Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3

The Lowestofts’ ball was a very nice ball, everybody said. There were a great many people there. Indeed, everybody was there: the stairs were crowded and all the passages, and the dancers had scarcely room to move. To make your way up or down was almost as bad as going to Court. The way in which trains were damaged and trimmings torn off would have tried the temper of a saint. Nevertheless, the ladies bore it like heroines, smiling blandly, and protesting that it did not matter, even at the moment when their most cherished lace was being rent under their eyes. The mistress of the house stood at the top of the stairs, ready to drop with exhaustion, but grinning horribly a ghastly smile at everybody who approached her. A Royal Duke had come in for half-an-hour, and a German Prince, whom all the Lowestofts and all their friends treated with supreme contempt when they spoke of him; but yet, vis-a-vis of the Morning Post, were too proud and happy to see at their ball. Edgar Arden was one of those who traversed the crowd with the least ennui; but he could not refrain from making those remarks upon it which he was in the habit of making concerning the natural history and habits of the world of fashion. Edgar remarked that only a very few people looked really happy; and these were either the men and women who had some special love affair, innocent or otherwise, on hand, and had been able to appropriate the individual who interested them with that safety which belongs to a crowd; or else those upward climbers seeking advancement, to whom every new invitation into “the best society” was an object of as much elation as a successful battle. These two classes of persons rejoiced with a troubled joy; but the rest of the guests were either indifferent, or bored, or discontented. They had come because everybody was coming; they had come because they were invited; and it was part of the routine of life to go. Rage was boiling in their souls over their torn lace; or, with a sigh from the bottom of their hearts, they were dreaming of their favourite chair at the club, and all its delights. They said the same things over and over to the same people, whom, probably in the morning in the Row, or in the afternoon at half-a-dozen places, they had met and said the same things to before. Edgar stood for a long time half-way down the stair, and helped the ladies who were pushing their way up. He was waiting for Lady Augusta and her party, who were very late. He was waiting without any excitement, but with a little alarm, wondering if he could say anything to Gussy in the midst of such a crowd, or if still a breathing-time would be given to him. He did not want to elude that moment, but only it was so difficult to do it, so hard to know what to say. “That young Mr. Arden is very nice. I don’t think I should ever have got upstairs without him,” said more than one substantial chaperon. “He is waiting for the Thornleighs,” the daughters would say. Everybody had decided Edgar’s fate for him. Some people said it had been all settled before they came up from the country. And there could not be the least doubt that, if Edgar had let the season pass without saying anything to Gussy, he would have been concluded by everybody to have used her very ill.

And a great many speculations passed through Edgar’s mind as he stood there and waited. Sometimes he witnessed such a meeting as ought to have been in store for himself. He saw the youth and maiden meet who were to get to the real climax in their romance by means of the Lowestofts’ ball, and wondered within himself whether the outside world could see the same glow in his eyes which he could see in those of the other lover, or whether the same delightful atmosphere of consciousness enveloped Gussy as that which seemed to enclose the other girl in a rosy cloud. And he saw other pairs meet, not of youths and maidens; he saw gleams of strange fire which did not warm but burn; he saw the vacant looks of the mass, the factitious flutter of delight with which the dull crowd recognised its acquaintances. Lord Newmarch came up to him when he had occupied this perch for some time. “What are you doing here, of all places in the world? Are you going or coming? Oh, I see; you are waiting for the Thornleighs,” he said; “they are generally in good time for a ball–”

“I am waiting because it is amusing here,” said Edgar, careful even now that Gussy at least should not be discussed.

“Amusing!—the amusement must be in you, so I will stay by you,” said Lord Newmarch; “probably some of it may come my way. What an odd fellow you are, to expect to be amused wherever you go, like a bumpkin at a fair! By the way, that reminds me, Arden, the people have a faculty for being amused which is wonderful; they are ready for it at all times and seasons, you know, not like us. It is a faculty which ought to be made use of for their improvement. I don’t see why they shouldn’t be educated in spite of themselves. The drama, for instance; now the drama has lost its hold on us—to us the play is a bore. We go to the opera to see each other, not to hear anything. But the people are all agog for anything in the shape of a play. What do you think? If the stage has any vigour left in it, instead of getting up sensation dramas for cads and shopkeepers–”

“But cads and shopkeepers are part of the people,” said Edgar.

“No; that is not what I mean; I mean the real lower classes—the working men—our masters that are to be. How could they learn patriotism, not to say good sense, better than by means of Shakespeare? Poetry of the highest class is adapted to every capacity. What is secondary may have to be explained and broken down, but the highest–”

“I think I must ask you to let me pass,” said Edgar, seeing the shadow of Lady Augusta’s nose (which was prominent) on the wall close to the door. She was bringing in her daughters against a stream which was flowing out, and the struggle was very difficult, and demanded the greatest care.

