Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3

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.

CHAPTER VI

“The fact is, I am a little put out by having to change my quarters so abruptly,” said Arthur Arden. “I am going to Scotland in the beginning of September, but that is a long way off; and to go to one’s lodgings in town now is dreary work. Besides, I said to the Pimpernels when they drove me out—they actually turned me out of the house—I told them I was coming here. It was the only way I could be even with them. If there is a thing they reverence in the world it is Arden; and if they knew I was here–”

“It does not entirely rest with me,” said Edgar, with some embarrassment. “Arden, we had a good deal of discussion on various subjects before I went away.”

“Yes; you went in order to turn me out,” said Arthur meditatively. “By George, it’s pleasant! I used to be a popular sort of fellow. People used to scheme for having me, instead of turning me out. Look here! Of course, when you showed yourself my enemy, it was a point of religion with me to pursue my own course, without regard to you; but now, equally of course, if you take me in to serve me, my action will be different. I should respect your prejudices, however they might run counter to my own.”

“That means–?” said Edgar, and then stopped short, feeling that it was a matter which he could not discuss.

“It is best we should not enter into any explanations. Explanations are horrid bores. What I want is shelter for a few weeks, to be purchased by submission to your wishes on the points we both understand.”

“For a few weeks!” said Edgar, with a little horror.

“Well, say for a single week. I must put my pride in my pocket, and beg, it appears. It will be a convenience to me, and it can’t hurt you much. Of course, I shall be on my guard in respect to Clare.”

“I prefer that my sister’s name should not be mentioned between us,” said Edgar, with instinctive repugnance. And then he remembered Mrs. Murray’s strange appeal to him on behalf of his cousin. “You have all but as much right to be in Arden as I have,” he said. “Of course, you must come. My sister is not prepared; she does not expect any one. Would it not be wiser to wait a little—till to-morrow—or even till to-night?”

“Pardon me,” said Arthur; “but Miss Arden, I am sure, will make up her mind to the infliction better—if I am so very disagreeable—if she gets over the first shock without preparation. Is it that I am getting old, I wonder? I feel myself beginning to maunder. It used not to be so, you know. Indeed, there are places still—but never mind, hospitality that one is compelled to ask for is not often sweet.”

It was on Edgar’s lips to say that it need not be accepted, but he refrained, compassionate of his penniless kinsman. Why should the one be penniless and the other have all? There was an absence of natural justice in the arrangement that struck Edgar whenever his mind was directed to it; and he remembered now what had been his intention when his cousin first came to the Hall. “Arden,” he said, “I don’t think, if I were you, I would be content to ask for hospitality, as you say; but it is not my place to preach. You are the heir of Arden, and Arden owes you something. I think it is my duty to offer, and yours to accept, something more than hospitality. I will send for Mr. Fazakerly to-morrow. I will not talk of dividing the inheritance, because that is a thing only to be done between brothers; but, as you may become the Squire any day by my death–”

“I would sell my chance for five pounds,” said Arthur, giving his kinsman a hasty look all over. “I shall be dead and buried years before you—more’s the pity. Don’t think that I can cheat myself with any such hope.”

This was intended for a compliment, though it was almost a brutal one; but its very coarseness made it more flattering—or so at least the speaker thought.

“Anyhow, you have a right to a provision,” Edgar continued hastily, with a sudden flush of disgust.

“I am agreeable,” said Arthur, with a yawn. “Nobody can be less unwilling to receive a provision than I am. Let us have Fazakerly by all means. Of course, I know you are rolling in money; but Old Arden to Clare and a provision to me will make a difference. If you were to marry, for instance, you would not find it so easy to make your settlements. You are a very kind-hearted fellow, but you must mind what you are about.”

“Yes,” said Edgar, “you are quite right. What is to be done must be done at once.”

