Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3

“I have heard say five years,” said the old woman, once more rousing up, with a watchful light in each steady eye.

“Ah, then, that’s impossible,” he said to himself. An idea had been growing in Arthur’s mind that the Squire’s wife might have been a widow with an infant child—an explanation which would make everything clear, yet save her from the imputation of a capital crime in respect to her husband. That was impossible. He mused on it for a minute or two, and then he resumed his questions.

“Who was Mrs. Arden? I am anxious to know,” he said, and then corrected himself, for his tone had been peremptory. “I am thinking of the family history,” he added. “She was a stranger, and we don’t know even where she belongs to. That will explain my curiosity to you. I am anxious to know.”

“She was Mrs. Arden when I saw her, and I ken nothing more,” said the Scotchwoman, shortly; and again he noted that her interest had failed. Evidently she knew something which it might possibly concern him much to know, but what kind of knowledge it was remained a mystery to him. He had not even light enough on the subject to guide him as to what questions he ought to put to her. Old Sarah sat gazing, open-mouthed and full of wonder. Only little Jeanie took no interest in the inquiry. She sat at the window, now dreaming, now working, sometimes playing with a long tendril of the honeysuckle, sometimes pausing to look out from the window. The talk was nothing to her. And Arthur’s interest flagged as this pretty figure caught his eye. Why should he attempt to find out anything about Edgar’s mother? What difference could it ever make to him? Whereas, here was a human plaything which it would be pleasant to toy with, which would amuse and distract him in the midst of his cares. What a pretty little thing she was! much prettier than Alice Pimpernel—in some things even more attractive than Clare. Ah, Clare! This thought brought him back to his original subject; but yet the other thought was in his mind, and found expression first.

“Your daughter seems better,” he said. “I don’t think she is frightened for me now; are you, Jeanie? You know I am a friend now. The man must have been a wretch who frightened such a sensitive sweet little creature. I don’t think he can have been like me.”

“Sir, did ye speak?” said Jeanie, with a start. And she turned to him an innocent, unconscious face, moved with a little wonder only at the sound of her name.

“No; the gentleman did not speak to you,” said her grandmother. “Go ben the house, my darling, where you will be quiet, and away from all clashes. Sir, my bairn is Jeanie to her own folk,” she added, as the docile girl withdrew into the inner room, “but no to every stranger that hears her innocent name. It will be kindest of you not to speak to her. The attack might come again.”

“I suppose you know your own business best,” said Arthur, shrugging his shoulders; “but you seem very foolish about the child. How can I hurt her by speaking to her? To return to Mrs. Arden. She was Scotch, I suppose, as you knew her so well?”

“She was not Scotch that ever I heard; and I did not know her well,” said Mrs. Murray, and then there was a pause. “If you’ll tell me what you have to do with it, and what you want to know, I will answer you—if I can give you any information,” she said with decision. “I may not know what you want to hear, but if you’ll tell me what you have to do with it–”

“I am only the nearest relation that Mr. Arden and his sister have in the world,” said Arthur, in spite of himself shrinking from her eye.

“And the heir if this bonnie lad should—die—or fail–” This was spoken with an eagerness which puzzled him more and more. He felt that he was put on his defence. And yet there was no indignation in her look. It was guilt of conscience that startled him, and brought the colour to his cheek.

“Well,” he said, crimson and angry with consciousness, “what then? My cousin is much younger, and more likely to live than I am. Nothing can be more unlikely than that I should be his heir. That has nothing to do with what I want to know.”

“Aye, he’s younger than you, and far liker to live. He’s strong, and he’s got a constitution that will bear trouble. I should ken,” she said under her breath, whispering to herself. And then she too coloured, and faced him with a certain gleam of fear in her eyes. “Aye,” she repeated, “Mr. Edgar’s a bonnie lad, bless him, and real well and strong. It’s no likely you’ll ever live to be his heir.”

“It is unnecessary to remind me of that; haven’t I just said it?” said Arthur, hastily. “I trust he’ll live a hundred years. That has nothing to do with the matter.”

