Маргарет Олифант
Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3
CHAPTER XXVII
The conversation which Arthur Arden thrust upon Clare by persistently waiting for her in the avenue was not a satisfactory one. Though she could not refuse to accept his explanation that he knew nothing about the strangers, yet a sense of uneasiness and discomfort remained in her mind. When once it is suggested that such secrets exist in a world which looks all fair and straightforward, it is difficult for a young mind to throw off at once the shock of the suggestion. Clare looked at her cousin, who was so much older than herself, and who had been so much in the world, acquiring, no doubt experiences of which she knew nothing, and shrank just a little aside, closing herself up, and putting on all her defences. “How do I know what his life has been, what things may have happened to him?” she said to herself. With a certain mingling of attraction and repulsion, she glanced at him from under her eyelashes. He had lived a man’s life, which is so different from a woman’s; he had been abroad in the world, swept along in the great current, driven from one place to another, from one society to another. And Clare felt that she could never tell what recollections he might have brought out of that great ocean in which he had been sailing, which was so unknown to her, and doubtless so distinct and clear to him. He might have left cares and sorrows behind him—nay, was it not certain that he must have left many a trace behind him, being such a man as he was? As she walked on beside him this feeling came over her so strongly that it swallowed up all other sentiments. She too had a little line of memories, innocent recollections, pangs of childish suffering, unjust reproofs, wounded self-love, and one great natural grief. It was like a little rivulet running under the bushes, hiding only the softest blameless secrets. But his must be like the sea, full of sunny islands and dark cliffs, with calms and storms in it, and havens and shipwrecks—things she could not possibly know of, except by some chance word now and then, and never could fully enter into. A certain admiration grew unconsciously in her mind, along with a great deal of dread and shrinking. What a fine thing it would be to be such a man! How wide his horizon in comparison with hers! How extended and varied his knowledge! Poor Clare! she shrank with a chilled sense that she never could partake or share this vast extent of experience; but it never occurred to her to inquire what kind of knowledge of the world is acquired at German gaming-tables. Clare’s imagination was utterly ignorant of the Turf, and the coulisses, and the Kursaal. She had an idea much more elevated than reality of the Clubs, and took it for granted that a man who was an Arden, even though he was poor, must have entrance always into the best society. He for his part walked by her side with the real recollections bubbling in his mind of which she formed so flattering a vision. He was remembering various things that would not have borne telling, even to ears much less innocent than those of Clare. The girl, who knew nothing about it, surrounded him with a bright and wide and noble world, swelling higher and greater than her unassisted thoughts could penetrate—with tragedies in it, no doubt, and sins, but all on so large a scale; whereas the meanest matters possible haunted Arthur’s mind, the narrow stifling atmosphere of commonplace dissipation, the “Life” which is a round of poor amusements, varied only by the excitement of gain or loss, with now and then a flavour of vice, the only piquant element in the poor mixture. Thus Imagination and Fact went side by side, unable to divine each other; and Clare shrank, yet wondered, secretly inclining towards the man who was so little known to her, painfully attracted and repelled, averting her face for the moment, but drawing near in her heart.
Lord Newmarch could only spare three days to the Ardens, one of which was a Sunday. And he walked dutifully to church, carrying Clare’s prayer-book, and placing himself by her side. “This is what I like,” he said. “The only real remnant of anything worth preserving in the feudal system. Here are your brother and yourself, Miss Arden, at the head of your people, to take their part or plead their cause, or redress their wrongs; here they can see you, and pay their homage; they have the advantage of feeling that you too worship God in the same place; they have the benefit of your example. This is the beautiful side of a country gentleman’s life.”
“But they see us, I assure you, on other days besides Sunday,” said Clare.
“That I do not doubt. Forgive me, Miss Arden, but it is very charming to see your sense of duty. Women seem to me generally to be deficient in that point. I see it in my sisters. They will be wildly charitable whenever their feelings are touched, and that is easily enough done, heaven knows. Any cottager on the estate—or off the estate, for that matter—who has a story to tell can accomplish it. But they have not that sense of duty to all, which is more or less impressed upon men who have dependents. Allow me to pay my tribute of admiration to one who is an exception to the rule.”