“Strike while the iron is hot,” said Arthur, languidly. He did not care about it, for he did not believe in it. A few weeks at Arden in the capacity of a visitor was much more to him than a problematical allowance. Fazakerly would resist it, of course. It would be but a pittance, even if Edgar was allowed to have his way. The chance of being Clare’s companion, and regaining his power over her, and becoming lawful master through her of Old Arden, was far more charming to his imagination. Therefore, though he was greedy of money, as a poor man with expensive tastes always is, in this case he was as honestly indifferent as the most disinterested could have been. Thus they strolled up the avenue, where the carriage wheels were still fresh which had carried Clare; and a certain relief stole over her brother’s mind that they would be three, not two, for the rest of the day. Strange, most strange that it should be so far a relief to him not to be alone with Clare.

Clare received them with a seriousness and reserve, under which she tried to conceal her excitement. Her cousin had deceived her, preferred a cottage girl to her, insulted her in the most sensitive point, and yet her heart leapt into her throat when she saw him coming. She had foreseen he would come. When he came into church, looking at her so wistfully, when he followed her out, asking to walk with Edgar, it became very evident to her that he was not going to relinquish the struggle without one other attempt to win her favour. It was a vain hope, she thought to herself; nothing could reverse her decision, or make her forget his sins against her; but still the very fact that he meant to try, moved, unconsciously, her heart—or was it his presence, the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the wistfulness in his eyes? Clare had driven home with her heart beating, and a double tide of excitement in all her veins. And then Arthur, too, was bound up in the whole matter. He was the first person concerned, after Edgar and herself; they would be three together in the house, between whom this most strange drama was about to be played out. She waited their coming with the most breathless expectation. And they came slowly up the avenue, calm as the day, indifferent as strangers who had never seen each other; pausing sometimes to talk of the trees; examining that elm which had a great branch blown off; one of them cutting at the weeds with his cane as undisturbed as if they were—as they thought—walking quietly home to luncheon, instead of coming to their fate.

“Arden is going to stay with us a little, Clare, if you can take him in,” Edgar said, with that voluble candour which a man always exhibits when he is about to do something which will be disagreeable to the mistress of his house—be she mother, sister, or wife. “He has no engagements for the moment, and neither have we. It is a transition time—too late for town, too early for the country—so he naturally turned his eyes this way.”

“That is a flattering account to give of it,” said Arthur, for Clare only bowed in reply. “The fact is, Miss Arden, I was turned out by my late hostess. May I tell you the story? I think it is rather funny.” And, though Clare’s response was of the coldest, he told it to her, giving a clever sketch of the Pimpernels. He was very brilliant about their worship of Arden, and how their hospitality to himself was solely on account of his name. “But I have not a word to say against them. My own object was simply self-interest,” he said. He was talking two languages, as it were, at the same moment—one which Edgar could understand, and one which was addressed to Clare.

And there could be no doubt that his presence made the day pass more easily to the other two—one of whom was so excited, and the other so exceedingly calm. They strolled about the park in the afternoon, and got through its weary hours somehow. They dined—Clare in her fever eating nothing; a fact, however, which neither of her companions perceived. They took their meal both with the most perfect self-possession, hurrying over nothing, and giving it that importance which always belongs to a Sunday dinner. Dinner on other days is but a meal, but on Sunday it is the business of the day; and as such the two cousins took it, doing full justice to its importance, while the tide rose higher and higher in Clare’s veins. When she left them to their wine, she went to her own room, and walked about and about it like a caged lioness. It was not Clare’s way, who was above all demonstration of the kind; but now she could not restrain herself. She clenched her two hands together, and swept about the room, and moaned to herself in her impatience. “Oh, will it never be night? Will they never have done talking? Can one go on and go on and bear it?” she cried to herself in the silence. But after all she had to put on her chains again, and bathe her flushed face, and go down to the drawing-room. How like a wild creature she felt, straining and chafing at her fetters! She sat down and poured out tea for them, with her hand trembling, her head burning, her feet as cold as ice, her head as hot as fire. She said to herself it was unlady-like, unwomanly, unlike her, to be so wild and self-indulgent, but she had no power to control herself. All this time, however, the two men made no very particular remark. Edgar, who thought she was still angry, only grieved and wondered. Arthur knew that she was dissatisfied with himself, and was excited but not surprised. He gave her now and then pathetic looks. He wove in subtle phrases of self-vindication—a hundred little allusions, which were nothing to Edgar but full of significance to her—into all he said. But he could not have believed, what was the case, that Clare was far past hearing them—that she did not take up the drift of his observations at all—that she hardly understood what was being said, her whole soul being one whirl of excitement, expectation, awful heartrending fear and hope. It was Edgar at last who perceived that her strength was getting worn out. He noticed that she did not hear what was said—that her face usually so expressive, was getting set in its extremity of emotion. Was it emotion, was it mania? Whatever it was, it had passed all ordinary bounds of endurance. He rose hastily when he perceived this, and going up to his sister laid his hand softly on her shoulder. She started and shivered as if his hand had been ice, and looked up at him with two dilated, unfathomable eyes. If he had been going to kill her she could not have been more tragically still—more aghast with passion and horror. A profound compassion and pity took possession of him. “Clare,” he said, bending over her as if she were deaf, and putting his lips close to her ear, “Clare, you are over-exhausted. Go to bed. Let me take you up stairs—and if that will be a comfort to you, dear, I will go and read them now.”