“Oh, I suppose I am not wanted any longer,” said Newmarch; “but, Arden, look here, I hope you mean to let me go to you for a day or two in September—eh? not for the partridges. Wait one moment. I should be glad of a quiet opportunity to speak to you by yourself–”

“Another time,” said Edgar, extricating himself as best he could from the crowd.

“Wait one moment! I am free from the 20th of August. I will go to you as soon as you like—you know why I ask. Arden, remember I count upon your good offices—and then if my influence can be of any use to you–”

“Yes, precisely,” said Edgar, swinging himself free. Lord Newmarch looked after him with a little metaphorical lifting up of hands and eyes. How simple the boy must be!—falling a hopeless victim to Gussy Thornleigh, his next door neighbour, when he had, so to speak, all England to choose from; for the suit of Arden of Arden was not one which was likely to fail, unless he fixed his fancy very high indeed. Lord Newmarch could not but reflect that in some things Arden had very greatly the advantage even of himself—there were so many people still who had a prejudice in favour of grandfathers, and his own grandfather, though the first Earl, could not, he was aware, bear discussing. Gussy Thornleigh, he reflected, was a very fortunate woman. She would have nothing, or next to nothing. Her sister Helena was one who, under more favourable circumstances, would have attracted Lord Newmarch himself; but he could not afford to throw himself away upon a girl who had nothing, and whose connections even were not of a kind to bring advancement. Nothing could be better than her family, no doubt; but then she had a quantity of brothers who would have to be pushed on in the world, and no doubt the sisters’ husbands would be called upon for aid and influence. Arden was the very sort of man to suffer himself to be so called on. He would be ready to help them and to get them out of all their scrapes. It was he who would be looked to when anything was the matter. In short, he was just the kind of man to marry a girl who was one of a large family. Lord Newmarch reflected that he himself was not so. He wanted all his influence, all his money, everything his position gave him, for himself or, at least, for his brothers. He even paused to ask himself whether, in case he should marry Clare Arden, he might not be appealed to as a connexion of the family for appointments, &c., for some of those Thornleigh boys. But Clare, he reflected, was not a good-natured fool like Edgar. She was one who knew what was due to a man’s position, and that there were few who had anything to spare. Accordingly, he felt easy in his mind respecting that very far off danger. It was Clare who was the proper match for himself; and with a little shrug of his shoulders Lord Newmarch watched Edgar make his way through the crowd to where Lady Augusta, caught in an eddy, with all her train of girls, was struggling to get in, against the almost irresistible force of the torrent going out. Certainly, to come up to town for the purpose of making love to your next neighbour in the country was a waste of means indeed.

Meanwhile, Lady Augusta had seized on Edgar’s arm with a sense of relief which made her heart glow with grateful warmth. It was another evidence of what a good son he would be, what a help in need. “I am so thankful to see you,” she cried. “We are a little late, I know; but I never dreamt that people would be going so soon. There is a great ball in Eaton Square, I believe, to-night, given by some of those odious nouveaux riches; that is where everybody is flocking to.” This was said loud enough to catch the ear of the crowd which was going out, and which had whirled Lady Augusta with it, and disordered the sweep of her train. She held Edgar fast while she made her way upstairs. She could not have done it without him, she said, and mourned audibly over her unfriended condition in the ear of her future son-in-law. “Harry promised to be looking out for us,” she said; “but I suppose he is dancing, or something else that amuses him; and Mr. Thornleigh is never any use to us socially. He is always at the House.”

“Does he go down to Thorne with you?” asked Edgar, meaning nothing in particular; but at present every word he spoke was marked and noted. No doubt, he wanted to make sure of being able to communicate with Gussy’s father at once.

“No, he stays in town,” said Lady Augusta, “for a few weeks longer;” and then she added, with an attempt at carelessness, “I am the family business-man, Mr. Arden. We have always one mind about the children and their concerns. He says it saves him so much trouble, and that without my help he could never do anything. It is pleasant when one’s husband thinks so, who, of course, knows one’s weaknesses best of all. Oh, what a business it is getting upstairs! Gussy, keep close to me, darling. Ada, I hope you are not feeling faint. Dear, dear, surely there must be bad management somewhere! I think I never saw such a crush in a private house.”

