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,