Clare made him a little curtsey in reply to his elaborate bow, and did not laugh, partly because she was wanting in the sense of humour, and partly because, to tell the truth, she agreed with him, and was so far conscious of her own excellence. And then he had suggested another line of reflection. “But your sisters”—she said, and hesitated, for it was not quite polite to say what she was going to say, that his sisters were young women of no family, with no feudal rights, and very different from a daughter of the house of Arden. It does not answer, however, to make this sort of speech to the son of an Earl, and Clare caught herself up.
“My sisters are comparatively little at Marchfield?” he suggested. “That is what you would say; and no doubt it is quite true; but still there is a deficiency in this point. There is no sense of duty. And I find it common among women. They do things from emotional motives, or because they like to do them, but not from that manly, serious sense– I am not one of those who sneer at what are called women’s rights. For my part, I should be but too happy, for instance, to have the assistance of your fine instincts and administrative powers in public business; but, still, there are characteristic differences which cannot be overlooked–”
“Pray, don’t think I care for women’s rights,” said Clare, with a blush of indignation. “I hate the very name of them. Why should we be jested and sneered at for the sake of two or three here and there who make a talk? Let us alone, please. I would rather suffer a great deal, for my part, than hear all this odious, odious talk!”
“Ah, you feel it in that way?” said Lord Newmarch, impartially. “I cannot say I quite agree with you there, Miss Arden. You at present suffer nothing. You are young and rich, and– and every one you meet with is your slave,” the young philosopher added gallantly, after a pause. “But that is not the case with all women. Some of them are oppressed by unjust laws, some feel the necessity of a career–”
“Helena Thornleigh, for instance,” said Clare. “I have no patience with her. Thornleigh village is in pretty good order, thanks to Ada; but only fancy a girl wanting a career, and all those dreadful cottages within a mile of her father’s house! Don’t you know Chomely and Little Felton, on the way to Thorne? They are frightful places. If the poor people were pigs, they could not be more uncomfortable. And what does Helena ever do to mend them? Why, there is a career ready to her hand.”
“But what could she do to mend them?” said Lord Newmarch, “I don’t suppose she has any money of her own.”
“She has her father’s,” said Clare indignantly, and walked on, elevating her head, her heart swelling with a recollection of all the power her father accorded to her, and all the revolutions she had made.
“Ah,” said Lord Newmarch, shaking his head, “there are fathers and fathers; and besides, Miss Thornleigh probably thinks that to gain a thing by wheedling her father, which her brother could do independently, is but a sign of bondage. She has a fine intellect, and a great deal of energy–”
“Then I would go and build them with my own hands!” said Clare, with that fine mixture of unreasoning Conservatism and Revolutionism which so often distinguishes a woman’s politics. She was the strictest Tory in the world: a change of law or custom was a horror to her. She scorned the idea of a career for Helena Thornleigh with the intensest inconsiderate disdain. But she would have backed her up about the cottages to the fullest extent that enthusiasm could go, and helped her to work at them had that been needful. Lord Newmarch put his head a little on one side and took a close view of her, which was not without meaning. Strong sense of duty, good fortune, enthusiasm in a certain way which might be most usefully trained, excellent old family, great personal beauty, youth. These were qualities most worthy of consideration. He could not feel that he had encountered any one yet who was quite so well endowed. She would do credit to the choice even of an Earl’s son; she might further even a high political career. He made a mental note in his mind to this effect as they arrived at the church door.