“A hundred years!” said old Sarah. “That’s a great age. I know’d an ou’d man up Thornleigh way—but, bless you, Mr. Edgar’s young and strong—as like as not he’ll live to a hundred. I never heard as he’d anything the matter all his life. It would be a credit to the family, I do declare–”

“And so it would,” said Arthur, with a smile of disdain. “No, you need not be afraid,” he went on, turning again to Mrs. Murray. “I am ten years older than he is. I am a poor devil without a penny, and he has everything. Never mind. I am going to write a book about the family, and that will make me rich. I can’t do your favourite any harm–”

“Has he everything?” said the Scotchwoman, earnestly. “You’ll no think me presuming, Mr. Arden, but I would like to hear. It’s no fair to the rest when everything goes to one. I canna think it is fair. He should share with you a bit of the land, or some of the siller, or one thing or another. And you as sib to the race as he? I would like well to ken–”

“It is very good of you to take my interest so much to heart,” said Arthur, with a certain contempt which was not unmixed with bitterness. “No, nothing comes to me. One cousin is a prince and one is a beggar. That’s the way of the world. So you can’t tell me Mrs. Arden’s name, nor anything about her friends or her family? Had she any one with her except her husband when you made her acquaintance? What kind of a woman did you take her to be?–”

“I ken neither her name nor her kin, nor nought about her. They were travelling, and no a creature with them, no even a maid—but there might be reasons. She was a young sorrowful thing, sore broken down with a tyrant of a man. That is all I can tell; and whatever was done, good or evil, was his doing, and not hers. It was him that did, and said, and settled everything. I have nothing more to say–”

“It does not sound much,” said Arthur, with an accent of discontent; and then it seemed to him that a certain gleam of relief shot across her face. “And yet you look as if you could tell me more,” he added, with a suspicion which he could not explain. She eyed him as a man fighting a duel might regard his adversary who had just fired upon him, but made no reply.

“With ne’er a maid?—now that’s strange!” cried old Sarah. “That is the strangest of all, saving Mr. Arthur’s presence. And them very words clears it all up to me, as I’ve wondered and wondered many a day. If madam as was, poor soul, had been a lady like the other ladies, there would have been a deal more things for Miss Clare. She ain’t got anything of her mother’s, the dear. Most young ladies they have their mamma’s rings, or her jewels, or something. They tell you this was my mamma’s, or this was my grandmamma’s, or such like. But Miss Clare, she hasn’t a thing– And travelling with ne’er a maid? She wasn’t a lady born, wasn’t Madam Arden; that’s as clear as clear–”

“I canna tell ye who she was—she was a broken-hearted thing,” said Mrs. Murray, with some solemnity; “and what was done in her life, if it was good or if it was evil, it wasna her blame.”

This was all Arthur Arden made of his first investigation. He was working in the dark. He went away a short time after, leaving Sarah full of excited questions, to which she received very scanty response. He was a little excited himself, he could not tell why. This woman was a relation of Perfitt’s, which, of course (he supposed), explained her acquaintance with his cousin’s mother. But still she was a strange woman, and knew something he was sure that might be of use to him, if he could only find out what it was. What could it be? Could she have been Mrs. Arden’s maid, and in her secrets; or had the proud Squire married some one beneath him—some one probably connected with this stranger? It was all quite dark, and no thread to be found in the gloom. Was it worth his while to try to penetrate that gloom? And he would have liked to see little Jeanie before he left, the pretty creature. He would rather have questioned her than her grandmother. What could the old woman mean by keeping her so persistently out of his way?

