The first of June was very bright and warm. The summer had set in with
great ardour and vehemence, not with the vacillation common to English
summers. There had been no rain for a long time, and the whole world
began to cry out for the want of it. A long continuance of fair weather,
though it fills an Englishman with delight out of his own country, is
very embarrassing to him at home. He gets troubled in his mind about the
crops, about the grass, about the cattle, and tells everybody in the
most solemn of voices that “we want rain;” whereas when he has crossed
the Channel it is the grand subject of his self-congratulations that you
need not be always speculating about wet days, but can really believe in
the weather. The weather had been thoroughly to be trusted all that
month of May, and all the rural world was gloomy about it; but Edgar had
not yet acquired English habits to such an extent, and he was glad of
the serene continuous sunshine, the blue sky that made a permanent
background to his fine trees. It was the first time that he had been
able to give hospitality, and it pleased him. When he had made sure that
his sister did not object, he anticipated Lord Newmarch’s visit with a
certain pleasure. There would be novelty in it, and some amusement; and
it was natural to him to surround himself with people, and feel about
him that flow and movement of humanity which is necessary to some
spirits. The Ardens could do without society as a general rule. They had
stately feasts now and then, but for the greater part of their lives the
stillness of the park that surrounded them, the gambols of the deer, or
the advent of now and then the carriage of a county neighbour coming to
pay a call, was all that was visible from their solemn windows. This was
not at all in Edgar’s way; and accordingly he was glad somebody was
coming. It would have been a pleasure to him to have filled his house,
to have put himself at everybody’s service, to have felt the tide rising
and swelling round him. To Clare it might be a bore, but it was no bore
to her brother. Lord Newmarch drove out from Liverpool, where he had
been attending the great social meeting, between five and six in the
afternoon. Edgar saw him from a distance, and hurried home to meet his
guest. “Newmarch is coming, Clare,” he cried as he came into the little
drawing-room in which Clare sat very demurely, with the silver and china
shining on the little tea-table beside her, and her embroidery in her
hand. It was not an occupation she cared for, but yet it was good for
emergencies, and especially when it was necessary to take up that
dignified position as the lady of the house. “Very well, Edgar; but you
need not be excited about it,” said Clare. What was Lord Newmarch that
any one should care about his coming? She sat in placid state to receive
her brother’s visitor, secretly fretting in her heart to see that Edgar
was not quite as calm as she was. “Can it be because he is a lord?” she
said to herself, and shrank, and was half ashamed, not being able to
realise that Edgar’s fresh mind, restrained by none of the Arden
traditions, would have been heartily satisfied to receive a beggar, had
that beggar been pleasant and amusing. To be sure Lord Newmarch was not
amusing; but he was instructive, which was far better--or at least so
some people think.
Clare’s placidity, however, vanished like a dream when she raised her
astonished eyes and saw that two people had come into the room, and that
one of them was Arthur Arden. The sudden wonder and excitement brought
the blood hot to her cheeks. She gave Edgar a rapid angry look, which
fortunately he did not perceive, and then her cousin’s voice was in her
ear, and she saw dimly his hand held out to her. She had known, of
course, that they must meet, but she had expected to have time to
prepare herself, to put on her finest manners, and receive him in such a
way that he should feel himself kept at a distance, and understand at
once upon what terms she intended to receive him. But there he stood all
at once before the dazzled eyes which were so reluctant to believe it,
holding out his hand to her, assuming the mastery of the position.
Clare’s high spirit rose, though her heart fluttered sadly in her
breast. She got up hastily, stumbling over her footstool, which was an
admirable excuse for not seeing his offered hand. “Mr. Arden!” she
exclaimed. “Forgive me for being surprised; but Edgar, you never told me
that you expected Mr. Arden to-day.”
“I did not know,” said Edgar, with anxious politeness; “but he is very
welcome anyhow, I am sure. We did not settle anything about the day.”
“Newmarch drove me over,” said Arthur. “I have been at Liverpool too,
going in for science. At my age a man must go in for something. When one
ceases to be interesting on one’s own merits---- But Miss Arden, if I
am inconvenient, send me off to the Arden Arms. There never was man more
used to shift for himself than I.”
“It is not in the least inconvenient,” said Clare, with her stateliest
look; and she seated herself, and offered them tea. But she did not look
again at her cousin. She addressed herself to his companion, and asked a
hundred questions about his meeting, and all that had been discussed at
it. Lord Newmarch was not in the least disinclined to communicate all
the information she could desire. He sipped his tea, and he talked with
that surprised sense of pleasure and satisfaction which the sudden
discovery of a good listener conveys. He stood over her, his tea-cup in
his hand, with the light, which was not positive sunshine, but a soft
reflection of the blaze without thrown from a great mirror, glimmering
on his spectacles as it did on the china--and expounded everything. “It
was a very inconvenient time,” he said, “but fortunately nothing very
important was going on, and I was so fortunate as to secure a pair. So I
do not feel that I have neglected one part of my duty in pursuing
another. This was the most convenient moment for our foreign friends.
The fact is, all great questions affecting the people should be treated
internationally. That has long been my theory. Politics are a different
thing; but social questions--questions which affect the morality and
the comfort of the entire human race----”
“But the measures which suit one portion of the race might not suit
another,” said Clare, who was intensely British. “I don’t think I have
any confidence in things that come from abroad.”
“Except brothers,” said Arthur Arden, almost below his breath.
Nobody heard him but Clare. It was said for her, with the intention of
establishing that private intercourse which can run on in the midst of
the most general conversation. But Clare had set herself stoutly against
any such indulgence.
