Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3

It was the clock striking two which roused her, and the entrance of Wilkins with the little luncheon tray, which furnished her doleful, solitary, little meal. This roused her out of her resentment and her dreams—not that she was tempted by the chicken’s wing, or even the strawberries among their cool green leaves; but that the morning was over, and the second chapter of the day, as it were, about to commence. And that second chapter had the hero in it, and all the nameless sweet agitations that would come with him—the fancies and visions and expectations which distinguish one phase of life, and make it more enthralling than any other. After a while that other step would disturb the silence, and all the world would brighten up and widen, she could not tell why. Not because of Arthur Arden, surely. He was no prince of romance, she said to herself. She entertained (she assured herself) no delusions about him. He was very agreeable to her—a man who pleased her—a true Arden; but she did not pretend to think him a king of men. Therefore, it could not be her cousin whose coming was to change everything. It must be the pleasant work she was about to begin with him—the common family interest—the intercourse with one who almost belonged to her—who was always ready to talk, and willing to discuss anything that caught her interest. Very different from being alone, and worrying over everything, as people do who have no one to confide their troubles to. She would tell her cousin about Mrs. Murray, and thus get rid of the thought. This was what lightened the cloud from about her, and brought back the atmosphere to its original clearness. It was so pleasant to have some one to talk to—one of the family, to whom she could venture to say anything. Of course, this was all; and it was enough for Clare.

CHAPTER XII

Arthur Arden was punctual to his appointment: he had thought of little else since he left Arden the day before. To do him justice, Clare’s society, the power of approaching her as he would, was very sweet to him, especially after a severe course of croquet at the Red House, and a few days with the Pimpernels. In short, he was able to disguise to himself his other motive altogether, and to forget he had any clandestine object. “I am going to look over some old family papers with my cousin,” he had said to Mrs. Pimpernel, who, for her part, had not much liked the information. “If he is going to make a cat’s-paw of us, and spend all his time running after that proud stuck-up thing!” she said to her husband. “Our Alice is worth two of her any day; and I don’t hold with your family papers.” “We haven’t got any, have we?” said Mr. Pimpernel; “but you wait a bit, Mary; I know what the family papers mean.” “I hope you do, Mr. Pimpernel,” said his wife, with evident scepticism. And she did not like it when Arthur Arden, instead of joining Alice at her croquet, or attending herself upon her drive, went off again after luncheon to visit his cousin. “If that is the way of it, I don’t see the good of having a gentleman in the house,” she said to Alice. “But then there is Mr. Denbigh, mamma,” said Alice, innocently, for which her mother could have boxed her ears.

And Arthur turned his back upon them and their croquet ground with the intensest satisfaction. It was very heavy work. He had been in a great many country houses, and he had occasionally felt that in his position as a man without any particular means or advantages, a good deal of exertion had been required from him in payment for the hospitality he received. He had seen the justice of it, and in a general way he had not made much objection. But then these were houses full of people where, if a man made himself generally useful, every necessity of the circumstances was satisfied, and he was not compelled to devote himself specially to stupid or wearisome individuals. He had the sweet along with the bitter, and he had not complained. But to be told off for Mrs. Pimpernel’s personal service or for croquet was a different matter, and he turned his back upon them with a light heart. And when the door of the old hereditary house opened to him, and Clare, like one of the pictures from the walls, rose with a little tremulous expectation, holding out her hand, the difference was such that it confused his mind altogether, and made him conscious of nothing but intense relief. Look over family papers! oh, yes; or mow the lawn, if she liked, or work in the garden. He said to himself that the one pretext would be just as good as the other. It was a pretext, not any intended treachery, but only a means of being near Clare.

“Would you like to go to the library at once?” she said. “I have just glanced at the papers poor papa arranged on the top shelves of his bureau. All his own letters and things are below. Shall we go to the library at once?”

“I am not in a hurry,” said Arthur; “if you don’t mind, let me wait a little and breathe Arden. It is so sweet after the atmosphere I have been in. I am not ungrateful; pray don’t think so. It was extremely kind of the Pimpernels to give me shelter in my forlorn condition–”

“I don’t see why you should ever be in a forlorn condition,” said Clare. “Please don’t suppose I mean to be rude; but I can’t bear to think of an Arden receiving hospitality from people like the Pimpernels.”

“My dear cousin,” said Arthur, “an Arden, when he is not actually of the reigning family, must do what he can in this world. The sanctity of the race is not perhaps acknowledged as it ought to be; and I am too much obliged to anybody who gives me shelter in this neighbourhood. One ought to be in town, I suppose; but then I am sick of town, and there is nobody to go to yet in the country. Therefore I say long live the Pimpernels. But all the same, one breathes freer here.”

