watching him here.”
“I am not watching him,” said Clare; and she sat with an obstinate stateliness by the window, her face deeply flushed, her heart beating high. It was not her fault. She would not have stolen here into this coign of ’vantage had she thought of Arthur. It was but to avoid the Pimpernels, not to watch him. But, even had she known he was coming, would it not have been better in any case to keep out of his way? Had not Edgar left home on purpose to send him away from Arden?—Edgar, whose fault it was, who had thus thrown his cousin into the arms of the Pimpernels, into the way of temptation. Clare was unreasonable, as was natural. She forgot—as it is so easy to forget—that Arthur Arden was much older than her brother, far more experienced, a man doubly learned in the ways of the world. The first thing that occurred to her had been to suspect poor little Jeanie, to blame Mrs. Murray; and now her imagination fell upon Edgar, putting all the responsibility on his shoulders. He had sent his cousin away. It was a new beginning which poor Arthur was making—an attempt, poor fellow, at that pure domestic life which had never been within his reach before. And Edgar, who had all the lands and all the prosperity, had refused to this other Arden even the poor shelter of his roof—the chance of learning to love something that was better than his past had been. And thus he had been thrown back upon the Pimpernels. To look at these good people in the mirror of Clare’s fancy, one would have supposed they were everything that was disorderly and improper, instead of being the most respectable of households, correct in every possible point, and domestic to a degree only possible to a British nature with commercial associations. Clare sat and listened to the hum of voices down-stairs with the strangest emotion. What was he doing there? What had he come for? Why was he making himself the attendant of Alice Pimpernel? He had no money, and her father was rich—was he, thwarted in his affections, intent upon marrying and indemnifying himself by securing money at least? All these thoughts passed through Clare’s mind with the rapidity of lightning. Very different would have been her brother’s thoughts, even of Arthur Arden; but Clare’s mind was more sophisticated than Edgar’s, and leapt in a moment at this vulgar danger, which to her felt so real. And, as we have said, the idea of marrying for money did not in itself revolt her. If he could not secure the woman he loved, and her fortune, what could he do but at least attempt to secure another fortune?—something he could live on, and which would give him something to live for. Alice Pimpernel! How much would she have? Clare wondered, in her feverish suspense. Something, surely, not worth the sacrifice—a share of her father’s money only—not an estate or ancient barony in her own right.
And then it occurred to her suddenly, she could not tell why, that Old Arden was the seat of an ancient barony. It had dropped away from the family in some of the civil wars; but the Squires had once been Barons, and Lord Arden was a title that might easily be renewed in a generation unfriendly to attainders, and which had a respect for old memories. Should it be Edgar who would bear the recovered title? Edgar, Lord Arden! The idea was absurd somehow. And then, Old Arden was not Edgar’s, but hers—hers to bestow. Good heavens!—that it should be so! And all the time, Arthur Arden—he who was the truest representative of the family, in look, and thought, and disposition—he who would be the ideal Lord Arden—was wasting his time upon a cotton-broker’s daughter—a Liverpool girl, with a little paltry money—down-stairs! These may have been deemed strange thoughts for a girl who had just seen her lover absorbed in attendance upon another. She had been miserable enough—angry enough for the first moment. She had loathed the innocent Jeanie, and hated the stupid Alice; but while she thus sat waiting and listening, it was another channel into which her thoughts flowed. It was because he had been sent away from her own side that he was driven to “amuse himself”—poor fellow! And she could give him all that was needful, and the higher life along with it! Clare’s heart beat high with impatience as she heard the sound of the voices. Should she go down and reveal herself? Should she wait? What should she do? It was while her excitement thus gradually grew stronger—after she had risen and seated herself again twice over, and felt herself almost carried away by the torrent of her thoughts—that the stir down-stairs took a definite form; there was a sound of approaching footsteps and voices, which came nearer and nearer. Mrs. Murray divined what it meant sooner than Clare did; and hastily taking Jeanie’s hand, led her into the inner room. “Take your seam, my bonnie lamb, and never you mind what they say or what they do,” said the grandmother; and she closed the door upon her charge, and drew a chair to the table, and took up her own knitting. The room grew suddenly a place full of protection and safety, Clare could not tell how. The first sensation of fright, and horror, and excitement, at the sound of their approach, died out of her mind. “Thanks,” she said, under her breath. And then there came a sudden knock and flutter of voices close by; and Arthur Arden, smiling and introducing the pretty figure of Alice Pimpernel, suddenly appeared at the door.
CHAPTER VI
Clare, who knew what was coming, had instinctively changed her position. She had subdued her excitement, as perhaps only a woman could do, and adopted, with the speed of thought, her ordinary air of stately composure. Her look was that of one paying a dignified, yet friendly, visit to a cottage acquaintance, below her in rank, yet not beyond the range of her sympathy. And Mrs. Murray, with feminine skill so natural that it was unconscious, supported her visitor in the emergency. Not a word of explanation passed between them; but yet, they instinctively fell into their parts. Arthur Arden, however, was not in the least prepared for the sight which met his eyes as he opened the door. Partly as making an experiment, to see if it was possible to rouse her, and partly out of sheer idleness and indifference, he had suddenly suggested to Alice Pimpernel to “visit the little beauty” upstairs. “I know the mother; and I want your opinion,” he had said. “Oh, Mr. Arden!” had been Alice’s reply, as she buttoned the second button of her gloves; and thus they had come upstairs. But it would be impossible to describe in words how small Arthur Arden felt when he opened the door and found himself suddenly in the presence of his cousin Clare. Though he was a man of experience, and not easily daunted, the sudden sight of her covered him with confusion. Instead of introducing Alice into the room as he had intended, he stumbled into it before her, and changed colour and hesitated like a boy of sixteen. “Miss Arden!” he stammered forth, not knowing what he said; and forgot all about Alice Pimpernel behind him, who tried to peep over his shoulder, and mentally sank upon her knees before the majesty of Clare.
“Yes,” said Clare; and then, after a little pause—“Do you want me, Mr. Arden, or Mrs. Murray? Please tell me, and I will go away.”
“I wanted—it is nothing—I did not know,” Arthur stammered. “Miss Pimpernel was interested—that is, I told her of– I think you know Miss Pimpernel.”
And then, much confused, he stood aside, and made visible Alice, who proferred her shy obeisance, and once more buttoned her glove, too shy to venture to speak. Clare rose, and bowed in her stately way. She was mistress of the situation; and no one could have told how violently her heart was beating against her side.
“I have paid Mrs. Murray too long a visit,” she said. “I must go now. I did not know you were in the neighbourhood, Mr. Arden. You are at the Red House, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Arthur, meekly. “I meant to have let you know– but– Mrs. Pimpernel is down-stairs. I intended to have continued my walk to the Hall to ask how you were–”
“Oh! I am always very well,” said Clare; and then there was a pause in the hostilities, and the two armies stopped and looked at each other. Mrs. Murray had taken no notice of the belligerents up to this moment. She had gone on quietly with her knitting, aware that her own charge was in safety. Now she looked up from her work, though without rising from her seat, and turned to the new-comers with a grave face.
“If ye were wanting me, Sir, I would like to know what it was for? I am no used to the ways of the place, and I cannot think I could be of any use.”
“Oh, Miss Arden!” said Alice Pimpernel, driven to her wits’ end, and feeling that it was now her turn to say something. The girl gave Clare a supplicating glance. “Would she knit something
