While Arthur went to the Red House, Edgar had been exerting himself to
still all the roads and deaden every sound about Sally Timms’ cottage.
Sally’s boys considered the operation as a personal compliment. They
tumbled in the straw, and threw it about, and buried each other with
cries of delight which had to be suppressed in the most forcible and
emphatic way--until at last Edgar, driven to interfere, had to order the
removal of Johnny and Tommy. “They can go to the West Lodge for the
night,” he said, with a hospitable liberality, at which the West Lodge
keeper, who was helping in the work, groaned aloud. Sally herself,
however, was very indignant at this exercise of despotic authority. She
rushed to the front, and demanded to know why her cottage should be
taken possession of, and the children carried off for the benefit of a
stranger. “A lass as nobody knows, nor don’t care to know,” said Sally,
“as has a deal too many gentlefolks alooking after her to be an honest
lass.” “Take her away too,” said Edgar with benevolent tyranny. And
Sally, with a scream of despair, snatched the old petticoat which
stuffed her broken window, and fled from the bystanders, who did not
attempt to carry out the Squire’s command. “I’ll go and I’ll see what
Miss Clare says to it,” she cried. Edgar was a great deal too busy to
pay any attention. He saw the work completed, and urged the necessity of
care upon John Hesketh and his wife without considering that even they
were but partial sympathisers. “I don’t hold with no such a fuss,” the
women were saying among themselves. “If it had been the mother of a
family she’d have had to take her chance; but a bit of a wench with a
pretty face----” Thus he got no credit for his exertions,
notwithstanding the injunctions of Dr. Somers. If Jeanie had been
altogether unfriended, the village people would have shown her all
manner of care and sympathy; but the Squire’s kindness put an end to
theirs. They sympathised with Sally in her banishment. “You’ll see as
Miss Clare won’t like it a bit,” cried one. “I don’t think nothing of
Sally, but she has a right to her own place.” “She’ll be well paid for
it all,” said another. Sally, and the fuss that was being made, and Miss
Clare’s supposed sentiments bulked much more largely with the villagers
than the thought that Jeanie lay between life and death, although many
of them liked Jeanie, and had grown used to see her, so small and so
fair, wandering about the street. Only old Sarah stood with her apron to
her eyes. “I’m as fond of her as if she was my own. She’s the sweetest,
patientest, good-temperedest lamb--none of you wenches can hold a candle
to her,” sobbed the old woman. “She stitches beautiful, though I’m not
one as holds with your pretty faces,” said Sally, the sexton’s daughter;
but these were the only voices raised in poor Jeanie’s favour throughout
the village crowd.
Edgar lingered last of all at the cottage door. John Hesketh’s wife,
partly moved by pity for the grandmother left thus alone, partly by
curiosity to investigate the amount of dirt and discomfort in Sally
Timms’ cottage--had taken her place in the outer room, to remain with
Mrs. Murray until Sally returned or some other assistant came. And Edgar
lingered to hear the last news of the patient before going away. The
twilight by this time was falling, faint little stars were appearing in
the sky, the dew and the peacefulness of approaching night were in the
atmosphere. While he stood waiting at the door, Mrs. Murray herself came
out upon him all at once. She had an air of suppressed excitement about
her which struck him strangely--not so much anxiety, as agitation,
highly excited feeling. He put out his hand to her as she approached,
feeling, he could not tell how, that she wanted his aid and consolation.
She took his hand between both hers, and held it tight and pressed it
close; and then surely the strangest words came from her lips that were
ever spoken in such circumstances. “He carried her here in his arms--he
left the other to save her. You’ll no forget it to him--you’ll no forget
it to him. That is the charge I lay on you.”
Edgar half drew away his hand in his surprise; but she held it fast, not
seeming even to feel his attempt at withdrawal. “What do you mean?” he
said. “I came to ask for Jeanie. Is it of Arthur Arden you are
speaking--my cousin? But it is about Jeanie I want to know.”
“Ay, your cousin,” she said anxiously. “It’s strange that I never kent
you had a cousin. Nobody ever told me that---- But mind, mind what I
say. Whatever happens, you’ll no forget this. He carried her here in his
arms. He forgot all the rest, all the rest. And you’ll no forget it to
him. That’s my injunction upon you, whatever anybody may say.”