“There is not much to amuse any one here,” said Clare.

“Amuse! I know how it will be. You will make me speak as—I ought not to speak, and then you will drive me away; and I cannot bear being driven away. There is a little pucker in the brow of the Lady Clare. May I know why?”

“You are like Edgar. He always worries me about that line in my forehead,” said Clare; “as if I could help it! Yes; I have been a little annoyed to-day. I think I may as well tell you, and perhaps you can give me some advice. It is that Mrs. Murray—that Scotchwoman. She has just been here to tell me that she knew papa, and that he went to see her in Scotland two years ago. It is very strange, and very uncomfortable. He used to tell me everything—or at least so I thought.”

“Nobody ever does tell everything,” said Arthur, like an oracle. Clare paused, and gazed wistfully into his face.

“Not what they are thinking, nor what they feel, but surely what they do. How can you conceal what you do? Some one must be taken into your confidence. Common people must see you, in whom you have no confidence; while your very own–”

Here Clare stopped abruptly, feeling that tears were about to come into her voice.

“You don’t know what you say,” said Arthur, who was secretly touched. “What one thinks and feels is often the best of one. But what we do– Was there ever a man who could venture to show a woman everything in his life—a woman like you?”

“Yes; papa,” said Clare, boldly. “I am sure he told me everything—except– Oh! is it not dreadful, is it not horrible, to have this wretched woman coming, when he is no longer here to explain it all, to make me lose my confidence in papa? And then you too!”

“I too!” he said, and he ventured to take her hand; “who am not worthy of your interest at all, and dare not lay my poor worthless life open before you. But listen, I will recant. One could not show you the past, in which one was wandering without any compass. But, Clare– I am your cousin—I may call you Clare sometimes?—if one could be so bold as to believe that you took any interest—I mean—Edgar, for instance, who can be sure you take an interest—I do believe that such a lucky man as he is might tell you everything. Yes; no doubt your father did; but not the past—not all the past!”

Clare drew a little aside, afraid, she could not tell why. She had withdrawn her hand from him at once. She had given him only a little bow of assent when he called her by her name. She had not encouraged him—of that she was certain.

“Perhaps it is best not to discuss it,” she said. “But I cannot tell you how that woman vexed me. To come and say she knew things of my own father which I did not know. Fancy, papa! Perhaps it is my pride—I should not wonder; but I could not bear it. And now, you know, if I look into his letters I may find things. Do you think it is likely? He was an old man; he was sixty when he died. He had been forty years in the world before he had any one—I mean before he had me to confide in. Should I read them? Should I look at them? I don’t know what to do.”

“If you could trust me,” said Arthur Arden. The thought flushed him with sudden excitement. This would indeed be delivering the very stronghold into his hands. And then all the remnants of honourable feeling that was left there stirred together in his mind. He blushed for the baseness he had almost meditated. “If you could trust me to look over them,” he resumed, with an earnestness which surprised himself, “you may be quite sure that any and every secret– I mean—I am nearest to you after Edgar—it would be safe with me.”

And then with the speed of lightning a calculation ran through his mind. Yes, he would be faithful to his word. The secret should be safe with him, safe as in the grave. If even he should find proof of facts which would be damning to Edgar, he would consider himself bound to take no personal action upon it, if he discovered it in such a way. He would let Edgar know and Clare, who were the persons most concerned; and then he would himself withdraw, and never more mention the subject. He would leave the knowledge of it to work in their minds. He himself would win only the reward of honour and virtue. To such a course of procedure the strictest moralist could have no objection. For if anything were found out, though it would be treachery to employ it for his own interest, it could only be duty to reveal it to Edgar and Clare. He looked at his cousin with a certain anxiety, feeling that his fate lay in her hands. It lay in her hands in a great many ways. She was but a child in comparison with his years—a baby in experience, an unreasoning, impulsive girl. And yet she held all his future in her little fingers. Its higher or lower position, even its honour or dishonour, its virtue or ill-doing—a tremendous power to lie in such unconscious hands.

“Thanks!” said Clare, with a certain haughtiness; and then in a moment Arthur felt that this at least was not to be. “No one but myself must do it,” she went on firmly; “not even Edgar, who did not love– At least it was not possible he could love much—they were so separated. No; if there is any pain in it, I must bear it as best I can—no one must do it but me.”