CHAPTER IX

Arthur Arden strayed through the village street in the stillness of the summer afternoon after this bewildering interview. He did not know what he was to do to carry on his researches. Probably he might light upon some chance information in one of the cottages where there were people old enough to have known Edgar’s mother, but this was utterly uncertain, and he might be committing himself for no use in the world. If he went to the Rector or the Doctor he might commit himself still more, and rouse their curiosity as to his motives in an uncomfortable way. What he had to do was to find out accidentally, to discover without searching, a secret, if there was a secret, which must have been carefully hidden for twenty-five years. The chance of success was infinitesimal, and failure seemed almost certain. Probably everything that could throw any light on the subject had been destroyed long since. And then, if he injured Edgar, what of Clare? Was Mr. Pimpernel’s support worth Clare’s enmity? This, however, was a question he did not dwell on, for Arthur satisfied himself that Clare had no need to know, unless by some strange chance he should be successful. And if he were successful, she was not one to stand in the way of justice. But there was not the very slightest chance that he would be successful. It was simply impossible. He laughed at himself as he strolled along idly. If there had been anything better than croquet to do at the Red House he would have gone back to that, and left this wild-goose chase alone; but, in the meantime, there was nothing else to do, and at the worst his inquiries could do no harm.

The church was open, and he strolled in. Old Simon, the clerk, was about, heavily pattering in a dark corner. It was Saturday, and Sally had been helping her father to clean the church. She had gone home to her needlework, but he still pattered about at the west end, unseen in the gloom, putting, as might be supposed from the sound, his dusters and brooms away in some old ecclesiastical cupboard. He had clogs on, which made a great noise; and the utter stillness and shady quiet of the place was strangely enhanced by the sound of those heavy footsteps. Arthur walked down the length of the church, which echoed even under his lighter tread. The light in it was green and subdued, coming through the foliage and the dim small panes which replaced the old painted glass in the windows. Here and there a broken bit of colour, a morsel of brilliant ruby out of some saint’s mantle, or a warm effective bit of canopy-work, interrupted the colourless light. Arden Church had been a fine church in the ancient days, and there were tombs in the gloom in the corners near the chancel which were reckoned very fine still when anybody who knew anything about it came to see them. But knowledge had not made much inroad as yet in the neighbourhood. The old Squire had not been the kind of man to spend money in restoring a church, and Mr. Fielding had not been the kind of man to worry his life out about it. Should young Denbigh survive the croquet and succeed the Rector, it was probable that Edgar would not have half so easy a time in this respect as his father had been allowed to have; but, in the meantime, there had been no restoration, and there were even some high pews, in which the principal people hid themselves on Sundays. The Squire’s pew was like a box at the theatre, with open arches of carved oak, and a fireplace in it behind the chairs, and a private passage which led into the park. The impression which the church made upon Arthur Arden, however, was neither sacred nor historical. He did not think of it as associated for all those hundred years with the fortunes of his race; neither (still less) did he think of it as for all this time the centre of prayer and worship—the place where so many hearts had risen to God. All he thought was, what a curious ghostly look all those unoccupied seats had. The quiet about was almost more than quiet: it was a hush as if of forced stillness—a something in the air that made him feel as if all the seats were full, though nobody was visible, and some unseen ceremonial going on. And the old man in his clogs went clamping, clattering about in the green dimness under cover of the organ gallery. Simon’s white smock was visible now and then, toned down to a ghostly grey by the absence of light. Arthur Arden felt half afraid of him as he walked slowly up the aisle. He might have been the family Brownie—a homely ghost that watched over the graves and manes of the Ardens, which Arthur, though an Arden, meditated a certain desecration of. These, however, were sentiments not long likely to move the mind of such a man. He walked slowly up until he found himself opposite the Squire’s pew. It was quite near the chancel, close to the pulpit, which stood on one side, and opposite the reading desk, which stood on the other, like two sentinels watching the approach to the altar. On the wall of the church, almost on a parallel with where the Squire’s head must have come when he sat in his pew, was the white marble tablet that bore his wife’s name. It was a heavy plain square tablet, not apt to attract any one’s attention; and Arthur, who when he was in Arden Church had always been one of the occupants of the stage box, had scarcely remarked it at all. He paused now and read it as it glimmered in the dim silence. “Mary, wife of Arthur Arden of Arden.” That was all. The Arden arms were on the tablet, but without any quartering that could have belonged to the dead woman. Evidently she was the Squire’s wife only, with no other distinction.