Mr. Fielding was not very much of a preacher. He looked venerable in his surplice, with his white hair, and he read the service with a certain paternal grace, like a father among his children. He had baptised the great majority of his hearers, married them, had some share in all the great events of their life, and had given them all the instruction they had in sacred things. Accordingly, there was no one so appropriate as he to conduct their prayers, to read them the simple lesson of love to God and aid to man. His teaching seldom went any further. His was not the preaching which insists upon the authority of the Church, or the extreme importance of the divisions of the ecclesiastical year. And though there were one or two points of doctrine which he held very strongly, it was only on very urgent pressure that he preached on them. His audience knew, or, at least, the instructed among his audience knew, that the Rector had been holding a very hot discussion with Dr. Somers when he produced one of his discourses upon Faith or Predestination. On such occasions Dr. Somers would himself be present, with his keen eyes confronting the gentle preacher in an attitude of war, and noting all the flaws in his armour; and it was well for Mr. Fielding that he was short-sighted and could not see his adversary. But on this Sunday there had been nothing to excite him. The June day was soft and balmy, and through the open door the peaceable blue sky and green boughs looked in to cool and lighten the atmosphere. A grave or two outside but made the sense of home more profound. The rustics worshipped with their dead around them, almost sharing their prayers, and eyes that wandered found nothing worse to look upon than the green grassy turf with its pathetic mounds below, and the deep blue, leading their thoughts to the unutterable, above. The line of educated faces in the Squire’s pew, and Dr. Somers, like a humanised eagle, seeing everything, were the only breaks in the usual audience. Here or there a farmer or two, with an ample wife more brilliant than her humble neighbours, headed a row of ruddy boys and girls—but these were as much rustics as the ploughmen round them. At the big door of the church, the west end, sat Perfitt and Mrs. Murray, two faces of a very different type. She looked on, rather than joined in the service, half disapproving, half interested; while he, with a certain matter-of-fact superiority, patronised and initiated the stranger, finding the places in the prayer-book for her, and thrusting it into her hand at every change. No one noted the two thus strangely introduced into a scene foreign and strange to at least one of them, except Edgar, who, perhaps, was not so attentive as he ought to have been to Mr. Fielding’s sermon, and to whom the changes on the old Scotchwoman’s face were interesting, he could not tell why. It seemed to him that he could divine what was passing through her mind, and he looked on with almost affectionate amusement at the listener, who was perhaps Mr. Fielding’s only attentive hearer in all the congregation. The good folks about were dropping asleep in the unaccustomed quiet, or else looking straight before them with complacent composure, hearing the words addressed to them as they heard the bees and insects, which made a slumberous pleasant hum about the place. That sound was natural to church, as the hum of bees and twitter of birds are natural which come so sweetly from the outer world. The hush, the warmth, the stray breath of air, now and then, the Sunday clothes, the hum of parson and bees together, the scent of the monthly rose laid on the prayer-book—all this was pleasant to the simple folk. They were doing their duty, and their hearts were at rest. But Mrs. Murray looked and commented, and sometimes softly shook her handsome Scotch head, and wondered if this was all the spiritual fare vouchsafed to the inhabitants of Arden. Edgar divined her thoughts as if he had known her all his life, and was more interested than if Mr. Fielding had been a much better preacher, though it would have been hard to tell why.
CHAPTER XXVIII
After this Sunday, and the thoughts it awoke in his mind, Lord Newmarch found that he could stay another day, and during that day he sought Clare’s company with great perseverance. And it was not so difficult as might have been expected to secure it. Miss Arden, indeed, found her noble companion tiresome sometimes, but yet she agreed in a good many of his ways of thinking. His Radicalism did not jar upon her as did the Radicalism of other people. For Lord Newmarch was clear as to the duty of the upper classes to head and guide the new movement in which he devoutly believed. He had no desire to lessen the influence of his own order, or withdraw a jot of position or power from them. And Clare did not laugh at the social reformer, as her brother was tempted to do. She was even angry with Edgar for his amusement, and could not understand what called it forth. “He is serious, of course; but a man whose mind is full of such subjects ought to be serious,” she said, with a little displeasure. “I don’t know what you find to laugh at in him.” And she did not object to being talked to about the improvement of the country, and how the people could best be guided for their own good. Clare knew, no one better, that the people took a great deal of guiding. She had not the least objection to make their social existence the subject of laws, to condescend to minute legislation, and ordain how often they were to wash, and what clothes they were to wear. Why not? It was all for their own comfort, and not for anybody else’s advantage. Thus Lord Newmarch and she had a good many topics of mutual interest. They squabbled over the question of education, but that only increased the interest of their talk; and it is not to be denied that his position as an actual legislator, a man not discussing an abstract question, but seeking information on a matter he would have personally to do with, increased his importance in her eyes. She battled stoutly against the impression which sometimes forced itself upon her mind that he was a bore, and did not decline to talk to him, nor show any desire to avoid him all through the following Monday. Arthur Arden looking on was dismayed. Even he was not clever enough in his own case to perceive, what he would have perceived in any other, that Clare’s avoidance of himself was the strongest argument in his favour. She did not avoid Lord Newmarch; and Arthur was in dismay. He took Edgar dolefully to the other end of the terrace, upon which the drawing-room windows opened, that Monday evening. Lord Newmarch had engaged Clare upon some of their favourite subjects, and the other two were thrown out, as people so often are by one animated dialogue going on in a small society. “That Newmarch has plenty to say,” Arthur ejaculated, sulkily; and pulled his moustache, and secretly murmured at Clare, whose presence prevented even the consolation of a cigar.