He made a bow of assent to her decision. It was not for him to say a word, and even in his momentary disappointment there was a certain relief. After all, even had he adopted that path of strict virtue, there would have been something doubtful about the proceeding. Whereas, if he found anything by chance– And then he could not but speculate what Clare would do if she made any such discovery as he hoped. What would she do? Would she, in her innocence, understand what it meant? or if it should be too clear for mistake, would her love for him who would still be her brother, for her dead mother’s son, be stronger than abstract justice? Probably she would not understand it all, he thought, and so this fine opportunity, this wonderful chance, would be thrown away. He heard her renewed invitation to him to go to the library like a man in a dream. The issues might be mighty, but it was such a chance—all depending upon how far an innocent girl could understand a record of wickedness, or an injured man have proofs of his own dishonour. “The chances are he destroyed everything,” he said to himself, but half aloud, as he followed Clare.

“What did you say?”

“I was not aware I said anything. The thought that passed through my mind was that probably your father, if he had any painful secrets in his life, was so wise as to destroy all trace of them. Nay, don’t mistake me. I say if. Probably he had no secrets at all, or only innocent ones—but if——”

“I don’t think he destroyed anything,” said Clare, almost sharply, as she led the way. Now that she had made up her mind to it, she did not wish to be balked of her mystery. It was very dreadful and painful, and a great shock; but still, if there was anything in it– She went on first into the large, lofty, sombre room which was the Arden library. It was everything that a library ought to be. The books were but little used, it is true; but then the room was so noiseless, so cool, and grey, and secluded, that it seemed the very place for a student. To be sure the Ardens had never been great students, but they had all the books that ought to be in a gentleman’s library—an excellent collection of English literature, a fair show of classics, and many books in other living languages. These books were very seldom disturbed behind their wires; but the silence was supreme, and would have lent itself to the deepest study. Edgar had been daunted by the solemn dignity of the place. He had felt that his discussions with Perfitt, and all the business he had to transact, were out of place in this stately, solemn room; and, with his usual indifference to the traditions of the Ardens, had removed himself into a homely, bright, little place, full of impertinent windows and modern papered walls, where he had hung up a great many of his possessions, and where Perfitt could talk above his breath.

After this change, a deepened and still deepening solemnity had fallen upon the library. It had been the old Squire’s room, where he had spent all his mornings. The quaint, old-fashioned bureau, which stood in one corner, was full of his papers. He had locked it up himself the last day he was downstairs, and nobody had opened it since. So completely was the room identified with him that the maids in the house began to rush past the door when twilight was coming on, and would not enter it after dark. “I know I’d see t’ ou’d man a-sitting in his chair as he used to,” the housemaid had said to the housekeeper; and the library was clearly in a fair way for being haunted. It was with a certain solemnity now that Clare opened the door. She had scarcely been in it since her father’s death; and though she would have repudiated all superstitious feeling, no doubt there was a certain thrill of awe in her mind when she entered her father’s private room, with the intention of investigating into his secrets. What if some spiritual presence might guard these relics of the ended life—what if something impalpable, undiscernible, should float between her and its records! Clare hung back a little, and paused on the threshold. She could almost fancy she saw him seated at the writing-table, not yet feeble, not asking even her sympathy, dearly though he loved her. She had known everything he did or planned; and yet, now she thought of it, how little had she known of him! Nothing except the present; his old age, with all its hushed excitements and interests past. It was (now that she thought of it) a veiled being who had sat there for so many years in her sight. Except that he loved herself, that he dined and rode with her, and sat for hours in this library, and allowed the cottages to be rebuilt, and a great deal of charity to be given, what did she know of her father? That—and that he hated Edgar; nothing more. Her heart gave a jump to her mouth as she entered the room, in which the silence seemed to brood and deepen, knowing a great deal more than she did. Clare owned this strange influence, and it subdued her for the moment; but the next, she raised her head proudly, and shook off the momentary impression. Not now, on the threshold of the mystery, was it possible to withdraw or fail.

