SQUIRE ARDEN.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”
“SALEM CHAPEL,” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,”
ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HURST & BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1871.
_The Right of Translation is Reserved._
PERTH:
SAMUEL COWAN & CO., PRINTERS.
SQUIRE ARDEN.
CHAPTER I.
“How is Miss Pimpernel?” Arthur asked as he entered the house. He went
in with a great appearance of anxiety and haste, and he repeated his
question to a maid who was just preparing to ascend the stairs. The
footman had given him no answer--a fact which he did not even observe;
and the maid made him a little curtsey, and cast down her eyes, and
looked confused and uncomfortable. “My mistress is coming, sir,” she
said; and Arthur, looking up, saw that Mrs. Pimpernel herself was
advancing to meet him. He saw at the first glance that there was to be
war, and war to the knife, and that conciliation was impossible. “How is
Miss Pimpernel?” he asked, taking the first word. “I was so glad to see
she was able to move at once; but I fear she must have been much shaken,
at least.”
Mrs. Pimpernel came downstairs upon him before she made any answer. She
bore down like a conquering ship or a charge of cavalry. Her face was
crimson; her eyes bright with anger; her head was agitated by a little
nervous tremble. “Mr. Arden,” she said, rushing, as it were, into the
fray, “I don’t think Miss Pimpernel would have been much the better for
you, whatever had happened. I don’t think from what I have heard, that
your kind service would have been much good to her. To tell the truth,
when I heard some one asking, I never thought it could be you.”
“Miss Pimpernel fortunately, had no need of my services,” said Arthur
firmly, standing his ground. “I cannot tell you what a relief it was to
me to find her unhurt.”
“Unhurt, indeed!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Who says she is unhurt? A
delicate young creature thrown from a high phæton like that, and all but
trampled under the horses’ feet! And whose fault was it, Mr. Arden? I
hope I shall have patience to speak. Whose _fault_ was it, I say? And
then to find herself deserted by those that ought to have taken care of
her! All for the sake of a designing girl--an artful little cheat and
hussy--a--a----”
“I am not the girl’s defender,” said Arthur Arden. “She may be all you
say, and it is quite unimportant to me; but I thought she was killed,
and Mr. Pimpernel and my cousin Edgar Arden were with your daughter.”
“Ah, Mr. Arden!” said Mrs. Pimpernel, “he is a gentleman--he is a true
gentleman, notwithstanding all the nonsense you have been putting in Mr.
Pimpernel’s head. And I tell you I don’t believe a word of it--not a
word! Mr. Arden is what he always was, and you are a poor, mean, shabby
adventurer, poking into people’s houses, and making yourself agreeable,
and all that. Yes! I’ll make you hear me! that I shall! I tell you you
are no better than a----”
“Is it necessary that John and Mary should assist at this explanation?”
said Arthur. He smiled, but he was very pale. He said to himself that to
attach any importance to the words of such a woman would be folly
indeed; but yet shame and rage tore him asunder. A lady would not have
condescended to abuse him. She would have treated him with deadly
civility, and given him to understand that his room was wanted for
another guest. But Mrs. Pimpernel had not been trained to habits of
conventional decorum. Her face was red, her head trembled with rage and
excitement. She had suffered a great deal in silence nursing her
wrath--and now there was no longer any need to restrain herself. Now,
Mr. Pimpernel himself was convinced, and Alice was indignant. He had
been making use of them, trifling with them, taking advantage of the
shelter of their house to carry on first one “affair” and then another.
Had it been Clare Arden who had at this last crowning moment led him
away from Alice, the affront would have been bitter, but not so
unpardonable. But a girl out of the village, a nobody, an artful----
Words forsook Mrs. Pimpernel’s burning lips. She felt herself no longer
able to stand and pour forth her wrath. She made a dash at the door of
Mr. Pimpernel’s library, and sat down, calling the culprit before her,
with a wave of her hand. Arthur went in; but he shut the door, which was
not what she had wanted. A certain moral support was in the fact that
she stood, as it were, in the open centre of her own house, speaking
loud enough to be heard by her husband and daughter above, and by the
servants below stairs. But Mrs. Pimpernel, notwithstanding her courage,
did not feel so comfortable when she found herself shut into the silence
of a separate room, with Arthur Arden, pale and composed, and
overwhelmingly gentlemanly, before her, and not even the presence of
John or Mary to give her strength. It was a strategical mistake.