Lady Lowestoft was nearer the top of the stair than usual, and took this criticism, which she had overheard, for a compliment. “A great number of our friends have been so good as to come to us,” she said. “Dear Lady Augusta, how late you are! I fear the dear girls will scarcely get any dancing before supper. Did you meet the Duke as you came in? He is looking so well. It was very kind of him to come so early. I really must scold you for being a little late.”

“What a fool that woman is,” Lady Augusta whispered in Edgar’s ear. “She very nearly compromised herself last season with your cousin Arthur Arden. He was never out of the house. A man without a penny, and whose character is so thoroughly well known! And then for one of those silly women who are really silly, a hundred other women get the blame of it, which is very hard, I think. Helena is always talking of such things, and it makes one think.”

Thus Edgar was appropriated for a long time, until he had found a seat for Lady Augusta, and had placed Ada (who did not dance) by her side. When he had time to disengage himself, he saw both Gussy and Helena whirling about among the dancers; for they were popular girls, and always had partners. Thus the whole evening went past, and he found no opportunity for any explanation. Had he been able to monopolise Gussy’s attention, and lead her away to a moderately-quiet corner, no doubt he would have delivered himself of what he had to say. But then it was not so very urgent. Had it been very urgent, of course he could have found the ways and means. He had one dance with her, but nothing could be said then; and though he proposed a walk into the conservatory, fate, in the shape of another partner, who carried her off triumphantly, interposed. And what could a man do more? He had been perfectly willing to make the full plunge, and in the meantime he watched over the whole family as if he had been their brother, and put Lady Augusta into her carriage afterwards, never really leaving them all the evening. If this was not to affichér himself, it would be hard to tell what more he could do. He held Gussy’s hand after he put her in, and said something about calling next day. “Don’t, please,” Gussy had whispered hurriedly; “come when we are at Thorne. I know we shall all be at sixes and sevens to-morrow, and no time to talk.” She, too, understood now quite calmly and frankly that this next visit must be more important than an afternoon call, and he pressed her hand as he whispered good-bye, feeling disposed to say to her, “What a dear, kind, reasonable girl you are; how well we shall understand each other, even though–” But he did not say this, more especially the “even though–” And he stood on the pavement and watched them drive away with a sensation of relief. He had quite made up his mind by this time, and did not intend to defer the crisis a moment longer than was necessary; but still, on the whole, he was pleased to feel that, whatever might happen afterwards, he was going back to Arden a free man.

CHAPTER XXVI

“Come into my dressing-room before you go to bed,” Lady Augusta whispered in her daughter’s ear. The sisters were in the habit of holding their own private assemblies at that confidential moment, and the three elder ones were just preparing for a consultation in Ada’s room when Gussy received this summons. Of course she obeyed it dutifully, with her pretty hair hanging about her shoulders, in a pretty white dressing-gown, all gay with ribbons and embroidery. “I know mamma is going to ask me ever so many questions, and I have nothing to tell her,” she said, pouting, as she left Ada and Helena. But Lady Augusta was very gentle in her questioning. “I think your hair is thicker than it used to be, my darling,” she said, taking the golden locks in her hand with fond admiration. “Don’t crêper more than you can help, for I always think it spoils the hair. Yours is more like what mine used to be than any of the others, Gussy. Helena’s is like your papa’s; but my hair used to be just your colour. Alas! it has fallen off sadly now.”

“Your hair is a great deal prettier than mine,” said Gussy, putting her caressing arm round her mother’s neck. “I like that silver shade upon it. Hair gets so sweet when it gets grey—one loves it so. If you had not thought so much about us all, mamma dear, and had so many worries, you would not have had a white thread. I know it is all for us.”

“Hush! my dear,” said Lady Augusta; “you are all very good children. I have not had half so many worries as most people. It is in the family. The Hightons all grow grey early. You were looking very nice to-night. That blue becomes you; I always like you best in blue. Did you dance with Edgar Arden more than once, Gussy? I could not quite make out–”

“Only once, mamma.”

“How was that? He was waiting for us to come in. I suppose you were engaged to half-a-dozen people before you got there. I don’t like you to do that. If they don’t come for you at the proper moment you are kept from dancing altogether, and look as if you were neglected; and if they do come, probably somebody else has made his appearance whom you would like better. I don’t approve of engaging yourself so long in advance.”

“But one goes to dance,” said Gussy, with humility; “and to tell the truth, mamma, Mr. Arden likes looking after you quite as much as dancing with me. He likes to see that you are comfortable, and have some one pleasant to talk to, and don’t want for anything. And I like him for it!” the girl cried, fervently. “He is of more use to you than Harry is. I like him because he is so fond of you.”