CHAPTER XIII

Two or three days elapsed after this commencement of operations, and the Pimpernels had begun to be seriously affronted. Day by day Arden deserted them after luncheon without even taking the trouble to apologise. Now and then it happened that the croquet came absolutely to a stand-still, and once Mrs. Pimpernel drove into Liverpool without any captive knight to exhibit, which was very hard upon her. She was a hospitable woman, ready to invite any well-born, well-mannered individual of the (fashionable) houseless and homeless class; but then, on the other hand, she expected something in return. “Proper respect,” she called it; but it meant a good deal of social work—attendance upon her daughter and herself, a sort of combination of the amateur footman and the amusing companion. At this rate she would have given Arthur Arden board and lodging for as long a period as he might desire. So long as she could have it in her power to explain to any of her friends whom she met that he was “one of the Ardens of Arden—indeed, the next heir to the property,” she was able to feel that she had something for her money. But to give him the green room, which was one of the nicest in the house, and to feed him with truffles and champagne and all the delicacies of the season, in order that he might spend half the day—the really useful part of the day—with his cousin, was a thing she had not bargained for. She showed her displeasure to the culprit himself in a manner which would have been much more plain to him had he cared more about it; and she complained to her husband, stating her grievance in the plainest terms. “That Arthur Arden is an utter nuisance,” she said. “I consider it most impudent of him, Mr. Pimpernel. He comes and stays here, making a convenience of our house, but never thinks of paying proper respect, such as any man who was a gentleman would. He sees Alice and me drive out by ourselves, and actually has the assurance to wave his hand to us, and wish us a pleasant drive. Yesterday I said to him—I really could not help it—‘You don’t do much to make our drive pleasant, Mr. Arden,’ and he simply stared at me. Fancy, having to drive into Liverpool shopping, Alice and I, without a soul!—when everybody knows I like to have a gentleman to do little things for us—and that Arden actually staying in the house!”

“It was cool of him,” said her husband. “He is what I call a cool hand, is Arden. I’ll speak to him, if you like. I am not one of the men that beat about the bush. Make yourself understood, that’s my motto. There is just one thing to be said for him, however, and that is, that it may be business. He told me he was hunting through the Arden papers; confounded silly of that girl to let him; but that is no business of mine.”

“Oh, business indeed!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Business that takes him to Clare Arden’s side every afternoon! I don’t much believe in that kind of business. What he can see in her I am sure I cannot divine. A stuck-up thing! looking down upon them that are as good as she is any day! Just fancy a man leaving our Alice hitting the balls about all day by herself, poor child, on the lawn!—a man staying in the house!—and going off to the Hall to Clare Arden! Do you call that proper respect? As for good taste, I don’t speak of that, for it is clear he has not got any. And you take my word for it, business is nothing but a pretence.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr Pimpernel. “You see, if he really is doing anything, it’s his policy to make himself agreeable to that girl. She gives him access to the papers, you know. The papers are the great thing. Don’t you be too exacting for a day or two. If Alice mopes let me know; by Jove! I won’t have my little girl crossed. It’s odd if I can’t buy her anything she takes a fancy to. But all the same he’s an old fellow is Arden, and he hasn’t a penny to bless himself with. I can’t see much reason why she should set her heart on him.”

“Upon my word and honour, Mr. Pimpernel!” said the lady, “if that is all the opinion you have of your own child– Set her heart on Arthur Arden, indeed! She would never have looked at him if it hadn’t been for that talk about the property. And if it turns out to be a mistake about the property, do you think I’d ever–? I hope I have more opinion of my girl than that. But when I ask a man to my house, I own I look for proper respect. I consider it’s his business to make himself agreeable to me, and not to strangers. My house ain’t an inn to be at the convenience of visitors to Arden. If he likes best being there, let him go and live there. I say Arden is Arden, and the Red House is the Red House, and the one don’t depend upon the other, nor has nothing to do with the other. If there’s one thing I hate it is pride and mean ways. Let her take him in and keep him if she wants him. But I won’t keep him, and feed him with the best of everything, and champagne like water, for Miss Clare Arden’s sake, or Miss anything that ever was born!”

Mrs. Pimpernel was tying on her nightcap as she spoke, and the act deafened her a little, for the nightcap strings were stiff and well starched—which was perhaps the reason why she delivered the concluding words in so loud a voice. Mr. Pimpernel was a courageous man enough, but when it came to this he was too prudent to do anything to increase the storm.

“I’ll speak to him if you like,” he said. “It’s always best to know exactly what one is about. I’ll put it in the plainest terms; but I think we might wait a day or two all the same. Arden’s a fine property, and Arthur Arden is a clever fellow. He knows what’s what as well as any man I know: and if he’s making a cat’s-paw of his cousin you can’t blame him. If I were you I’d give him a day or two’s grace.”

“I am sick of him and everything about him. He is no more use than that poker,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, seating herself in disgust in a chair which stood in her habitual corner, at the side of the vacant fireplace. The poker in question gleamed in brilliant steel incongruity from amid the papery convolutions of an ornamental structure which filled the grate. Nothing could well be more useless: it was a simile which went to her husband’s heart.