“I am glad to say it does not matter to me who hears me,” she said. “Let
those be ashamed that have acted shabby, and shown themselves what they
are. For my part, I couldn’t have believed it. To creep into a house,
and live on the best of everything, and carriages and horses and all at
your command--I should have been ashamed to do it. No man would have
done it that was better than an adventurer--a mean, miserable----”
“Mrs. Pimpernel,” said Arthur, “you have been very civil and friendly,
asking me to your house, and I have done my best to repay it in the way
that was expected. Pray don’t suppose I am ignorant it was an affair of
barter--the best of everything, as you say, and the carriages, &c., on
one side; but on my side a very just equivalent. Let us understand each
other. What am I supposed to have done amiss? Of course, our mutual
accommodation is over, after this scene--but I should be glad to know,
before I accept my dismissal, what I am supposed to have done amiss----”
“Equivalent! Accommodation! Oh you!---- Without a penny to bless yourself
with--and living on the fat of the land---- Champagne like water, and
everything you could set your face to. And now you brazen it out to me.
Oh you poor creature! Oh you beggarly, penniless----”
“Pray let us come to particulars,” said Arthur; “these reproaches are
sadly vague. Come, things are not so bad after all. You expected me to
be your attendant, a sort of upper footman, and I have been such. You
expected me to lend the name of an Arden to all your junketings, and I
have done it. You expected me, perhaps---- But I don’t want to bring in
the name of Miss Pimpernel----”
“No, don’t--if you dare!” cried the mother. “Mention my child, if you
dare. As if she was not, and hadn’t always been, a deal too good for
you. Thirty thousand pounds of her own, and as pretty a girl and as good
a girl---- Oh, don’t you suppose she cares! She would not look at you
out of her window, if there was not another man; she would never bemean
herself, wouldn’t my Alice. You think yourself a great man with the
ladies, but you may find out your mistake. Your cousin won’t see you,
nor look at you--you know that. Oh, you may start! She has seen through
you long ago, has Miss Arden--and if you thought for a moment that my
Alice---- Good gracious!--to think a man should venture to look me in
the face, after leaving my child to be killed, and going after a----
Don’t speak to me! Yes, I know you. I always saw through you. If it
hadn’t been for Mr. Pimpernel, and that sweet angel upstairs----”
And here Mrs. Pimpernel paused, and sobbed, and shed tears--giving her
adversary the advantage over her. She was all the more angry that she
felt she had wasted her words, and had not transfixed and made an end
of him, as she had hoped--as she had meant to do. To see him standing
there unsubdued, with a smile on his face, was gall and wormwood to her.
She choked with impotent rage and passion. She could have flown at him,
tooth and claw, if she had not put force on herself. Arthur felt the
height of exasperation to which he was driving her, and, perhaps,
enjoyed it; but nothing was to be made by continuing such a struggle.
“I am sorry to have to take my leave of you in such a way,” he said, in
his most courteous tone. “I shall explain to Mr. Pimpernel how grieved I
am to quit his house so abruptly; but after this unfortunate colloquy,
of course there is no more to be said. It is a pity to speak when one is
so excited--one says more always than one means. Many thanks to you for
a pleasant visit, such as it has been. You have done your best to amuse
me with croquet and that sort of thing. Society, of course, one cannot
always command. My man will bring over my things to--Arden in the course
of the day. I trust that if we meet in the county, as we may perhaps do,
that we shall both be able to forget this little passage of arms.
Good-bye, and many thanks, Mrs. Pimpernel.”
Mrs. Pimpernel gave a little stammering cry of passion and annoyance.
