Mr. Fielding preached one of his gentle little sermons upon love to your
neighbour on that especial morning. The Doctor had been quiet, and had
not bothered the Rector for some time back. There had been a good deal
of sickness at the other end of the parish, and his hands had been full.
It was a sermon which the Arden folks had heard a good many times
before; but there are some things which, like wine, improve in flavour
the longer that they are kept. Mr. Fielding produced it about once in
five years, and preached it with little illustrations added on, drawn
from his own gentle experience. And each time it was better than the
last. The good people did not remember it, having listened always with a
certain amount of distraction and slumberousness; but Dr. Somers did,
and had noted in his pocket-book the times he had heard it. “Very good,
with that story about John Styles in the appendix,” was one note; and
four or five years later it occurred again thus--“Little sketch of last
row with me put in as an illustration--John Styles much softened; always
very good.” Next time it was--“John Styles disappeared
altogether--quarrel with me going out--old Simon in the foreground;
better than ever.” The Arden folks were not alert enough in their minds
to discern this; but the gentle discourse did them good all the same.
And there in front of him, listening to him, in the Arden pew, were
three who needed Mr. Fielding’s sermon. First, Clare, pale with that
wrath and distrust which takes all happiness out of a woman’s face, and
almost all beauty. Then, sitting next to her, with a great gap between,
now and then looking wistfully at her, now casting a hasty glance to his
other side--anxious, suspicious, watchful--Arthur Arden, at the very
lowest ebb, as he thought, of his fortunes. He had been as good as
turned out of the Red House. He had no invitation nearer than the end of
August. Clare had passed him at the church door with a bow that chilled
him. Edgar, coming in late, had taken scarcely any notice of him.
Nothing could appear less hopeful than his plan of getting himself
invited once more to Arden, covering the Pimpernels with confusion, and
showing publicly his superiority over them. Alas! he would not look
superior, he could not be happy in the Arden Arms. Accordingly he sat,
anxious about his cousins, hating all the world besides. Could he have
crushed Mrs. Pimpernel by a sudden blow he would have done it. Could he
have swept Jeanie out of his way he would have done it. Even underneath
his anxiety for their favour, a bitter germ of envy and indignation was
springing up in his heart towards his kinsfolk, Edgar and Clare.
And next to him sat Edgar, whose heart was heavy with that sense of
discord--the first he had ever known. He had not been the sort of man
with whom people quarrel. If any of his former comrades had been out of
temper with him, it had been but for a moment--and he had no other
relation to quarrel with. The sense of being at variance with his sister
hung over him like a cloud. Edgar was the only one to whom the Rector’s
gentle sermon did any good. He was guiltless in his quarrel, and
therefore he had no _amour-propre_ concerned, no necessity laid upon him
to justify himself. He was quite ready to say that he was wrong if that
would please any one; yes, no doubt he had been wrong; most people were
wrong; he was ready to confess anything. And though he was not a very
close listener generally to Mr. Fielding’s sermons, he took in this one
into his heart. And the summer air, too, stole into his heart; and the
faint fragrance of things outside that breathed in through the open
door, and even the faint mouldy flavour of age and damp which was
within. The little village church, when he looked round it, filled him
with a strange emotion. What was it to others? What was it to himself? A
little break in life--a pause bidding the sleepy peasant rest in the
quiet, dropping warm langour on the eyelids of the children, giving to
the old a slumberous pensiveness. He saw them softly striving to keep
themselves awake--sometimes yielding to the drowsy influence--sometimes
open-eyed, listening or not listening--silent between life and death.
Such sweet, full, abounding life outside; hum of insects, flutter of
leaves, soft, all-pervading fragrance of summer roses. And within, the
monuments on the wall glimmering white; the white head in the pulpit;
the shadowy, quiet, restful place where grandsires had dozed and dreamed
before. What an Elysium it was to some of those weary, hardworking old
bodies! Edgar looked out upon them from the stage-box in which he sat
with a thrill of tender kindness. To himself it might have been a mental
and spiritual rest before the agitations of the next week. But something
had disturbed that and made it impossible. Something! That meant Clare.