“To think that I was poking the fire with that identical poker not six weeks ago!” he said, “and now the heat’s enough to kill you. If you had felt it in the office at three o’clock to-day! I can tell you it was no joke.”

“Do you think I didn’t feel it?” said his wife; “driving into Liverpool under that broiling sun, without a soul to amuse you, or offer you his arm, or anything; and that Arden quite comfortable, enjoying himself in the big cool rooms at the Hall. Ah, fathers little know what one has to go through for one’s children. All this blessed afternoon was I choosing sleeves and collars and things for Alice, and summer frocks for the children. The way they grow, and the number of changes they want! And we had to allow half-an-inch more for Alice’s collars. She is certainly getting stout. I am stout myself, and of course at my age it don’t matter; but the more that child takes exercise the more she fills out. I don’t understand it. You might have drawn me through a good-sized ring when I was her age.”

“It must have been a very good-sized ring,” said Mr. Pimpernel. “And I don’t like your maypoles of girls. I like ’em nice and round and fat–”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pimpernel, you speak as if you were going to eat them!” said his wife.

“If they were all as nice, healthy, plump, red and white as my Alice,” said the indulgent father. And then there followed a few parental comments on both sides on the comparative growths of Jane, Eliza, and Maria-Anne. Thus the conversation dropped, and the danger which threatened Arthur Arden was for the moment over. But yet he felt next morning that something explosive was in the air. It was his interest to stay at the Red House as long as possible, to have his invitation renewed, if that was possible; and he felt instinctively that something must be done to mend matters. It was a great bore, for though he had discovered nothing as yet, he had been living in the closest intercourse with Clare, and had been making, he felt, satisfactory progress in that pursuit—indeed, he had made a great deal more progress than he himself was aware; for the fact was that his own feelings (such as they were) were too much engaged to make him quite so clear-sighted on the subject as he might have been. A bystander would probably have seen, which Arthur Arden did not, that everything was tending towards a very speedy crisis, and that it was perfectly apparent how that crisis would be decided. Had he himself been cool enough to note her looks—her tremulous withdrawals and sudden confidences—her mingled fear of him and dependence upon him, he would have spoken before now, and all would have been decided. But he was timid, as genuine feeling always is—afraid that after all he might be deceiving himself, and that all the evidences which he sometimes trusted in might mean nothing. Things were in this exciting state when his eyes were opened to see the cloudy countenance of Mrs. Pimpernel and the affronted looks of Alice. He was late at breakfast, as he always was—a thing which had been regarded as a very good joke when he first came to the Red House. “Papa has been gone for an hour,” Alice had been wont to say, looking at her watch; and Mrs. Pimpernel would shake her head at him. “Ah, Mr. Arden, it is just as well you have no house to keep in order,” she would say. “I can’t think whatever you do when you are married, you fashionable men.” But now the comments were of a very different character. “I am afraid the coffee is cold,” Mrs. Pimpernel said, looking hot enough herself to warm any amount of coffee. “It is so unfortunate that we cannot make our hours suit; and I must ask you to excuse me—I must give the housekeeper her orders before it is quite the middle of the day–”

“Am I so very late—I am dreadfully sorry,” said Arthur, appealing to Alice, who sat at the end of the table looking shyly spiteful, and who remained for a moment undecided whether to follow her mother or to put on an aspect of civility and stay.

“Oh no, Mr. Arden—I mean I can’t tell—mamma thinks we see so very little of you now–”

“Do you see little of me? Ah, yes, I remember, you were in Liverpool yesterday shopping, and I found the house all desolate when I came back. You can’t think how dreary it looks when you are away. This suggestion of your father’s gives me so much work in the afternoon–”

“Oh, Mr. Arden! a suggestion of papa’s?”

“Did you not know—did you think it was by my own inclination that I was at work all day long?” said Arthur. “How much higher an opinion you must have of me than I deserve! Does Mrs. Pimpernel think it is all my doing? No, I am not so good as that. I am going over the family papers on your papa’s suggestion—trying to find out something– Most likely I shall write a book–”

“Oh, Mr. Arden!” cried Alice Pimpernel.

“Yes; most likely I shall write a book. You can’t think how many interesting stories there are in the family. Should you like me to tell you one this morning before the children are ready for their croquet? I don’t know if I can do it well, but if you like–”

“Oh, Mr. Arden, I should like it so much!”

“Then, come out on the lawn,” said Arthur. “I know a spot where it will be delicious this warm morning to lie on the grass and tell you about our Spanish lady. Did you ever hear of our Spanish lady? It was she who gave us our olive complexions and our black hair.”