“This is very strange,” Edgar said, in spite of himself. Who was she,
that she should lay injunctions upon him--should bid him do this or
that? And then he thought to himself that her head too must be a little
turned. So startling an event probably had confused her, as Jeanie had
been confused by a sudden shock. He looked at her very sympathetically,
and pressed the hands that held his. “Tell me first how Jeanie is--poor
little Jeanie; that is by far the most important now.”
“It’s no the most important,” said the old woman almost obstinately. “I
ken both sides, and you ken but little--very, very little. But whatever
you do or say, you’ll no forget him for this--promise me that you’ll
never forget.”
“That is easy enough to promise,” said Edgar; “but he was to blame, for
it was he who put her in the carriage. I think he was to blame. And what
am I to reward him for?--for carrying the poor child home?”
“Yes, for carrying her home,” said Mrs. Murray, “in his arms, when the
other was waiting that was more to him than Jeanie. You’ll no please me,
nor do your duty, if you do not mind this good deed. They say he’s no a
good man; but the poor have many a temptation that never comes near the
rich; and if he had been in your place at Arden and you in his--or
even----”
“My dear, kind woman,” said Edgar, trying with a pressure of her hands
to recall her to herself, “don’t trouble yourself about Arthur or me.
You are excited with all that has happened. Think of Jeanie. Don’t take
any trouble about us----”
“Eh, if I could help troubling!” she said, loosing her hands from his.
And then the look of excitement slowly faded out of her face. “I am
bidding you bear my burdens,” she said, with a deep sigh; “as if the
innocent could bear the load of the guilty, or make amends---- You must
not mind what I say. I’ve been a solitary woman, and whiles I put things
into words that are meant for nobody’s ear. You were asking about
Jeanie. She is real ill--in a kind of faint--but if she is kept quiet,
the doctor says she may come round. I think she will come round, for my
part. She is delicate, but there is _life_ in her: me and mine have all
so much life.” When she said these words Mrs. Murray fixed her eyes upon
Edgar keenly and surveyed him, as if trying to fathom his constitution
and powers. “I cannot tell for you,” she said, with a sudden pause. He
smiled, but he was grieved, thinking sadly that her brain was affected,
as Jeanie’s had been. What was to become of the hapless pair if the
mother’s brain was gone as well as the child’s. The thought filled him
with infinite pity, so great as almost to bring tears to his eyes.
“You must try and compose yourself,” he said. “I will send Perfitt to
see that you have everything you want, and perhaps when she is a little
better she may be removed to your own rooms. This is not a comfortable
cottage, I fear. But you must compose yourself, and not allow yourself
to be worried one way or another. You may be quite sure I will stand by
you, and take care of you as much as I can--you who have been so kind to
everybody, so good----”
“Oh no, no, no good!” she cried, “not good. I think night and day, but I
cannot see what to do; and when a wronged man heaps coals of fire on
your head---- Oh, you’re kind, kind; and I’m no ungrateful, though I may
look it. And it is not excitement, as you say, that makes me speak.
There’s many a thing of which a young lad like you is ignorant. You’ll
mind this to his credit if ever you can do him a good turn----”
“Yes, yes,” said Edgar impatiently; and then he added, “Think of Jeanie.
Arthur Arden is very well qualified to take care of himself.”
And so he turned away, chafed and disquieted. Arthur Arden had been the
cause of his leaving home, and here as soon as he returned Arthur Arden
again was in his way, and a trouble to him. He walked through the
village street very uneasy about poor Mrs. Murray, and Jeanie, who
would be in her sole charge. If the grandmother’s mind was unsettled,
how could she look after the child, and what would become of two
creatures so helpless in a strange place? No doubt it must be in the
family, as people say. Jeanie’s monomania was about her brother, and
Mrs. Murray’s was about Arthur Arden. What had he to do with Arthur
Arden? He was not his brother’s keeper, that he should step in and make
of himself a providence for Arthur’s benefit. Altogether it was odd and
disagreeable and discomposing. As his mind was thus occupied he walked
along the village street, pre-occupied and absorbed. When he had nearly
reached the Arden Arms he met Dr. Somers, and immediately seized the
opportunity to make inquiries. The Doctor held up his hand as if warding
him off.