When they all left the church Arthur Arden made a bold stroke. “I will
walk up with you to the Hall if you will let me,” he said. Clare was
within hearing, and she could not restrain a slight start and tremor,
which he saw. Was she afraid of him? Did she wish him to come or to stay
away? But Clare never turned round or gave the slightest indication of
her feelings. She walked out steadily, saying a word here and there to
the village people who stood by as she passed to the carriage, which was
waiting for her at the gate.
“I am going to see Miss Somers,” said Edgar, “and Clare is driving--but
if you choose to wait----”
It was not a very warm invitation, but Arden accepted it. He wished the
Pimpernels to see him with his cousin. This much of feeling remained in
him. He would have been mortified had he supposed that they knew he was
only at the Arden Arms. He would go to the Doctor’s house with Edgar,
and declared himself quite ready to wait. “I don’t think Miss Somers
likes me, or I should go with you,” he said, and then he went boldly up
to Mr. Pimpernel and asked for his daughter. “I am sorry I had to leave
so abruptly,” he said, “but I could not help myself,” and he gave his
shoulders a shrug, and looked compassionately with a half smile at the
master of the Red House.
“Yes,” said Mr. Pimpernel, accepting the tacit criticism with a certain
cleverness. “Mrs. Pimpernel expresses herself strongly sometimes. Alice
is better. Oh, yes! It was an affair of scratches only--though for a
time I was in great fear.”
“I never was so afraid in my life,” said Arthur, and he shuddered at the
thought, which his companion thought a piece of acting, though it was
perfectly genuine and true.
“You did not show it much,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in his
turn, “at least so far as we were concerned. But, however, that is your
affair.” And with a nod which was not very civil he called his flock
round him, and drove away. Arthur followed Edgar to the Doctor’s open
door. He went into the Doctor’s sacred study, and took refuge there. Dr.
Somers did not like him he was aware; but still he did not hesitate to
put himself into the Doctor’s easy chair. Why didn’t people like him? It
was confounded bad taste on their part!
In the meantime Edgar had gone up stairs, where Miss Somers awaited him
anxiously. “Oh, my dear Edgar,” she said, “what a sad, sad---- Do you
think she will never get better? My brother always says to me---- but
then, you know, this isn’t asking about nothing--it’s asking about
Jeanie. And Alice, whose fault it was---- Oh Edgar, isn’t it just the
way of the world? The innocent little thing, you know--and then the one
that was really to blame escaping--it is just the way of the world.”
“Then, it is a very disagreeable way,” said Edgar. “I wish poor little
Jeanie could have escaped, though I don’t wish any harm to Miss
Pimpernel.”
“No, my dear,” said Miss Somers; “fancy my calling you ‘my dear,’ as if
you were my own sister! Do you know I begin now to forget which is a
gentleman and which a lady--me that was always brought up---- But what
is the good of being so very particular?--when you consider, at my time
of life. Though some people think that makes no difference. Oh, no, you
must never wish her any harm; but a little foolish, flighty--with
nothing in her head but croquet you know, and---- Young Mr. Denbigh has
so fallen off. He used to come and talk quite like---- And then he would
tell my brother what he should do. My brother does not like advice,
Edgar. Doctors never do. They are so used, you know---- And then about
these German baths and everything. He used to tell my brother---- and he
was not nice about it. Sometimes he is not very nice. He has a good
heart, and all that; but doctors, you know, as a rule, never do---- And
then your cousin--do you think he meant anything?---- I once thought it
was Clare; but then these people are rich, and when a man like that is
poor----”
“I don’t know what he meant,” said Edgar; “but I am sure he can’t mean
anything now, for he has left the Pimpernels.”