While he stood thinking on this another step entered the church, and looking round Arthur saw Mr. Fielding, who after a few words with old Simon came and joined him. “You are looking at the old pew,” the Rector said in the subdued tone that became the sacred place. “They tell me it ought not to be a pew at all if I took a proper interest in Christian art; but it will last my time, I think. I should prefer that it lasted my time. I never was brought up in these new-fangled ways.”

“I was not looking at the pew, but at that,” said Arthur, pointing to the wall.

“Yes; it is very bad, I suppose,” said Mr. Fielding. “We are very far behind, I know, in art. It’s ugly, I confess; but do you know I like it all the same. When the church gets dark in a wintry afternoon, these white tablets glimmer. You would think there were angels holding them up. And after all, to me, who am far advanced in life, such names are sweeter than the finest monuments. It is different, of course, with you younger folks.”

“I was not thinking of art,” said Arthur, “but of the curt way the name is put. ‘Mary, wife of Arthur Arden.’ Was she nobody’s daughter? Hadn’t she got a name before she was married? Dying so young, one would think some one must have been living who had an interest in her; but there is neither blazon nor name.”

“Eh? What? I don’t see anything remarkable in that,” said Mr. Fielding. “The others are just the same. Aren’t they? I don’t remember, I am sure. ‘Mary, wife of Arthur Arden.’ Yes; that is all. Now that I think of it, I don’t remember Mrs. Arden’s name. I never knew what family she belonged to. They were married abroad.”

“And their son was born abroad. Was not that strange?” said Arthur. “There seems to have been a great deal of mystery about it one way and another—not much like the Arden ways.”

“You have been listening to Somers,” said Mr. Fielding, hotly; “pestilent old cynic as he is. He has taken up his notion, and nothing will make him give it up. If you had known Mrs. Arden as I did, you would have scouted such an idea. I never knew a better woman. She had dreadfully bad health–”

“Was that the reason why they were so much abroad?”

“I can’t tell why they were so much abroad,” said the Rector, testily. “Because they liked it, I suppose; and let me tell you, it would have been better for all the Ardens had they been more abroad. I suppose there never was a more bigoted, self-opinionated race. To be sure you are one of them, and perhaps I ought not to say it to you; but you have knocked about the world, and you know them as well as I do–”

“I knew only the old Squire,” said Arthur, “and my own father, of course; but he had knocked about the world enough. There was not much love lost between them, I think–”

“They hated each other, my dear sir—they hated each other,” said the Rector; and then he paused and wiped his forehead, as if it had been too much for him. “I beg your pardon, I am sure, for calling up family matters. I am very glad to see you on such different terms with the young people here–”

“Yes,” said Arthur, with a half sigh. “What is the use of keeping up rancour? The old Squire on the whole was rather kind to me. I suppose it was enough for him to have one Arden to hate. And as he transferred the feeling from my father to his own son–”

“Hush—hush—hush,” said the Rector, anxiously. “Don’t let us rake up old troubles. Thank heaven poor Edgar is very comfortable now. His father couldn’t do him any tangible injustice, you know; though that business about Old Arden was very shameful, very shameful—there is no other word for it. To take advantage of the boy’s ignorance to break the entail, and then to settle the very oldest of the property on Clare! I love Clare dearly—if she was my own child I could not love her more; but rather than take that from my brother, I would strip myself of every penny if I were in her place. It was shameful—there is no other word–”

“My cousin is much more of an Arden than her brother,” said Arthur. “I don’t see why she should strip herself of every penny? Surely he has enough. She is twice as much of an Arden as he.”