“Yes,” she said, articulating with difficulty—“Yes.” He had to take her hand to help her to rise; but when he stooped and kissed her forehead Clare shivered again. She passed Arthur without noticing him, then returned and with formal courtesy bade him good-night; and so disappeared with her candle in her hand, throwing a faint upward ray upon her white woe-begone face. She was dressed in white, with black ribbons and ornaments, and her utter pallor seemed to bring out the darkness of her hair and darken the blue in her eyes, till everything about her seemed black and white. Arthur Arden had risen too and stood wondering, watching her as she went away. “What is the matter?” he said abruptly to Edgar, who was no better informed than himself.

“I don’t know. She must be ill. She is unhappy about something,” said Edgar. For the first time the bundle of old letters acquired importance in his eyes. “I want to look at something she has given me,” he added simply. “You will not think me rude when you see how much concerned my sister is? You know your room and all that. I must go and satisfy Clare.”

“What has she given you?” asked Arthur, with a certain precipitation. Edgar was not disposed to answer any further questions, and this was one which his cousin had no right to ask.

“I must go now,” he said. “Good-night. I trust you will be comfortable. In short, I trust we shall all be more comfortable to-morrow. Clare’s face makes me anxious to-night.”

And then Arthur found himself master of the great drawing-room, with all its silent space and breadth. What did they mean? Could it be that Clare had found this something for which he had sought, and instead of giving it to himself had given it to her brother, the person most concerned, who would, of course, destroy it and cut off Arthur’s hopes for ever. The very thought set the blood boiling in his veins. He paced about as Clare had done in her room, and could only calm himself by means of a cigar which he went out to the terrace to smoke. There his eyes were attracted to Clare’s window and to another not far off in which lights were burning. That must be Edgar’s, he concluded; and there in the seclusion of his chamber, not in any place more accessible, was he studying the something Clare had given him? Something! What could it be?