“Except brothers,” she said calmly, as if the observation had been her
own.
“That is exactly my own way of thinking,” said the social philosopher,
“but are not we all brothers? Am not I identical with my cousin in
France and my brother in America so far as all social necessities are
considered? I require to be washed, and clothed, and fed, and taken care
of exactly as they do. We will never have a thorough and effectual
system till we all work together. Though I am a Liberal in politics, I
am not at all against the employment of force in a legitimate way. If I
will not keep myself clean of my own accord, I believe I ought to be
compelled to do it--not for my own sake, but because I become a
nuisance to my neighbours. If I do not educate my children as I ought, I
should be compelled to do. There are a great many things, more than are
thought of in our philosophy, which ought to be compulsory. The
individual is all very well, and we have done a great deal for him; but
now something must be done for the race.”
“If a man eats garlic, for instance, he should be compelled to give it
up,” said Arthur Arden. “I was in Spain last year, and I would give my
vote for that. Insects ought to be abolished, and all that. If you get
up a crusade on that subject, I will give you my best support. And then
there are duns. To be asked to pay money is a horrible nuisance. I don’t
know anything that makes a man more obnoxious to his neighbour----”
“I don’t see what advantage is to be gained by laughing at a serious
subject,” said Lord Newmarch, over his tea-cup. “There are a great many
things that can scarcely be discussed in general society; though indeed
ladies are setting us a good example in that respect. They are boldly
approaching subjects which have hitherto been held unfit----”
“Edgar, you will remember that we dine at half-past seven,” said Clare,
rising. Her usual paleness had given way to a little flush of
excitement. It was not Lord Newmarch and his questionable subjects that
excited her. Lord Newmarch was a politician and a Social Reformer, and,
as he himself thought, a man of intellect; but Clare was perfectly able
to make an end of him should it be necessary. It was the other man
standing by, who made no pretension to any kind of superiority, who
alarmed her. And he did more than alarm her. She was confused to the
very depth of her being to see him standing there by her brother’s side.
Was he friend or foe? Had he come back to Arden in love or in hatred;
for herself or for Edgar? Arthur Arden had powers and faculties which
were the growth of experience, and which are rarely possessed by very
young men. He could look so that nobody could see him looking except the
person at whom he gazed. He could express devotion, almost adoration,
without the bystanders being a bit the wiser. He could flatter and
persuade, and make use of a thousand weapons, without even addressing
the object of his thoughts. And Clare, how she could not tell, had come
to understand that strange language. She knew how much was meant for
herself in all he said. She felt the charm stealing over her, the sense
that here were skill and strength worthy a much greater effort brought
to bear upon her, as if her approbation, her love, were the greatest
prizes to be won upon earth. There is something very captivating to the
imagination of a young woman in this kind of pursuit; but this time she
was forewarned, and had the consciousness of her danger. She hurried
away, and took refuge in her own room, feeling it was her only
stronghold. Then she tried to ask herself what her feelings really were
towards this man, the very sight of whom had made her heart flutter in
her bosom. He was poor, and she was rich; he had passed the limits of
youth, and she was in its first blossom. He had no occupation, nothing
to do by which he could improve or advance himself. It was even
suspected that he had not passed through the troubles of life without
somewhat tarnishing his personal character. The history that could be
made of him was not a very edifying history, and Clare was aware of it.
But yet---- All these things were of quite secondary importance to her.
The question that really absorbed her mind was--Had he come here for
_her_? Was _she_ his object? and if so, why? Clare knew well what
everybody would say--that he came “to better himself;” that her fortune
was to fill up the gap in his, and her young life to be absorbed in
order to give sustenance and comfort to his worn existence. Could it be
so? Could anything so humbling be the truth? Not merely to love and
soothe, and make him happy; but her money to maintain, herself to
increase his personal comfort. Clare tried very hard to consider the
matter fully in this light. But how difficult it was to do it! Just when
she tried to remember how penniless he was, and how important her
fortune would be to him, a certain look rushed back on her mind which
surely, surely could have nothing to do with her fortune! And then Clare
upbraided herself passionately for the gross and foul suspicion: but yet
it would come back. Was he a man to love generously and fondly, as a
woman likes to be loved? or would he think but of himself in the matter,
not of her? If he loved her, it would not matter to her that he had
nothing, or even that his past was doubtful, and his life half worn out:
all that was nothing if it was true love that moved him; but---- Old
Arden was hers, and she was an heiress capable of setting him up again
in the world, and giving to him honour and position such as in reality
had never been his. And she felt so willing to do it. True, she had
assured Edgar that she would not take Old Arden from him. But anyhow she
would be rich, able to place her husband, when she married, in a
position worthy of her name. If----
It may be supposed that to dress for dinner while these thoughts were
buzzing through her brain was not the calm ceremony it usually is. And
all this commotion had arisen from the first glance at him, the mere
sense of his presence. What would it be, then, when he had found time to
put forth all his arts?
The reader will probably think it very strange that Clare Arden should
not have been utterly revolted by the thought that it was possible her
kinsman could mean to make a speculation of her, and a mere
stepping-stone to fortune. But she was not revolted. She had that
personal objection to being married for her money which every woman has;
but had not she herself been the heroine of the story, she would rather
have felt approval than otherwise for Arthur Arden. What else could he
do? she would have said to herself. He could not dig, and begging, even
when one is little troubled with shame, is an unsatisfactory
maintenance. And if everything could be put right by a suitable
marriage, why should not he marry? It was the most natural, the most
legitimate way of arranging everything. For the idea itself she had no
horror. All she felt was a natural prejudice against being herself the
subject of the transaction.