Маргарет Олифант
Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3
CHAPTER VII
Arthur Arden went back to the Pimpernels’ with no very comfortable feelings. He had gone to the Red House, he said, in order to be near Arden, and that he might make frequent visits to the central object of his pursuit; but he had not been aware how far Clare carried out her principles, and that she really declined to know the people whom she did not think her equals. Arthur was accustomed to people who sneer yet visit and take advantage of all the wealth and luxuries of the nouveaux riches. Make use of them: was not that what all the world did, accepting their costly dinners and fine carriages, and laughing at them behind their backs? How was it that Clare refused to do this like other people? Her kinsman could not tell. He thought it foolish of her, if Clare could do anything foolish, and in his own mind quoted the example of a great many very fine people indeed who did it freely. Why should one be so much better than others? he thought to himself; and so went back disconcerted to join the Pimpernels.
Clare was wrong in the conclusion she had jumped at, and still she was not altogether wrong. Alice was pretty and quite inoffensive, and she would have thirty thousand pounds. When a young man of good family without any money or any profession has arrived at the borders of forty, various questions present themselves to him in a very decided way, and demand consideration. What is to become of him? You may keep time at bay if you have all the aids and preventives at hand for doing so; but when that is not the case, when you have, on the other hand, anxieties instead of cosmetics, and increase your wrinkles by every hour’s thought, the crisis is a very formidable one. Arthur Arden had been brought up, like so many young men, with vague thoughts of an appointment which was to do everything for him. This expectation had quieted the consciences of everybody belonging to him. He had been waiting for an appointment as long as he could recollect, and he was still waiting for it now. To tell the truth, the progress of years did not make it more likely or bring it any nearer; but still, he knew a great many people who had in their hands the giving of appointments, and it was not impossible that such a thing might drop from the skies at any moment. What he would have done with it when it came, after so many years’ lounging about the world without anything definite to do, is a different question. But, in the meantime, Alice Pimpernel, as a pis aller, was as good as an appointment, and Clare a great deal better, and it seemed only natural that the best should claim his devotion first. He had not attempted to exercise upon Alice the full force of those fascinations which he had poured forth upon Clare; but he kept her in hand, as it were, ready for an emergency. He cleared the cloud off his face as he approached the door of old Sarah’s cottage, where the ladies had just appeared. Young Denbigh, the curate, had left them when they went in, so that Arthur was their sole escort. He arrived in time to hear Mrs. Pimpernel’s parting words.
“Don’t think any more about the loss. It was not very expensive lace, you know, and I have plenty. Thank heaven, I am not in circumstances to be obliged to consider every trifle. I was annoyed at first, of course, and it was dreadfully careless of the girl. What does she expect is to become of her, I wonder, if she takes no more pains? I have known a girl just simply ruined by such carelessness. Oh, you need not cry—crying does very little good. I assure you I have, indeed.”
“It’s what I’m atelling ’em morning, noon, and night,” said old Sarah, while the culprit retired into her apron, and sobbed, and curtsied, being past all power of speech.
“Simply ruined,” said Mrs. Pimpernel with solemn iteration; “but I trust you will think what you are doing, and never be so wicked again. I am very much interested in your lodgers, Sarah. What a very nice old woman, and so clean! Mr. Arden did you observe? But there is no use speaking to you gentlemen—you are always thinking of something else. So very clean! If anything should ever be wanted for her or for the sick girl, you may send to me freely. We are never without some little delicacy, you know—something that would tempt an invalid. Mr. Pimpernel is so very particular about what he eats. All you gentlemen are. I dare say you want it more after being out in the world all day knocking about. Well, Mr. Arden, and so you went and made your peace with your cousin? I hope everything is right now.”
“Nothing was wrong,” said Arthur hastily. “I had no peace to make. I was only anxious to ask Miss Arden about—Edgar. I don’t know where he is, and I wanted his address.”
“She does not half like your staying with us,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Oh, don’t speak to me! I know better. I don’t know what we have ever done to her, but she hates us, does Miss Arden. She is quite spiteful because you are staying with us.”
“Oh, mamma, dear!” said Alice, in gentle deprecation.
