees that were exhibited at the Holmfirth flower show, and floury
auriculas, such as were the height of the fashion in the floral world a
good many years ago. In short there was just that mixture of perfection
and imperfection which kept the village of Arden a natural spontaneous
village, instead of an artificial piece of luxury, cultivated like any
other ornament, in consequence of the very close vicinity of the Hall
gates.
“The young Squire!” said old Sarah again, who had been shaking her head
all the time we have taken to interpolate this bit of description; and
she did it still more emphatically now when she repeated her words,
“Poor lad--poor lad! Eh, to think the joy bells should be rung in Arden
Church along o’ _him_! He never came home yet that I hadn’t a good cry
for’t afore the day was done. Poor lad!”
“Thee needn’t cry no more,” said Simon, “along of him. He’s come to his
own, and ne’er one within twenty miles to say him nay. He came home last
night, when folks were a’ abed; but he’s as bright as a May morning to
look at him now.”
“He was allays bright,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes with her apron, an
action which disturbed the whole picture, breaking up the lights, “when
he was kepp like the lowest in the house, and ’ad the nose snapped off
his face, he’d cry one minute and laugh the next, that’s what he’d do.
He never was long down, wasn’t Mr. Edgar. Though where he got that, and
his light hair, and them dancing eyes of his, it’s none o’ us that can
say.”
“It was off his mother he got ’em, as was natural,” said the old clerk.
“I saw her when old Master he brought her home first, and she was as
fair as fair. But, Squire or no Squire, I’m going to my breakfast. Them
bell-ringing boys they’re at the Arden Arms already, drinking the
Squire’s sovereign, the fools, instead of laying it up for a rainy day.
If they had the rheumatiz as bad as me they’d know what it was to have a
penny laid by; but I don’t know what young folks is coming to, I don’t,”
said Simon, opening his own gate, and hobbling towards the open door. He
had a large white handkerchief loosely tied about his shrivelled brown
throat, and an old black coat, which had been an evening coat of the old
Squire’s in former days. Simon preferred swallowtail coats, chiefly
because he thought they were more dignified, and became his position;
but partly also because experience had taught him that coats which were
only worn in the evening by their original proprietor had a great deal
more wear in them than those which the Squire or the Rector walked about
in all day.
Sarah went in also to her own cottage, where for the moment she was all
alone. She spread down her white apron, and smoothed out the creases
which she had made when she dried her eyes; but, notwithstanding, her
eyes required to be dried again. “Poor lad,” she said at intervals, as
she “tidied” her already tidy room, and swept some imperceptible dust
into the fireplace. The fire was made up. The cat sat winking by it. The
kettle feebly murmured on the hob. It was not the moment for that
kettle to put itself in evidence. It had made the breakfast, and had
helped in the washing of the solitary cup and saucer, and it was only
just now that it should retire into the background till the afternoon,
when tea was again to be thought of. Its mistress was somewhat in the
same condition. She walked round the room two or three times, trying
apparently to find some piece of active work which required to be done,
and poked into all the corners. “I done my scouring only yesterday,” she
said to herself in a regretful and plaintive tone; but, after a little
interval, added energetically, “and I cannot settle down to plain
sewing, not to-day.” She said this as if somebody had commanded her to
take to her plain sewing, which lay all ready in a basket on the table,
and the command had roused her to sudden irritation. But it was only the
voice of duty which gave that order. Even after this indignant protest,
however, Sarah took her work, and put in three stitches, and then picked
them carefully out again. “I think I’m a losing of my seven senses,” she
said to herself plaintively. “It aint no use a struggling.” And with
that the old woman rose, tied on her big old bonnet, and set out through
Arden village in the sunshine on her way to Arden Hall.
To see that pretty rural place, you would never have supposed it was
within a dozen miles of the great, vulgar, bustling town of
Liverpool--nay, within half a dozen miles of the straggling, dreary
outskirts of that big beehive. But yet so it was; from the tower of
Arden Church you could see the mouth of the Mersey, with all its crowds
of ships; and, but for the haughty determination of the old Squire to
grant no building leases on his land, and the absence of railway
communication consequent thereupon, no doubt Arden would have been by
this time full of villas, and would have sent a stream of commercial
gentlemen every morning out of its quiet freshness by dint of a ten
o’clock train. But there was no ten o’clock train, and no commercial
gentlemen, and no bright shining new villas; but only the row of houses,
half whitewash half red brick, with lilac bushes all in flower, and
traveller’s joy bristling over their porches, and all the little gardens
shining in the sun. The Church was early English; the parsonage was red
brick of Queen Anne’s time. And there was a great house flush with the
road, disdaining any petty interposition of garden between it and the
highway, with white steps and a brass knocker, and rows upon rows of
brilliant dazzling windows, which was the doctor’s house. The parson and
the doctor were the only gentlemen in Arden village; there was nobody
else above the rank of an ordinary cottager. There was a little shop
where everything was sold; and there was the post office, where
stationery was to be had as well as postage stamps; and the Arden Arms,
with a little green before it, and a great square sign-post standing out
in the midst. A little way beyond the Church, which stood on the other
side of the road, opposite but higher up than the Arden Arms, were the
great Hall gates. They had a liberal hospitable breadth about them which
was suggestive somehow of guests and good cheer. Two carriages could
pass, the village folks said, with natural pride, through those wide
portals, and the breadth of the great splendid old avenue, with its elms
and limes, was in proportion. There were two footpaths leading on either
side of the avenue, like side aisles in a great cathedral, under the
green-arched splendour of meeting trees; and so princely were the
Ardens, with all their prejudices, that not only their poor neighbours,
but even Liverpool folks pic-nicing, had leave to roam about the park,
and take their walks even in the side aisles of the avenue. The Squire,
like a great monarch, was affable to the populace--so long as it allowed
that it was the populace, and kept in its right place.