“Nonsense, dear!” said Lady Augusta, with a pleased smile. “He is good to me on your account. And you must not say anything against Harry. Harry is always a dear boy; but he has a number of friends, and he knows I don’t expect him to give up his own pleasure. Yes; Edgar Arden is very nice; I don’t deny I am getting quite fond of him. Did he—had you any particular conversation with him, my darling, to-night?”

“No, mamma,” said Gussy, with her eyes cast down, and a rising colour on her cheeks.

“Or perhaps he is coming to-morrow? Did he say anything about coming to-morrow?” said Lady Augusta, with a little anxiety in her tone.

“He asked me if he might, but I said no. I thought we would be in such confusion—everything packing up, and all our shopping to do, and so much bother—and then probably when he came nobody at home. And you know, mamma, we shall meet again so soon—next week,” said Gussy, apologetically. As she spoke she began to feel that perhaps that little bit of maidenly reluctance had been a mistake; and Lady Augusta shook her head.

“My dear, I don’t think putting off is ever good,” she said. “When you have lived as long as I have you will know upon what nothings the greatest changes may turn. If he had come to-morrow, one needed no ghost to tell us what would have happened—but next week is a different thing, and the country is a different thing from town. There are seven miles between Arden and Thorne—there is Clare at the other end to hold him back—there are a thousand things; whereas, the present moment, you know—there is nothing like the present moment in all such affairs.”

“If he cared so little for me,” cried Gussy, indignant, “as to be kept back by seven miles—or even by Clare–”

“My dear, that is not the question,” said her mother. “He has been with us here every day, but he can’t ride over to Thorne every day. He will find business waiting for him, and his visitors will begin to come, and Clare—without meaning any harm—I am sure Clare would never put herself in opposition to you; she is a great deal too proud for that—but without meaning it she will make engagements for him, she will expect him to attend to her a little—and it is quite natural she should. I am very sorry you did not let him come. For my own part I should have liked to see him again. I am growing quite fond of him, Gussy. He is the sort of young man whom one can put such confidence in. I should have liked to ask his advice about Phil at Harrow. I should have liked—but of course it cannot be helped now. I think I will ask them both to come and spend a week with us at Thorne.”

“Mamma!” cried Gussy, with a violent blush. “Oh, don’t please; fancy inviting a man—any man—for the express purpose– Oh, please, for my sake, don’t do such a thing as that!”

“Such a thing as what?” asked Lady Augusta, gravely. “Because you happen to have a little feeling on the subject, that is not to prevent me, I hope, from doing my duty to my nearest neighbours. Clare Arden has not paid us a visit since she went into mourning. And she really ought not to be encouraged to go on wearing black and shutting herself up in this absurd way. I will write and invite them to-morrow. Don’t you see, autumn is approaching, and of course he has asked quantities of people—young men always do the first season, when they feel they have a house all to themselves. No, my dear, don’t say anything. I know more of the world than you do, and I know there is nothing so perilous as letting such a thing drag on. He had better either ask you at once, or make it quite plain that he is not going to ask you; and much as I like him, Gussy, if this is not decided directly I shall certainly not invite him any more.”

“Mamma, you make me so ashamed of myself,” said Gussy. “If you ask him to Thorne for such a purpose I know I shall not be able to look at him. I will not be civil to him—I could not—so it will do more harm than good.”

“I am not afraid that you will be uncivil,” said Lady Augusta, with a smile; “but it was very foolish of you to say he was not to come. I can’t think how you could do it. Sometimes, it is true, it is better for a man not to think he is too distinctly understood. Sometimes– But never mind, my dear, I see it is I who must manage matters now. Go and put up your hair, and go to bed–”

“But, oh, mamma, dear!” cried Gussy, with her arms round her mother’s neck. “Don’t! How could I ever speak to him when I knew– How could I ever look him in the face?”

“I hope you know how to conduct yourself towards all your papa’s guests,” said Lady Augusta, with dignity. “If you don’t, I should feel that I must have brought you up very badly. I hear your papa’s step coming along the corridor. Good night, my darling! Go to bed, and don’t think any more of it; and be sure you don’t let Angelique crêper your hair.”

Thus dismissed, Gussy sped along the passage, and rushed in, breathless and indignant, yet not so indignant as she looked, into Ada’s room, where her sisters were waiting for her. “Only fancy!” she cried, throwing herself into the nearest chair. “Only think what mamma is going to do! Because I would not let him come here to-morrow, when we will all be in such confusion, she is going to write and ask the Ardens to Thorne! I shall never be able to look him in the face. I shall feel he knows exactly what is meant– Oh! to think a man should be able to suppose one expects– He will think it is my doing—he will imagine I want him. Oh, Ada! what shall I do–”

“Hush, dear, hush!” said Ada, who was the consoler of the house; while Helena, in her rôle of indignant womanhood, took up Gussy’s strain.