“You may say what you please, Alice, but I know better. That child is always standing up for Miss Arden. I don’t know why she should, I am sure, for she never is barely civil. Not that we want anything from her; we visit quite as much as I wish to visit; but if I were ever so anxious to increase my list, Arden Hall, you know!– It never was very amusing, I believe. It is not that I care for the airs she gives herself–”
“You forget that my cousin has been brought up very quietly,” said Arthur. “Her father was very peculiar. He never saw any society unless he could not help it. You know, indeed, that poor Edgar, his only son– But that is a painful subject to us all.”
“Please, tell me!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “One hears hints, you know; but it would be so much more satisfactory from one of the family. Do, please, tell me. He snubbed him dreadfully, and never educated him, nor gave him any allowance nor anything. Fancy, his own father! But there must have been some cause.”
“He was a very peculiar man,” said Arthur Arden. “There are things in families, you know, which don’t bear discussion. If I was more hard-hearted than I am, or more indifferent to the credit of the name– But never mind—it is a question I would rather not discuss.”
“Oh, Mr. Arden!” cried Alice Pimpernel, clasping her hands, and looking up at him with unfeigned admiration. Yes, he was more interesting than Mr. Denbigh, with that fine family face, and all its romantic associations—and sacrificing himself, too, for the good of the family. How grand it was! The Pimpernels, too, had certain features which were peculiar to them; but oh! how different from the Ardens. Mr. Denbigh was interesting too—he was very nice and attractive, and second cousin to the Earl of Tintagel. But he had not a story to attract the imagination like this.
“I would never insist upon confidence,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; it is against my principles, even with my own child. If it’s about money, I always say, ‘Speak to your papa—he is the one to manage all that;’ and, between ourselves, he is a great deal too liberal; he never knows how to say ‘No’ to any of them. But if it’s their feelings, I never exact anything. I am always ready to do my best, but confidence is a thing I would never exact.”
“It is a thing I should be most ready to give,” said Arthur Arden, with a bow and a smile, “if the secret were only mine. But my poor cousin Edgar—he is a most worthy fellow—an excellent fellow. I confess I was prejudiced against him, which is not unnatural, you know, considering that he stands, between me and– But really it is a question I must not enter on.”
“Anything you may say to us will be sacred, you may be sure,” Mrs. Pimpernel said, with breathless interest; and Alice looked up appealingly in his face. They were quite tremulous with expectation, looking for some romance of real life, something more exciting than gossip. Arthur Arden could scarcely restrain the impulse to mystify them at least; but he remembered that it might be dangerous, and refrained.
“No,” he said, with a sigh, shaking his head, “not even to you. If it were my own secret you should have it fast enough; but I must not betray another’s. No, no. And poor Edgar is an excellent fellow—as good a fellow as ever breathed.”
Mrs. Pimpernel shot a lively glance across him at her daughter, who replied to it quickly enough, though she was not over-bright. “Depend upon it, there is some flaw in Edgar Arden’s title,” was Mrs. Pimpernel’s comment that evening when she repeated the conversation to her husband. “Depend upon it, all’s not right there. I never saw anything written more plainly on a man’s face.”
“Then you must have seen fool written after it,” said Mr. Pimpernel. “Stuff and nonsense! This fellow Arden is very well up to most things. He knows what he’s about, does Arden; and so he should, if he’s making up to your daughter, Mrs. Pimpernel.”
“I wish you would not be so coarse,” said the lady. “Making up! There is nothing of the sort. He is an agreeable sort of man, and knows everybody; though, if there was anything in this story, Alice might do worse. It would be very nice to have her settled so near us. And Arden is a good name; and I must say, if there is one thing I am partial to, it is a good family. Though you never will acknowledge it, or give any weight to it, it is well known my grandmother was a Blundell–”
“I don’t know anything about your grandmother; but I shan’t give your daughter, if I can help it, to a fellow who has nothing. Why don’t he get his appointment? Or, if he wants to marry, let him marry his cousin, and get her share of the property. That would be the sensible thing to do.”