“Yes; he will not soon exhaust himself I fear,” said Edgar. “Clare will be too much accomplished with all this flood of information poured upon her. It is a triumph of good manners on her part not to look bored.”
“Do you think she is bored?” said Arthur Arden, eagerly. “I fear she is not. See how interested she looks. Confound him! The fellow’s father was a cheesemonger, or his grandfather—it comes to the same thing—and to see him sitting there! If I were you, Arden, I should not stand it. Being as I am, you know, only a poor cousin, it goes against me.”
“Why would not you stand it?” asked Edgar, calmly.
“Because—why, look at your sister. He is a nobody—a prig, and the son of a man who has no more right to be an Earl than Wilkins has. But can’t you see he is making up to Clare? I can’t help saying Clare. Why, she is my cousin, and I have known her all her life. She is rich, and she is handsome, and she has the air of a great lady, as she ought to have. But, mark my words, the fellow is making up to her, and if you don’t mind something will come of it.”
“I suppose he is what people call a very good match,” said Edgar. “If Clare is not to be trusted to refuse the honour—though I think she is quite to be trusted—we shall have nothing to reproach each other with. He is a bore, but if she should happen to like him, you know–”
“Oh, confound your coolness!” said Arthur, between his teeth; and he left Edgar standing there astonished, and made the round of the house, and came back to him. During that round various thoughts and calculations had passed through his mind. Should he tell Edgar of his love for Clare? Should he thus commit himself without knowing in the least whether Clare cared for him or not? It might secure him a powerful auxiliary, and it might lay him open to a rebuff which he could ill bear. The pause looked like a start of impatience, but it was in reality a most useful and important moment of deliberation. He had decided that boldness was the best policy by the time he came back to his cousin’s side.
“You think me a strange fellow,” he said, “making off from you like this, and showing so much temper about a matter which really does not seem to concern me in the least. But—I may as well make a clean breast of it, Arden—I am in love with Clare myself. Yes, you may well start—a penniless wretch like me, that am twice her age! But these things don’t go by any rule. I don’t ask you to approve of me; but I can’t stand by calmly, and see other people using opportunities which I fear to use. That’s enough. I am glad I have told you. I ought perhaps to have done so before I came into your house; but I thought I had got the better of it. Forgive me; I have no other excuse.”
Edgar stood and looked at his cousin with unfeigned surprise. He watched him as he got through his speech with a wonder which was soon mingled with other emotions. He was not prejudiced either for or against him; but the more he said the less and less favourable became Edgar’s countenance. “Does Clare know of this?” he inquired coldly, in a tone which suffered surprise to be seen under a veil of indifference. Such a sentiment was the very last which Arthur had imagined possible. He could conceive his cousin angry, or he could conceive, what in his superficial eyes seemed equally probable, that Edgar would have embraced his cause at once with the impulsive readiness with which he had invited him to his house. But this chilling calm was utterly unexpected. Notwithstanding all his self-command, he stammered and faltered as he replied—
“No, I don’t suppose she does. She looks on me as an uncle, I have no doubt. Arden, you young fellows are lucky fellows, I can tell you, who know what you are born to. And you don’t know what injury you did me by not coming into the world ten years sooner. The foundations of my education were laid on the principle that I was the heir.”
“I beg your pardon, I am sure, for being born at all,” said Edgar, with a laugh in which there was not much mirth; “I could not help it, you know. But I cannot see how that can have done you much harm at ten years old. However, this is a very useless discussion. I don’t quite know what you expect me to say to you. Am I to make any decision? Is this a confidence that you make to me privately, or am I to consider that my consent is asked?”
“Confound it!” said Arthur Arden, “you look at me as cool as a judge, without a bit of sympathy in you. I did not look for this, at least. Flare up, if you please—treat it any way you like. I was driven to it by my feelings; if yours are so calm–”
“Were you?” said Edgar, gravely. “Perhaps I am wrong. I have no right to make light of any man’s feelings; but naturally it is my sister I must think of, not you. You talk of Newmarch as something not to be supported; but do you really think, Arden, that you yourself would be a better match for Clare?”
