“I have heard so much about you,” said Miss Somers, eagerly. “I am so
glad to have met you. The Doctor is always so busy he never gives me any
answer when I speak; and you know when one is helpless and can’t
budge---- I should have been in my room for ever but for Edgar, you
know--I mean Mr. Arden--the dearest fellow!--who has sent me---- I don’t
know if you understand such things; but look at it. This is the first
time I have been out for two years. Such a handsome chair! the very
best, you may be sure, that he could get to buy. And I know he is so
interested in both---- Which is your grandchild? Goodness gracious me?
Are not you frightened to death to leave her? She might catch cold; she
might have something go up her ear--lying right down in the grass.”
“She’ll take no harm,” said the old woman, “and it’s kind, kind of you
to ask----”
“Oh, I am always asking,” said Miss Somers; “but people are so very
impatient. ‘How you do run on!’ is all my brother says. I hear your
child is so pretty; and I am so fond of seeing pretty people. Once, when
I was young myself--but that is such a long time ago, and, of course,
you would not think it, and I don’t suppose any traces are left--but
people did say---- Well, well, you know, one ought never to be vain. She
lies dreadfully still; are you not frightened to see her like that--so
pale, you know, and so still? It always frightens me to see any one lie
so quiet.”
“She is sleeping, poor bairn,” said Mrs. Murray. “She has had a fright,
and a bit little attack--and now she’s sleeping. The Doctor has been
real kind. I canna say in words how kind he has been--and Mr. Arden.
You’re fond of Mr. Arden? I do not wonder at that, for he’s a fine lad.”
“There can’t be anything wrong in saying I am fond of Edgar. No; I am
sure there can’t be anything wrong,” said Miss Somers: “he is the
dearest fellow! We were brought up so very strict, I always feel a
little difficulty, you know, in saying, about gentlemen---- But then at
my age, and so helpless as I am---- I have him up to my room to see me,
you know, and I can’t think there is any harm, though I would not for
the world do anything that was considered fast, or that would make any
talk. Why, I have known him from a baby--or rather I ought to have
known him. The Doctor was not here then. When one thinks of such a while
ago, you know, everything was so very different. I was going to balls
and parties and things, like other young people. Five and twenty years
ago!--there was a gentleman that had a post out in India somewhere--but
it never came to anything. How strange it would have been, supposing I
had been all these five and twenty years in India! I wonder if I should
have been helpless as I am now?--but probably it would have been the
liver--it would have been sure to have been the liver. Poor dear Edgar,
he never was like the Ardens. That was why they were so unkind.”
“Unkind!” said Mrs. Murray, with a sudden start.
“Oh, you must not say anything of it now,” said the invalid, frightened.
“He is the Squire, and there is no harm done. The old Squire was not
nice; he was that sort of hard-hearted man--and poor dear Edgar was
never like an Arden. My brother has his own ways of thinking, you know,
and takes things into his head; and he thinks he understands: he thinks
it was something about Mrs. Arden. But that is all the greatest
wickedness and folly. I knew her, and I can say---- He was so
hard-hearted--not the least like a father--and that made him think, you
know----”
Mrs. Murray, who was not used to Miss Somers, and could not unravel the
maze, or make out which _him_ was the Squire and which the Doctor, gazed
at her with wondering eyes. She was almost as much moved as Edgar had
been. Her cheeks grew red, her glance eager. “I have no right to be
asking questions,” she said, “but there’s a cousin of mine here that has
long been in their service, and I cannot but take an interest in the
family. Thomas Perfitt has told us a’ about the Ardens at home. If I was
not presuming, I would like to know about Mr. Edgar. There’s something
in his kind eyes that goes to the heart of the poor. I’m a stranger; but
if it’s no presuming----”
“Yes; I suppose you are a stranger,” said Miss Somers, who was too glad
to have any one to talk to. “But I have heard so much about you, I can’t
think---- Oh, dear, no, you are not presuming. Everybody knows about the
Ardens; they were always a very proud sort of stiff people. The old
Squire was married when I was a young lady, you know, and cared for a
little attention and to be taken notice of; though I am sure why I
should talk of myself! That is long past--ever so long past; and his
wife was so nice and so sweet. If she had been a great lady I am sure I
should never have loved her so---- And the baby--but somehow no one
ever thought of the baby--not even his mamma. She had always to be
watching her husband’s looks, poor thing. On the whole, I am not sure
that one is not happier when one does not marry. The things I have seen!
Not daring to call their souls their own; and then looking down upon
you, as if you were not far, far---- But poor dear Edgar never was
petted like Clare. One never saw him when he was a child; and I do
believe his poor dear papa hated him after---- I ought not to talk like
this, I know. But he has come out of it all like--like---- Oh, he is the
dearest fellow! And to be sure, he is the Squire, and no one can harm
him now.”
“Maybe the servants should not hear,” said Mrs. Murray, whose face was
glowing with a deep colour. The red was not natural to her, and seemed
to burn into her very eyes. And she did not look at Miss Somers, but
stood anxiously fingering the apron of the little carriage. John and
Mercy were both close by--perhaps out of hearing, but no more.
“Oh, my dear woman, the servants know all about it,” said Miss Somers.
“They talk more about it than we do; that is always the way with them. I
might give a hint, you know; but they speak plain. No; he was not happy
when he was a boy; he went wandering all about and about----”
“But that was for his education,” said the anxious inquirer, whose
interest in the question did not astonish Miss Somers. To her it seemed
only natural that the Ardens should be prominent in everybody’s horizon.
She shook her head with such a continuous shake, that Mercy was tempted
to interfere.