“He would not look at his cousin, take my word for it,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “He has more sense than that at least. A proud, stuck-up thing, as vain of her family– As if it was any virtue of hers to belong to an old family! She wasn’t consulted about it. For my part, I’d rather be like Alice, well brought up, with a father and mother she has no reason to be ashamed of, than Clare Arden, with all her mysteries and nonsense. I should indeed; and that is a deal for me to say that am partial to old families. But, if you had a chance, you might just question Arthur Arden a little, and see what he means by it. I don’t see why he should sacrifice himself. And if there should be anything in it, to have Alice settled so near us, on such a pretty property–”
Thus Mrs. Pimpernel showed an inclination not only to count her chickens before they were hatched, but even before it was quite certain that there were eggs for the preliminary ceremony. The husband did not say very much, but he thought the more. He had money to back any claimant, and would not hesitate to do so. And as for any folly about self-sacrifice or fine family feeling, the cotton-broker felt that he would make very short work with that. “Rubbish and nonsense!” he said to himself. “What were all the feelings in the world in comparison with a fine property like Arden—a property that might almost double in value if it were in proper hands. Why, in building leases alone, he could undertake to add five thousand a-year to the property. There might be dozens of Arden Villas, Pimpernel Places, &c., which would pay magnificently, without interfering in the least with ‘the amenities.’ And if nothing was wanted but money for a lawsuit, why he himself would not mind providing the sinews of war.
“I understand there is some uncertainty about your cousin’s title to Arden,” he said next morning, in his uncompromising way.
“Good heavens! who said so?” said Arthur, in consternation; for to do him justice he had meant only to be interesting, and knew that, as respected Arden, his suspicions, and those of other people, did not value a brass farthing. “Pray be cautious of repeating such a thing. It is quite new to me–”
“Why, why, why!—I thought you gave a little colour to it at least, by something you said yourself—so I heard,” said Mr. Pimpernel. “I am a practical man, Arden, and I never have any time to beat about the bush. Should there be anything in it, and should you be disposed to fight it out, and should you have evidence and all that, why, I should not mind standing by you, as a matter of business, you know. I don’t understand fine feelings, but I understand what an estate’s worth; and if you can prove to my solicitor you have ground to go upon, why, I shouldn’t mind backing you up. There, I never make mysteries about anything, and you will follow my example, if you take my advice–”
“My dear sir, how can I thank you for your confidence in me?” said Arthur. “The truth is, there has always been something very odd; but I fear that so far as evidence goes– You may depend upon it, if I ever should find myself in a position to prove anything, yours would be the first aid I should seek.”
“Well, well, you know your own affairs best,” said Mr. Pimpernel. And so there was no more said about it; but Arthur’s brain was set to work as it had never yet been. What if there might be evidence after all—something the old Squire had made up his mind not to use? Arden was worth a great deal of exertion, even a little treachery; and, of course, if Edgar was not a real Arden, it would be a duty to the race to cast him out—a duty to the race, and a duty to himself. Duty to one’s self is a very prevailing principle; there is not much about it in the canons of Christianity, but there is a great deal about it in the practical laws which govern the world. Arthur was vaguely excited by this unexpected proposal. He was not lawyer enough to know much of the possibilities or impossibilities of the matter. But it was worth thinking about, worth inquiring into, surely, if anything ever was.