“I am a gentleman, at least, though I am not the son of a pasteboard Earl,” said Arthur, angrily. To tell the truth, it was hard upon him. Up to this moment it was he who had held the superior position, as the man of most age, and experience and knowledge of the world. But now he felt that he stood at the bar before this boy, and the change galled him. And then his resentment impaired at once his dignity and judgment, as may be supposed.
“He is a gentleman also, whatever his father may be,” said Edgar; “and though he is a bore he has a great many advantages to offer. He is rich and he has a good position, and some reputation, such as it is. I should not like to marry him myself, if the question were put to me; but Clare has her own ambitions, and might choose to influence the world as the wife of a statesman. Why shouldn’t she? These are all substantial advantages, whereas–”
“Whereas I am a miserable beggar, twice her age, with not even much to brag of in the way of reputation,” said Arthur Arden. “Say no more about it; I perceive the contrast sufficiently as it is.”
Edgar did not say any more; but looked so serious and unmoved by his cousin’s impatience, that he occasioned Arthur a new sensation. To be set down by this boy, whom he had believed to be a simpleton and enthusiast! To meet the gravity of a look which became penetrating and keen the moment it was roused with such an interest—all this was utterly unexpected. He had feared Clare, but he had said to himself, with the contempt of a man of the world for Edgar’s open temper and liberal heart, that he could twine her brother round his finger. Indeed, there had not seemed any particular credit in so doing. Anybody could do it, even a novice. The young man could be persuaded out of or into anything, and was not in reality worth considering at all. But now Arthur Arden paused, and changed his mind. The tables were turned—the simpleton had seen through the whole question at once, and had calmly snubbed him, Arthur Arden, and put him back in his proper place. By Jove!—a fellow who had taken his inheritance from him, and who probably had no more real right to it than–. What a drivelling fool old Arden was to put up with it, and how hard a case for himself! All this fermented so strongly in Arthur’s mind that he flung off the restraints which had hitherto confined him. He had been, by way of being very civil to Edgar since he came to the house, deferring to his wishes and consulting all his tastes; but if this was all that was to come of it! Accordingly, he left Edgar abruptly, and went and joined himself to Clare and her supposed admirer. “Here is Frivolity come to the rescue, in case my young cousin should become too wise,” he said. “We don’t want to have her made too wise. She is cleverer than all the rest of us by nature; and, Newmarch, I can’t have her made more dangerous still by your art.”
“Miss Arden instructs instead of needing to be instructed,” said Lord Newmarch. “What astonishes me is the breadth of her views. She does not go into detail, as women generally do, but takes a broad grasp. I assure you, her feeling about the education of the people and the knowledge of their wants is marvellous. She knows the poorer classes as well as I flatter myself I know them, and her knowledge can only come by intuition, whereas mine is the result of careful study and–”
“You ought to know them better, certainly,” said Arthur, with suppressed insolence. “As a race advances in the world it forgets the sentiments of the common stock it sprang from—and we Ardens are a long way off the original root.”
“Yes, very true,” said Lord Newmarch, with a little bow, “very much what I was saying. I am going to persuade your brother to make a run up to town with me,” he added, turning to Clare, and rising from his seat—into which Arthur threw himself without loss of time.
“Mr. Arden, how could you speak to him so? You were rude to him,” said Clare, the moment they were left alone.
“I meant to be,” said Arthur Arden, carelessly. “What right had he, I should like to know, to monopolise you? What right had he to cross his legs, and sit here talking to you all the evening? Besides, it is perfectly true; and why should I be expected to eat humble pie, and loiter at a distance, and see you appropriated? You might have a little pity on your kinsman, Lady Clare.”
“My kinsman ought not to be rude,” said Clare. But that was all the punishment she inflicted. Something warped her judgment and blinded her clear eyes. She was not even angry at this piece of incivility, much as she prided herself upon the stateliness of the Arden manners, which Edgar could not acquire. And she sat on the terrace for ever so long after, and let him talk to her, compensating herself for the severity of the morning. And her brother looked on with a grave countenance, wondering much what he could or ought to do.