“You’ll have the headache, Miss, if you don’t mind,” said Mercy, coming
forward; “and me and John both thinks that it ain’t what the Doctor
would like, to see you a-sitting here.”
“It’s only for a minute,” said the invalid, humbly, “I want a little
breath, after being so long shut up. You may think what it would be if
you were shut up for two years. Would you tell John to go and gather me
some may, there’s a dear good creature? I am so interested in these nice
people; and my brother says---- Some may, please, John; not the brown
branches that are going off---- I think I saw some there. Mercy, you
have such good eyes, go and show him, please. There, now they are gone,
one can talk. Old servants are a great blessing, though sometimes----
But it is all their interest in one, you know. His education was the
excuse. I remember when I was young, Mary Thorpe---- They said it was
to learn Italian; but if that young man had not been so poor---- It is
such a strange, strange world! If people were to think less of money,
don’t you think it would be happier, especially for young girls? I hope
it is not anything of that kind with your poor little grandchild; but
then she is so young----”
“You were speaking of Mr. Arden,” said Mrs. Murray, with a sigh; and
then she added--“But he is the only heir, and all’s his now.”
“Oh, yes, all is his--the dear fellow; but he is not the only heir;
there is Clare, you know---- Don’t you hate entails, and that sort of
thing, that cut off the girls? We may not be so clever, though I am sure
I don’t know---- But we can’t live without a little money, all the same.
I say to my brother sometimes--but then he is so impatient. And Clare is
wonderfully superior--equal to any man. I think, though I have seen her
every day for years, I get on better with Edgar. It makes my poor head
ache, I am such a helpless creature, not good for anything. If you could
have seen me a few years back you would not know me. I was always
running about: the ‘little busy bee;’ when I was young that is what they
always used to call me. There was a gentleman that used to say--a Mr.
Templeton, of the Royal Navy---- but there were difficulties, you
know---- Oh, yes; I remember, about Arden---- I do run on, I know; my
brother is always telling me I lose the thread, but why there should be
a thread---- Yes, there is another Arden--Arthur Arden; you must have
seen him pass just now.”
“The man that was so like----” said Mrs. Murray; and then she stopped,
and shut up her lips tight, as if to establish even physical safeguards
against the utterance of another word.
“He is very like his family--just the reverse of poor dear Edgar,” said
Miss Somers; “but I don’t like him at all, and he is such a dear
fellow---- If there had been no son, Arthur would have succeeded, and
poor dear Clare would have been cut off, unless they were to marry. I
sometimes think if they were to marry---- Was that your daughter
stirring? I can’t think how you don’t die of fright to see her lying
there so still. Do bring her to see me, please. I am never out of my
room--except now, in this fine new chair, of course, I shall be going
out every day. But it is so dreadful to have to be carried, and not to
put your foot to the ground. Mercy says it is a judgment; but, you know,
I cannot believe---- Of course, you must be a Calvinist, I suppose?”
“There’s many a judgment that never shows,” said the Scotchwoman; “you
feel it deep in your heart, and you ken how it comes, but nobody in
this world is any the wiser. Of that I am well aware.”
Miss Somers was a little frightened by the gravity of her companion’s
tone, and did not quite understand what she meant, and was alarmed by
the sight of Jeanie lying still and white in the grass. She gave a
little cough, which was an appeal to Mercy, and was seized with a sudden
flutter of nervousness and desire to get away.
“Yes, yes; I have no doubt you know a great deal better,” she said; “if
one was to do anything very wicked---- I say to my brother
sometimes---- I am on my way to Arden, you know, to show Edgar---- And
Clare passed just now; did you see her? I mean Miss Arden, but it comes
so natural to say Edgar and Clare. Oh, yes, I must go on; my brother
might think---- And then Mercy does not like to be kept---- and John’s
work---- Good-bye. Please come and see me. If there was any room, I
should offer to take your grandchild home, but a chair, you know---- I
am so glad to have seen you. And do you think you should let her sleep
there in the grass? Earwigs is the thing that frightens me; they might
creep up, you know, and then---- Yes, Mercy, I am quite ready; oh, yes,
quite ready. I am so sorry---- Please come to see me---- and the grass,
and the earwigs---- Oh, John, gently! Good-bye, good-bye!”
With these fragmentary words Miss Somers was drawn away, looking behind
her, and throwing her good-byes after her with a certain guilty
politeness. This Scotchwoman was superior, too, she said to herself,
with a little shudder, and made her head ache almost as much as Clare
did. Mrs. Murray, for her part, went back and sat down by Jeanie, who
still slept, but began to move and stir with the restlessness of waking.
The grandmother did not resume her work. She let her hands drop on her
knees, and sat and pondered. The sound of the wheels which slowly
carried the invalid along the path grew less and less, the air sank into
quietness, the bees hummed, and the leaves stirred, murmuring in that
stillness of noon, which is almost greater than the stillness of night.
But the old woman sat alone with another world about her, conscious of
other times and other things. She was in the woods of Arden, with the
unseen house near at hand, and all its history, past and present,
floating about her, as it were, an atmosphere new and yet old, strange
yet familiar, of which she knew more and knew less than any other in the
world. How and what she knew was known to nobody but herself; yet this
very conversation had opened to her a mass of unsuspected information,
and new avenues of thought, each more painful than the other. She had to
bring all the powers of her mind to bear upon the new questions thus set
before her, and it was with a doubly painful strain that she brought
herself back when the young creature at her feet opened her bright eyes,
and with a confused gaze, slowly finding out where she was, came back to
the life of dreams, which was her portion in this world so full of
care.