“He will think women are all exactly the same—that is what he will think—ready to compass sea and land for the sake of a settlement,” cried Helena. If you loved him it would not be so bad—or if he thought you loved him; but it is for the settlement—it is because your trade is to get married. Don’t you see, now, the justice of all I have been saying? If you could learn a profession like a man, men would never dare to think so. But the worst is, it is true. All that mamma thinks of is to get you settled at Arden—all she thinks of is to get you provided for—all she cares–”

“Helena!” cried Gussy, with a burst of tears. “I won’t hear you say a single word against mamma.”

“Hush—hush, both of you children!” said gentle Ada. “Nell, you must not storm; and, Gussy dear, I can’t bear you to cry. What mamma does always comes out right. It may not be just what one could desire, nor what one would do one’s self. But it always turns out better than one expects. Of course, she wants to see you provided for—isn’t it her duty? She wants you to be happy and well off, and have the good of your life as she has. Nobody can say mamma has not done her duty. Sometimes it seems a little hard to others, but we all know–”

“Oh, you dear Ada!” cried both her sisters, taking the comforter between them, and weeping over her. But she, who was the martyr of the family, did not weep. She gave them a kiss, first one and then the other, and smiled at their girlish ready tears.

“I have never said very much about it,” she said; “but I think I know Edgar Arden. He will not think anything disagreeable about mamma’s invitation, if she sends it. He is not that kind of man; he is not always finding people out, like some of Harry’s friends. He would not do anything that is nasty himself; and he would never suspect anybody else. It would not come into his head. And then he is fond of mamma and all of us. I am quite sure, as sure as if I had put it to the proof, that he would do anything for me if I were to ask him—not to speak of Gussy. And if that is really what he means–”

“I don’t think you think it is,” said Gussy, with a little flush of pride. “I am sure you don’t think it is! Don’t be afraid to speak quite plainly. You don’t suppose I care–”

“But I do suppose you care,” said Ada, giving her sister another sympathetic kiss. “We all care. I am fond of him, too. I should like to be quite sure he was to be my brother, Gussy– and I should like, for his sake, to make sure that you too–”

“Oh, it does not matter what a girl feels,” said Gussy, pettishly, waving her pretty hair about her face, and concealing her looks behind it. “We have to marry somebody—and then there are so many of us. Mamma says I am not to crêper my hair; but if I don’t, how can I ever make a show as everybody does? She would not like to see me different from other girls. Oh, me! I wish I was not a girl, obliged to take such trouble about how I look and what people will think; and obliged to wonder and bother and worry everybody about what some man is going to say next time I meet him. Oh, I cannot tell you how I hate men!”

“I don’t hate them,” said Helena. “Why should we? Treat them simply as your fellow-creatures. They have got to live in the world, and so have we. The only thing is that we need not try to make each other miserable. There is room enough for both of us. If they will only let me use my faculties, I will take care not to interfere with them. I am not afraid, for my part, to meet them upon equal terms–”

“Oh, I am so tired!” said Gussy. “I don’t want to meet any one on equal terms. I never want to see one of the wretched creatures again. I wish somebody would shut them all up, and let us have a little peace. I wish somebody would come and do my hair. Nell, you have got nothing to vex you: if you do not mind a little trouble, please ring for Angelique–”

And then Gussy sat still with tolerable composure, and had her hair plaited up tight, and chattered about the Lowestofts’ dance. Her mind, after all, was not seriously disturbed either by Edgar’s silence or her mother’s threatened invitation. Perhaps, indeed, on the whole, it would be rather pleasant than otherwise to have him at Thorne. He was so nice in a house; he was kind to everybody, always ready to make himself useful—a great deal more serviceable than Harry. And to be sure he had understood perfectly, and so had she, what would have been said if, amidst all the bother of packing, they had met to-morrow. It had not been spoken in words, but in everything else it was decided and settled. Gussy fell into silence after a while, and let the idea of him glide pleasantly, tenderly through her mind. He was not a man who would be like papa, absorbed in his estate, and his sessions, and his game. He would not be selfish, as Harry sometimes was. He could not help being thoughtful of other people, tender of everybody belonging to him. There had been moments when Gussy had entertained a certain harmless envy of Clare’s supremacy. But she envied her no longer—though Queen Gussy would be a different kind of ruler from Princess Clare.