CHAPTER VII

More than one strange incident happened at Arden that soft July night. Mr. Fielding was seated in his library in the evening, after all the Sunday work was over. He did not work very hard either on Sundays or on any other occasions—the good, gentle old man. But yet he liked to sit, as he had been wont to do in his youth when he had really exerted himself, on those tranquil Sunday nights. His curate had dined with him, but was gone, knowing the Rector’s habit; and Mr. Fielding was seated in the twilight, with both his windows open, sipping a glass of wine tenderly, as if he loved it, and musing in the stillness. The lamp was never lighted on Sunday evenings till it was time for prayers. Some devout people in the parish were of opinion that at such moments the Rector was asking a blessing upon his labours, and “interceding” with God for his people—and so, no doubt, he was. But yet other thoughts were in his mind. Long, long ago, when Mr. Fielding had been young, and had a young wife by his side, this had been their sacred hour, when they would sit side by side and talk to each other of all that was in their hearts. It was “Milly’s hour,” the time when she had told him all the little troubles that beset a girl-wife in the beginning of her career; and he had laughed at her, and been sorry for her, and comforted her as young husbands can. It was Milly’s hour still, though Milly had gone out of all the cares of life and housekeeping for thirty years. How the old man remembered those little cares—how he would go over them with a soft smile on his lip, and—no, not a tear—a glistening of the eye, which was not weeping. How frightened she had been for big Susan, the cook; how bravely she had struggled about the cooking of the cutlets, to have them as her husband liked them—not as Susan pleased! And then all those speculations as to whether Lady Augusta would call, and about Letty Somers, and her foolish, little kind-hearted ways. The old man remembered every one of those small troubles. How small they were, how dear, how sacred—Milly’s troubles. Thank Heaven, she had never found out that the world held pangs more bitter. The first real sorrow she had ever had was to die—and was that a sorrow? to leave him; and had she left him? This was the tender enjoyment, the little private, sad delight of the Rector’s Sunday nights; and he did not like to be disturbed.

Therefore, it was clear the business must be of importance which was brought to him at that hour. “Your reverence won’t think as it’s of my own will I’m coming disturbing of you,” said Mrs. Solmes, the housekeeper; “but there’s one at the door as will take no denial. She says she aint got but a moment, and daren’t stay for fear her child would wake. She’s been in a dead faint from yesterday at six till now. The t’oud woman as lives at oud Sarah’s, your reverence; the Scotchy, as they calls her—her as had her granddaughter killed last night.”

“God bless me!” said Mr. Fielding, confused by this complication. He knew Jeanie had not been killed; but how was he to make his way in this twilight moment through such a maze of statements? “Killed!” he said to himself. It was so violent a word to fall into that sacred dimness and sadness—sadness which was more dear to him than any joy. “Let her come in,” he added, with a sigh. “Lights? no! I don’t think we want lights. I can see you, Mrs. Solmes, and I can see to talk without lights.”

“As you please, sir,” said the housekeeper; “but them as is strangers, and don’t know your habits, might think it was queer. And then to think how a thing gets all over the village in no time. But, to be sure, sir, it’s as you please.”

“Then show Mrs. Murray in,” said Mr. Fielding. He had never departed from his good opinion of her, notwithstanding that she was a Calvinist, and looked disapproval of his sermons; but that she should come away from her child’s sick-bed, that was extraordinary indeed.

And then in the dark, much to the scandal of Mrs. Solmes, Mrs. Murray came in. Even the Rector himself found it embarrassing to see only the tall, dark figure beside him, without being able to trace (so short-sighted as he was, too) the changes of her face. “Sit down,” he said, “sit down,” and bustled a little to get her a chair—not the one near him, in which, had she been alive, his Milly would have sat—(and oh! to think Milly, had she lived, would have been older than Mrs. Murray!)—but another at a little distance. “How is your child?” he asked. “I meant to have gone to see her to-night, but they told me she was insensible still.”

“And so she is,” said the grandmother, “and I wouldna have left her to come here but for something that’s like life and death. You’re a good man. I canna but believe you’re a real good man, though you are no what I call sound on all points. I want you to give me your advice. It’s a case of a penitent woman that has done wrong, and suffered for it. Sore she has suffered in her bairns and her life, and worse in her heart. It’s a case of conscience; and oh! sir, your best advice–”

“I will give you the best advice I can, you may be sure,” said Mr. Fielding, moved by the pleading voice that reached him out of the darkness. “But you must tell me more clearly. What has she done? I will not ask who she is, for that does not matter. But what has she done; and has she, or can she, make amends? Is it a sin against her neighbour or against God?”