Up one of these side walks old Sarah trudged, with her white apron
disturbing all the lights, and with many homely musings in her old head,
which had scarcely a right to the dignified title of thoughts. She was
thinking to herself--“Eh, my word, but here’s changes! Master o’ all,
him that was never made no more of nor a stranger in his own father’s
house; nor half so much as a stranger. Them as come on visits would get
the best o’ all, ponies to ride, and servants to wait upon ’em, and
whatever they had a mind for:--and Mr. Edgar put into that bit of a room
by the nursery, and never a horse, nor a penny in his pocket. I’d just
like to know how it was. Eh, my word, what a queer feel it must have!
You mind me, he’ll think he hears oud Squire ahind him many and many a
day. And an only son! And I never heard a word against Madam, and Miss
Clare always the queen of all. Bless him! none on us could help that;
but I was allays one as stood up for Mr. Edgar. And now he’s master o’
all! I wonder is she glad, the dear? Here’s folks a coming, a man and a
maid; and I canno’ see who they are with my bad eyes. Eb, but I could
once see as good as the best. I mind that time I was in Cheshire, afore
I came home here--Lord bless us, it’s Miss Clare and the young Squire!”
The young pair were coming down under the trees on the same path, and
Sarah stopped short in her thinkings with a flutter, as if they must
have divined the subject of them:--Two young people all in black, not
lighting up the landscape as they might have done had their dress been
as bright as their faces. The first thing that struck the observer was
that they were utterly unlike; they had not even the same little family
tricks of gait or gesture, such as might have made it apparent that they
were brother and sister. The young lady was tall and slight, with a
great deal of soft dignity and grace; dignity which might, however, grow
imperious on occasion. Her face was beautiful, and regular, and full of
sweetness; but those fine lines could set and harden, and the light
young figure could erect itself, if need were, into all the severity of
a youthful Juno. Her hair was very dark, and her eyes blue--a kind of
beauty which is often of the highest class as beauty, but often, also,
indicates a character which should attract as much fear as love. She was
soft now as the opening day, leaning on her brother’s arm with a certain
clinging gesture which was not natural to her, lavishing upon him her
smiles and pretty looks of affection. Old Sarah, looking on, divined her
meaning in a moment. “Bless her!” the old woman said to herself, with a
tear in the corner of her eye, which she dared not lift the apron to
dry. Hard injustice and wrong had been Edgar’s part all his life. His
sister was making it up to him, pouring upon him all the sunshine she
could collect into her moist eyes, to make him amends for having thus
lived so long in the dark.
Clare Arden might have stepped out of one of the picture frames in the
hall, so entirely was her beauty the beauty of her family; but her
brother was as different as it is possible to imagine. He was scarcely
taller than she was, not more than an inch or two, instead of towering
over her as her father had done. He had light brown, curly, abundant
hair, frizzing all over his well-shaped, well-poised head; and brown
eyes, which sparkled, and danced, and laughed, and spoke, and defied you
not to like them. They had laughed and danced in his worst days,
irrepressibly, and now, notwithstanding the black band on his hat, they
sent rays about like dancing fauns, all life, and fire, and active
energy. He looked like one whom nobody could wrong, who would disarm the
sourest critic. A stranger would have instantly taken it for granted
that he was the favourite child of the house, the one whose gay vagaries
were always pardoned, and whose saucy ways no father or mother could
well withstand. How such a being could have got into the serious
old-world house of Arden nobody could make out. It was supposed that he
was like his mother; but she had been in delicate health, poor lady,
and had lived very little at Arden Hall. The village folks did not
trouble their head with theories as to the cause of the old Squire’s
dislike to his only son, but the parson and the doctor had each a very
decided opinion on the subject, which the reader shall learn further on,
and make his own conclusions from. For, in the meantime, I cannot go on
describing Edgar Arden. It is his business to do that for himself.
“Who is coming?” he said. “Somebody whose face I know; a nice old woman
with a great white apron. But we must go on to see the village, and all
your improvements there.”
“There are no improvements,” said his sister. “Oh, Edgar, I do hope you
hate that sort of thing as I do. Let us keep it as it was. Our own
people are so pleasant, and will do what we want them. The only thing I
was afraid of you for was lest you should turn radical, like the rest of
the young men. But then you have not been in the way of it--like the
Oxford men, you know.”
“I don’t know about the Oxford men,” said Edgar, “but I am not so sure I
haven’t been in the way of it.” He had the least little touch of a
foreign accent, which was very quaint from those most Saxon lips. He was
just the kind of young man whom, anywhere abroad, the traveller would
distinguish as an undeniable Briton; and yet his English had a touch of
something alien in it--a flavour which was not British. He laughed as he
spoke, and the sound startled all the solemn elms of Arden. The Ardens
did not laugh much; they smiled very sweetly, and they liked to know
that their smile was a distinction; but Edgar was not like the Ardens.
“How you laugh,” said Clare, clinging a little closer to his arm, “It is
very odd, but somehow I like it. Don’t you know, Edgar, the Ardens were
never people to laugh? We smile.”
“So you do,” said Edgar, “and I would rather have your smile than ever
so much laughing. But then you know I am not half an Arden. I never had
a chance. Here is our old woman close at hand with her white apron. Why,
it is old Sarah! You kind old soul, how are you? How does it go?” And he
took both her hands into his and shook them till old Sarah lost her
breath. Then a twinkle like a tear came in to Edgar’s laughing eye. “You
gave me half-a-crown when I left Arden last,” he said, still holding her
hands, and then in his foreign way he kissed her first on one brown
cheek and then on the other. “Oh, Master Edgar!” cried old Sarah, out of
breath; while Clare looked on very sedately, not quite knowing what to
say.