“And what is an Arden, I should like to know,” said Mr. Fielding, “to be kept up at such a cost? Edgar is not much of an Arden, poor boy! He is worth a dozen of any Ardens I ever knew–”

“You forget I am one of that unfortunate race,” said Arthur, with a forced laugh. “Oh, no harm! I know you don’t love us less, but only him more. And my cousin Clare is an Arden,” he added, after a pause; “for her I must make a stand. Even beside her brother’s excellence, you would still allow her a place, I hope.”

“I love Clare dearly,” said the Rector, with abrupt brevity. And then there was a pause. Arthur Arden smiled to himself—a smile which might very well have been a sneer. What did it matter what the old parson’s opinions were? The Ardens could stand a harder judgment than his.

“But about this poor lady,” he said. “She was a perfect creature, you say, and I don’t want to contradict you. Probably she was everything that was good and lovely; but I suppose a woman of no family, from the evidence of this record here?”

“I don’t know anything about her family,” said Mr. Fielding, shortly. “It never occurred to me to think what her family was.” This he said with some heat and energy, probably because it was—and alas! the good Rector knew it was—a considerable fib. Time was when he had asked a great deal about Mrs. Arden’s family—as, indeed, everybody in the county had done; but without gaining any information. The Rector was angry with himself for the fib; but still maintained it, with a certain irritation, as it was natural for a man to do.

“It is a pity there should be so much mystery,” said Arthur, quietly. Of course, he saw through the fiction with the utmost distinctness; but civility required that he should take no further notice. And then the two stood together for a minute or, perhaps, two, in the narrow aisle, pretending to look round them, and making a critical survey of the church. “That tomb is fine, if one could see it,” Arthur said, pointing to a recumbent figure of an old Arden; and Mr. Fielding assented with a little nod of his head. And all this time old Simon, in his clogs, with the smock that looked grey-green in the dimness, was clamping slowly about, stirring the slumbrous, silent echoes. How strange it was—so real and living and full of so many seeds of excitement; yet all the time like something in a dream.

The Rector, however, accompanied Arthur out with pertinacity, seeing him, as it were, “off the premises”—as if there could have been anything to find out in the little innocent church, which all the world was free to inspect. Was it to keep him from talking to old Simon?—who, however, knew nothing—or was it from mere wantonness of opposition? The latter was really the case, though it was difficult even to make out how Mr. Fielding was stimulated into opposition. He must have felt it in the air, by some curious magnetic antipathy, for Arthur had not said a word, so far as he was aware, to betray himself. They walked together as far as the Hall gates, talking of various indifferent matters. “Living at the Red House!” said Mr. Fielding, with a smile of strange satisfaction. “Does Miss Arden know?” The Rector was pleased with this bit of information. He was glad of anything which would set their kinsman wrong with the brother and sister. It was a highly unchristian sentiment, but so it was.

“Yes, she knows,” said Arthur, quietly. “I met her yesterday; and I am going to call there now. I suppose, as Clare is my cousin, and I am old enough to be her father, I may be permitted to call–”

“Yes, I suppose you are old enough to be her father,” Mr. Fielding said, with most provoking acquiescence. Arthur could have knocked the Rector down, had he given way to his feelings. After all, though there was a good deal of difference in point of age, it would have been difficult for him to have been Clare’s father. And he did not feel like her father in the smallest degree. The Rector paused at the Hall gates, and looked at his watch to see if he had time also to pay a visit to Clare; but, to Arthur’s intense relief, the man-of-all-work came running across from the Rectory as Mr. Fielding hesitated. Some one who was ill had sent for the Rector—some one who lived two miles off—and who had sent so urgent an appeal that Jack had already put the saddle on his master’s sturdy old cob. “I shall have to put it off till to-morrow,” Mr. Fielding said, with a sigh. “Tell Clare I shall see her to-morrow.” But alas! (he thought to himself) an antidote given twenty-four hours after the poison, what good is it? And he could not forbid her own cousin to pay her a visit. So Mr. Fielding turned away with a bad grace to visit his sick parishioner; and Arthur, much relieved, opened the little postern gate, and took his way under the great elms and beeches to the Hall.

CHAPTER X