“Baith, baith,” said the old woman. “Oh, Mr. Fielding, you’re an innocent, virtuous man. I ken it by your face. This woman has been airt and pairt in a great wrong—an awfu’ wrong; you never heard of the like. Partly she knew what she was doing, and partly she did not. There are some more guilty than her that have gone to their account; and there’s none to be shamed but the innocent, that knew no guile, and think no evil. What is she to do? If it was but to punish her, she’s free to give her body to be burned or torn asunder: oh, and thankful, thankful! Nothing you could do, but she would take and rejoice. But she canna move without hurting the innocent. She canna right them that’s wronged without crushing the innocent. Oh, tell me, you that are a minister, and an old man, and have preached God’s way! Many and many a time He suffers wrong, and never says a word. It’s done now, and canna be undone. Am I to bear my burden and keep silent till my heart bursts, or must I destroy, and cast down, and speak!”

The woman spoke with a passion and vehemence which bewildered the gentle Rector. Her voice came through the dim and pensive twilight, thrilling with life and force and vigour. In that atmosphere, at that hour, any whisper of penitence should have been low and soft as a sigh. It should have been accompanied by noiseless weeping, by the tender humility which appeals to every Christian soul; but such was not the manner of this strange confession. Not a tear was in the eye of the penitent. Mr. Fielding felt, though he could not see, that her eyes, those eyes which had lost none of their brightness in growing old, were shining upon him in the darkness, and held him fast as did those of the Ancient Mariner. Suddenly, without any warning, he found himself brought into contact, not with the moderate contrition of ordinary sinners, but with tragic repentance and remorse. He could not answer for the first moment. It took away his breath.

“My dear, good woman,” he said, “you startle me. I do not understand you. Do you know what you are saying? I don’t think you can have done anything so very wrong. Hush, hush! compose yourself, and think what you are saying. When we examine it, perhaps we will find it was not so bad. People may do wrong, you know, and yet it need not be so very serious. Tell me what it was.”

“That is what I cannot do,” she said. “If I were to tell you, all would be told. If it has to be said, it shall be said to him first that will have the most to bear. Oh, have ye been so long in the world without knowing that a calm face often covers a heavy heart! Many a thing have I done for my ain and for others that cannot be blamed to me; but once I was to blame. I tell ye, I canna tell ye what it was. It was this—I did what was unjust and wrong. I schemed to injure a man—no, no me, for I did not know he was in existence, and who was to tell me?—but I did the wrong thing that made it possible for the man to be injured. Do you understand me now? And here I am in this awful strait, like Israel at the Red Sea. If I let things be, I am doing wrong, and keeping a man out of his own; if I try to make amends, I am bringing destruction on the innocent. Which, oh, which, tell me, am I to do?”

She had raised her voice till it sounded like a cry, and yet it was not loud. Mrs. Solmes in the kitchen heard nothing, but to Mr. Fielding it sounded like a great wail and moaning that went to his heart. And the silence closed over her voice as the water closes over a pebble, making faint circles and waves of echo, not of the sound, but of the meaning of the sound. He could not speak, with those thrills of feeling, like the wash after a boat, rolling over him. He did not understand what she meant; her great and violent pain bewildered the gentle old man. The only thing he could take hold of was her last words. That, he reflected, was always right—always the best thing to advise. He waited until the silence and quietness settled down again, and then he said, his soft old voice wavering with emotion, “Make amends!”

“Is that what you say to me?” she said, lifting up her hands. He could see the vehement movement in the gloom.

“Make amends. What other words could a servant of God say?”

He thought she fell when he spoke, and sprang to his feet with deep anxiety. She had dropped down on her knees, and had bent her head, and was covering her face with her hands. “Are you ill?” he said. “God bless us all, she has fainted! what am I to do?”

“No; the like of me never faints,” she answered; and then he perceived that she retained her upright position. Her voice was choked, and sounded like the voice of despair, and she did not take her hands from her face. “Oh, if I could lie like Jeanie,” she went on, “quietly, like the dead, with nae heart to feel nor voice to speak. My bit little lily flower! would she have been broken like that—faded like that, if I had done what was right? But, O Lord my God, my bonnie lad! what is to become of him?”