“And I suppose he is going to you?” said Miss Somers, “for he can’t stay
in the Arden Arms; now, can he? He is sure to be so particular. When men
have no money, my dear--and used to fine living and all that---- And I
don’t believe anything is to be had better than a chop---- Chops are
greasy in such places---- And then Arthur Arden is used to things so----
But my dear, I think not, if I were you--on account of Clare. I do think
not, Edgar, if you were to take my advice.”
“But I fear I can’t help myself,” said Edgar, with a shadow passing over
his face----
Miss Somers shook her head; but fortunately not even the gratification
of giving advice could keep her long to one subject. “Well--of course
Clare is like other girls, she is sure to marry somebody,” she
said--“and marriage is a great risk Edgar. You shouldn’t laugh. Marriage
is not a thing to make you laugh. I never could make up my mind. It is
so very serious a thing, my dear. Suppose afterwards you were to see
some one else? or suppose---- I never could run the risk--though of
course it can’t be so bad for a gentleman---- But, Edgar, when you are
going to be married--vows are nothing--I wouldn’t make any vow--but,--it
is this, Edgar--it is wrong to have secrets from your wife. I have known
such trouble in my day. When a man was poor, you know--and she would go
on, poor thing, and never find out--and then all at once---- Oh, my
dear, don’t you do that--tell her everything--that is always my--and
then she knows exactly what she can do----”
“But I am not going to be married,” said Edgar with a smile, which did
not pass away as common smiles do, but melted over all his face.
“I hope not,” said Miss Somers promptly, “oh, I hope not--after all this
about the Pimpernels--and---- But that was your cousin, not you. Oh, no,
I hope not. What would Clare do? If Clare were married first, then
perhaps---- But it would be so strange; Mrs. Arden--Edgar, fancy! In my
state of health, you know, I couldn’t go to call on her, my dear. She
wouldn’t expect--but then sometimes young ladies are very---- And
perhaps she won’t know me nor how helpless---- I hope she’ll be very
nice, I am sure--and--pretty, and---- Some people think it doesn’t
matter--about beauty, you know, and that---- It’s a long, long time
since I took any interest in such things--but when I was a young girl,
it used to be said---- Now I know what you are thinking in yourself--how
vain and all that--but it is not vanity, my dear. You like to look nice,
you know, and you like to please people, and you like--of course, you
like to look nice. When I was young there were people that used to
say--the little one--they always called me the little one--or little
Letty, or something---- I suppose because they were fond of me. Edgar,
everybody is fond of you when you are young.”
“And when you are old too,” said Edgar; “everybody has been fond of you
all your life, I am sure--and will be when you are a hundred--of course
you know that.”
“Ah, my dear,” said Miss Somers, shaking her head. “Ah my dear!”--and
two soft little tears came into the corners of her eyes--“when you are
old---- Yes. I know people are so kind--they pity you--and then every
one tries; but when you were young, oh, it was _so_---- There was no
trying then. People thought there was nobody like---- and then such
quantities of things were to happen---- But sometimes they never happen.
It was my own fault, of course. There was Mr. Templeton and Captain
Ormond, and--what is the good of going over----? That is long past, my
dear, long past----”
And Miss Somers put her hands up softly to her eyes. She had a sort of
theoretical regret for the opportunity lost, and yet, at the same time,
a theoretical satisfaction that she had not tempted her fate--a
satisfaction which was entirely theoretical; for did she not dream of
her children who might have been, and of one who called Mamma? But Miss
Somers was incapable of mentioning such a thing to Edgar, who was a
“gentleman.” To have betrayed herself would have been impossible. Arthur
Arden was below waiting in the Doctor’s study, and he came out as Edgar
came down and joined him. He had not been idle in this moment of
waiting. Something told him that this was a great crisis, a moment not
to be neglected; and he had been arranging his plan of operations. Only
Edgar, for this once thoughtless and unwary, thought of no crisis, until
Tuesday came, when he should go to Thorne. He thought of nothing that
was likely to change his happy state so long as he remained at home.