“Not a word, Mr. Edgar, not another word. I have said if she’s kept
quiet and not excited she’ll do. I don’t like fuss any more than the
villagers. You don’t put straw down when a comfortable matron adds to
the number of society, and why should you for this girl? You are all mad
about Jeanie. She is a pretty girl, I allow; but there is as pretty to
be seen elsewhere. You should hear your cousin on that subject. He and
his misfortunes are as good as a play.”
“What are his misfortunes?” said Edgar, and in spite of himself a
certain coldness crept into his voice.
“You don’t like him?” said Dr. Somers; “neither do I. I hate a man who
lives on his wits. Generally neither the wits nor the man are worth
much. But as I say, this time Arthur Arden’s as good as a play. He has
been turned out of the Red House--the Pimpernels will have no more of
him. It is a capital story. He has been sponging upon them for a month
(this, of course, is between ourselves), and I daresay they were very
glad to get rid of him. You never can tell when such a visitor may go
away.”
“I thought the Pimpernels liked it,” said Edgar; but did not care to
enter into any discussion about his cousin; and he walked on in silence
for some seconds by the Doctor’s side, meaning thus to express his
desire to be quit of the subject. He had, on the whole, had quite too
much of Arthur Arden. He felt with the Pimpernels that to be quit of him
would be a relief.
“Where are you going?” said the Doctor. “It is getting late. Come with
me and dine. I have just asked Arden. He is houseless and homeless, you
know; and I know what it is to be condemned to the hospitalities of the
Arden Arms----”
“Is he at the Arden Arms?” said Edgar. “I suppose only for to-night. He
must have plenty of houses to go to--a man who is so well known in the
world. Thanks, Doctor; but Clare must have been expecting me for some
time. I must go home.”
“Clare has not been very well,” said the Doctor. “I am glad you have
come back. If there ever had been such a thing as brain disease among
the Ardens I should have been frightened. Fielding gave me a hint, and I
went to see her. The girl has something on her mind. I don’t know if it
is about Arthur Arden----”
“Confound Arthur Arden!” said Edgar. “What do you suppose he could have
to do with my sister Clare?”
“Oh, nothing; nothing, of course,” said the Doctor, “except that they
were great friends, and now they are friends no longer. And she has not
looked well since; there is a look of anxiety and trouble about her. My
dear fellow, you and I may not think much of Arthur Arden, but with
women he could cut us both out. Some men have that way. There is no
genuine feeling about them, and yet they get far before the best. His
father was the same sort of fellow; he was my contemporary, and it used
to set me on edge to see him. My poor sister, Letty, to this day
imagines that he was fond of her. Your cousin is not a man to be
despised.”
“Doctor, I don’t doubt you are very wise and very right,” said Edgar;
“but you forget you are speaking of Clare. Tell Miss Somers I am coming
to see her to-morrow after church. And, Doctor, I think it would be
worth your while to examine the old woman, Jeanie’s grandmother. I don’t
think she is quite right. She was speaking wildly. I did not know what
to make of her. And if you consider what a helpless pair they would be!
What could they do? especially if they were both ill in that way----”
“In what way?--concussion of the brain?” said the Doctor. “Is it Mrs.
Murray’s brain you are anxious for? My dear boy, you may dismiss your
fears. That woman has life enough for half-a-dozen of us cold-blooded
people. Her brain is as sound as yours and mine. But it is a very
anxious case, and it may well disturb her. Perhaps the accident may be
good for the child if she mends. Everything is so mysterious about the
brain. Won’t you reconsider the matter, and come? I don’t want to say
too much for my dinner; but it is not bad--not bad, you know--a little
better than usual, I think. No? Well, I think it would do you more real
good than a long walk in the dark; but, of course, you must have your
own way.”
And thus they parted at the great gates. The avenue was very dark, and
Edgar was not in brilliant spirits. He seemed to himself to be entering
a moral as well as a physical obscurity, confused by many mysterious
shadows, as he took the way to his own door.