CHAPTER VIII
It was with this idea strong in his mind that Arthur marked out for himself a certain scheme of operations during his stay at the Red House. He had still ten days to remain there, and time, it must be allowed, hung sometimes heavy on his hands. To play croquet with devotion for several hours every day requires a mind free from agitation and innocent of scheming—or, at least, not burdened with schemes which are very important—or any warm personal anxiety in the bigger game of life. Alice Pimpernel was good for two hours in the morning, with her little sisters, when they had done their lessons; and Arden felt that it was a very pretty group on the first day of his visit, when he looked up from his newspaper, and let his eyes stray over the well-kept lawn, with its background of trees, and all the airy figures in their light dresses that were standing about. But, then, Alice was good also for four hours in the afternoon, when there was nothing better going on—namely, from half-past two, when luncheon was just over, till half-past six; when it was time to dress for dinner. Young Denbigh, by right of his youth, was equal to this long continued enjoyment; but Arthur was not equal to it. And, as at that moment there were no other visitors at the Red House, time was hard to kill. He felt that if he had been a little younger he would have been driven, in self defence, to make love to somebody—Alice or her mother, it did not much matter which—but it was too great a bore, with all his anxieties on his mind, and with the amount of real feeling he had in respect to Clare. Accordingly, it was rather a godsend to him when Mr. Pimpernel threw this suggestion into his mind. He did not take it up with any active feeling of enmity to Edgar, nor even with any great hope of success. If it were as he thought, the Squire had either been uncertain to the last of his wife’s guilt, or he had been sufficiently infatuated to accept the consequences, finally and irredeemably—in which latter case, no doubt, he must have destroyed any evidence that existed against her; while, in the former case, there could have been no evidence sufficiently strong to convict her. In either point of view, it was madness, after all this lapse of time, to attempt to make any discoveries. Yet Arthur made up his mind to try to do so, with a resolution which grew stronger the more he thought of it. And from this moment he thought of little else. He had believed his own hypothesis steadily for so many years; and it was so much to his interest to believe it, if proof of any description could be found. He strolled down to the village next morning, not knowing exactly what he wanted, and stopped at old Sarah’s cottage, and beguiled her into conversation. Jeanie, he noted, had been sent away at his approach, and this fact alone determined him to see Jeanie. He went upstairs, again, undaunted by the experience of yesterday, and knocked softly at the door of the little parlour. “Mrs. Murray,” he said from the landing, not even presuming to enter, “I have something to say to Sarah, and I cannot manage it below, with these two girls listening and staring. Would it disturb you to let us come up here?” There was a pause, and a little rustle, as of movement and telegraphed communications, before any answer was made to him; and then Arthur smiled to find that his appeal to Scotch politeness was not made in vain. “Come in, sir,” Mrs. Murray said, gravely. Jeanie was seated at the open window with her needlework, and her grandmother in her usual place by the table, engaged in her usual occupation of knitting. “Take a seat, sir; we’ll leave you to yourselves,” said Mrs. Murray. But this did not suit Arthur, who, even in the midst of a new interest, loved to have two strings to his bow.
“By no means,” he said; “what I have to say may be said quite well before you. I have to put a question or two about my cousins at the Hall. Here is a chair for you, Sarah; sit down, and don’t be frightened. Nothing is going to happen. I want you to tell me what you know about Mrs. Arden, that is all.”
“How could I know aught about Mrs. Arden, Mr. Arthur,” said Sarah, wonderingly, “when she died afore I come? I took Miss Clare from a baby, but her poor dear mamma was dead and gone. My brother Simon he knows, and so do the Rector, and poor Miss Letty, at the Doctor’s; but I don’t know no more than this good lady, as is a stranger to the place. There’s her name on the stone, top of t’oud Squire’s pew in t’church, and that’s all as I know.”
“Are there none of the old servants about that knew her?” asked Arthur.
At which point a very strange interruption ensued.
“I canna tell, sir, why you are asking, or if it is for good or evil,” said Mrs. Murray. “I dinna belong to the place, as Sarah says, nor I’m no one that ought to ken; but I have seen Mrs. Arden, if its about her ye want to ken–”
“You have seen Mrs. Arden!” said Arthur, in amazement; and old Sarah echoed his exclamation.
“Yes, I have seen her; no often, but more than once. If that is all, I can tell you what like she was, and all I ken about her; or, if not all– She was ill in health and troubled in spirit, poor thing, when I saw her. I cannot think she was ever either strong or gay.”
“Was that after her—children were born?” asked Arthur, eagerly.
“It was before she had any bairn. It was thought she never would have one, and her husband was sore disturbed. But, ye see, the doctors turned out fools, as they do so often,” Mrs. Murray added hastily, turning and fixing her eyes upon him. She made a pause between the two sentences, and changed her tone completely. The first was mere reminiscence, the other had a certain defiance in it; and Arthur felt there was some meaning, though one he could not read, in the suddenly watchful expression of her eyes.
“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “so it appears.” And as he spoke the watchfulness went off Mrs. Murray’s face, and she evidently (though why he could not think) calmed herself down. “So it appears,” he repeated vaguely. “She was some time married, then, I suppose, before my cousin Edgar was born?”
“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?