She had never calculated upon her prey escaping so easily. She had not
even meant to dismiss him entirely, but only to subdue him, and bring
him under discipline. After all, he was an Arden, and going to Arden--as
he said--and might procure invitations to Arden, probably,
notwithstanding her affirmation about Clare. But Arthur left her no time
for repentance. He withdrew at once when he had discharged this parting
shot, closing the door after him, and leaving the panting, enraged woman
shut up in that cool and silent place to come to herself as she best
might. He was a little pleased with his victory, and satisfied to think
that he had had the best of it. The maid was still standing outside,
listening near the door, when he opened it suddenly. “Your mistress is a
little put out, Mary,” he said to her, with a smile. “Perhaps it would
be better to leave her to herself for a few minutes. I hope Miss
Pimpernel is not really hurt. Tell her I am grieved to have to go away
without saying good-bye.” And then he stopped to give John directions
about his things, and distributed his few remaining sovereigns among
them with fine liberality. The servants had grinned at his discomfiture
before, but they grinned still more now at the thought of their mistress
weeping with rage in the library, and her visitor escaped from her. “He
was always quite the gentleman,” Mary said to John, as he left the
house; and they laid their heads together over the discomfiture that
would follow his departure. Thus Arthur Arden shook the dust of the Red
House from his feet, and went out upon the world again, not knowing
where he was to go.
And his thoughts were far from cheerful, as he made his way among the
shrubberies, which sometimes had looked to him like prison walls. Poor
Alice and her thirty thousand pounds had always been something to fall
back upon. If Clare did not relent, and would not explain herself, a man
must do something--and though it was letting himself go very cheap,
still thirty thousand pounds was not contemptible. And now that was
over--the hope which after all had been his surest hope--all (once more)
from thinking of other people’s rather than of his own interests. What
was Jeanie to him? She had never given him a kind word or smile. She was
a child--a bloodless being--out of whom it was impossible to get even a
little amusement. Yet for her sake here was thirty thousand pounds lost
to him. And probably she would go and die, now that she had done him as
much harm as possible, leaving it altogether out of his power to do her
any harm, or compensate himself in the smallest degree. And in the
meantime where was he to go? Arthur’s funds were at a very low ebb. All
this time which he had been wasting in the country he had been out of
the way of putting a penny in his pocket; and for the moment he did not
know what he was to do? He had said he was going to Arden, partly to
impose on Mrs. Pimpernel, partly with a sudden sense that to throw
himself upon Edgar’s hospitality was about the best thing on the cards
for him. Might he venture to go there at once, and risk welcome or
rejection? At the very worst they could not refuse to take him in till
Monday. But then it would be better to secure himself for longer than
Monday--and Clare was very uncompromising, and Edgar firm,
notwithstanding his good nature. Altogether the position was difficult.
He had been making great way with the Pimpernels since Clare had shut
her doors upon him. There had been nothing to disturb him, nothing to
divide his allegiance, and therefore he had been utterly unprepared for
this sudden derangement of plans. The Pimpernels, too, were utterly
unprepared. His hostess had meant to “set him down,” as she said, “to
show him his proper place,” to “bring him to his senses,” but she had
never intended the matter to be concluded so promptly. The discomfiture
on both sides was equally great. He took a little pleasure in the
thought of this, but yet it did not enlighten him as to where he was to
go.
The conclusion of the matter was that for that night he went to the
Arden Arms. Edgar had disappeared when he returned to the village, and
all was quiet and silent. Arthur met Dr. Somers going down to the
cottage in which Jeanie still was. The Doctor shook his head, but would
not say much. “She is young, and she may pull through, if the place is
kept quiet,” was all the information he would give. But he asked Arthur
to dinner, which was a momentary relief to him, and Arthur recounted to
him, with many amusing details, the history of his dismissal by the
Pimpernels. The Doctor chuckled, partly because it was a good story, and
made the Pimpernels ridiculous, and partly because Arthur Arden, though
he put the best possible face upon it, must have been himself
discomfited. “Serve him right,” the Doctor said within himself; but he
asked him to dinner, and saved him from the horrors of a chop at the
Arden Arms and a solitary evening in its little sanded parlour, which
was a work of true benevolence--for Dr. Somers’ dinner and his claret
would have been worthy of notice anywhere--much more when contrasted
with the greasy attractions of a chop at the Arden Arms.