Маргарет Олифант
Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3
CHAPTER XII
After the dinner at Thorne there was nothing said between Edgar and Clare about that other humbler invitation which had caused the first struggle between them. She took Mr. Fielding into her confidence, but she said nothing more to her brother. As for the Rector, he was not so hard on the Pimpernels as was the young lady at the Hall. “They are common people, I allow,” he said. “They have not much refinement, nor—nor education perhaps; and I highly disapprove of that perpetual croquet-playing, which wastes all the afternoons, and puts young Denbigh off his head. I do not like it, I confess, Clare; but still, you know—if I may say exactly what I think—there are worse people than the Pimpernels.”
“I don’t suppose they steal,” said Clare.
“My dear, no doubt it is quite natural, with your education and habits—but I wish you would not be quite so contemptuous of these good people. They are really very good sort of people,” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head. She looked very obdurate in her severe young beauty as the Rector looked at her, bending his brows till his eyes almost disappeared among the wrinkles. “They find us places for our boys and girls in a way I have never been able to manage before; and whenever there is any bad case in the parish–”
“Mr. Fielding, that is our business,” said Clare, almost sharply. “I don’t understand how you can talk of our people to anybody but Edgar or me.”
“I don’t mean the people here,” said Mr. Fielding meekly, “but at the other end of the parish. You know that new village, which is not even on Arden land—on that corner which belongs to old Stirzaker—where there are so many Irish? I don’t like to trouble you always about these kind of people. And when I have wanted anything–”
“Please don’t want anything from them again,” said Clare. “I don’t like it. What is the good of our being lords of the manor if we do not look after our own people? Mr. Fielding, you know I think a great deal of our family. You often blame me for it; but I should despise myself if I did not think of our duties as well. All that is our business. Please—please don’t ask anything of those Pimpernels again!”
“Those Pimpernels!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head. “Ah, Clare! they are flesh and blood like yourself, and the young lady is a very nice girl; and why should I not permit them to be kind to their fellow-creatures because you think that is your right? Everybody has a right to be good to their neighbours. And then they find us places for our boys and girls.”
“I have forgotten about everything since Edgar came,” said Clare, with a blush. “I have not seen old Sarah since the first day. Please come with me, and I will go and see her now. What sort of places? They are much better in nice houses in the country than in Liverpool. The girls get spoiled when they go into a town.”
“But they get good wages,” said Mr. Fielding, “and are able to help their people. I have not told you of this, for I knew you were prejudiced. Old Sarah has a lodger now, a relation of Mr. Perfitt—an old Scotchwoman—something quite new. I should like you to see her, Clare. I have seen plenty of Scotch in Liverpool, both workmen and merchants; but I do not understand this old lady. She is a new type to me.”
“I suppose being Scotch does not make much difference,” said Clare, discontentedly. “I do not like them much for my part. Is she in want, or can I be of any use to her? I will go and see her in that case–”
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Fielding, in alarm, “Want! I tell you she is a relation of Perfitt’s, and they are all as proud as Lucifer. I almost wonder, Clare,” he added more softly, dropping his voice, “that you, who are so proud yourself, should not have more sympathy with the pride of others.”
“Others!” cried Clare, with indignation, and then she stopped, and looked at him with her eyes full. If they had not been in the open air in the village street she would have eased herself by a burst of tears. “I am all wrong since Edgar came home,” she cried passionately out of the depths of her heart.
“Since Edgar came home? But my dear child—my dear child!” cried Mr. Fielding, “I thought you were so proud of your brother.”
“And so I am,” said Clare, hastily brushing away the tears. “I know he is good—he is better than me; but he puts me all wrong notwithstanding. He will not see things as I do. His nature is always leading him the other way. He has no sort of feeling—no—Oh! I don’t know how to describe it. He puts me all wrong.”
“You must not indulge such thoughts,” said the Rector, with a certain mild authority which did not misbecome him. “He shows a great deal of right feeling, it appears to me. And we must not discuss Edgar’s qualities. He is Edgar, and that is enough.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” cried Clare, with sudden offence; and then she stopped, and controlled herself. “I should like to go and see this old Scotchwoman,” she added, after a moment’s pause. What she had said was true, though she was sorry for having said it. Edgar, with his strange ways of thinking, his spontaneousness, and freedom of mind, had put her all wrong. She had been secure and certain in her own system of life so long as everybody thought with her, and the bonds of education and habit were unbroken. But now, though she was still as strong in her Ardenism as ever, an uneasy, half-angry feeling that all the world did not agree with her—nay, that the person of most importance to her in the world did not agree with her—oppressed Clare’s mind, and made her wretched. It is hard always to bear such a blow, struck at one’s youthful convictions. It is intolerable at first, till the young sufferer learns that other people have really a right to their opinions, and that it is possible to disagree with him or her and yet not be wicked. Clare could not deny that Edgar’s different views were maintained with great gentleness and candour towards herself—that they were held by one who was not an evil-minded revolutionary, but in every other respect all that she wished her brother to be. But she felt his eyes upon her when she said and did many little things which a few weeks ago she would have thought most right and natural; and even while she chafed at the tacit disapprobation, a secret self-criticism, which she ignored and struggled against, stole into the recesses of her soul. She would not acknowledge nor allow it to be possible; but yet it was there. The natural consequence was that all her little haughtinesses, her airs of superiority, her distinctions between the Ardens and their class and all the rest of the world, sharpened and became more striking. She was half-conscious that she exaggerated her own opinions, painted the lights whiter and the shadows more profound, in involuntary reaction against the new influences which began to affect her. She had not noticed the Pimpernels, though she knew them well by sight, and all about them; but she had no active feeling of enmity towards them until that unfortunate day when they ventured to call, and Edgar, in his ignorance, received them as if they had been the family of a Duke. Since then Clare had come to hate the innocent people. She had begun to feel rabid about their class generally, and to find words straying to her lips such as had struck her as in very bad taste when old Lady Summerton said them. Lady Summerton believed the poor were a host of impostors, and trades-people an organised band of robbers, and attributed to the nouveaux riches every debasing practice and sentiment. Clare had been disgusted by these opinions in the old days. She had drawn herself up in her youthful dignity, and had almost reproved her senior. “They are good enough sort of people, only they are not of our class,” Clare had said; “please don’t call them names. One may be a Christian though one is not well-born.” Such had been her truly Christian feeling while yet she was undisturbed by any doubt that to be well-born, and especially to be born in Arden, was the highest grace conceded by heaven. But now that doubt had been cast upon this gospel, and that she daily and hourly felt the scepticism in Edgar’s eyes, Clare’s feelings had become as violent as old Lady Summerton’s. The sentiment in her mind was that of scorn and detestation towards the multitude which was struggling to rise into that heaven wherein the Ardens and Thornleighs shone serene. “The poor people” were different; they made no pretences, assumed no equality; but the idea that Alice Pimpernel came under the generic title of young lady exactly as she herself did, and that the daughter of a Liverpool man might ride, and drive, and dress, and go everywhere on the same footing as Clare Arden, became wormwood to her soul.
Mr. Fielding walked along by her side somewhat sadly. He was Clare’s godfather, and he was very proud of her. His own nature was far too mild and gentle to be able to understand her vehemence of feeling on these points; but he had been grieved by it often, and had given her soft reproofs, which as yet had produced little effect. His great hope, however, had been in the return of her brother. “Edgar must know the world a little; he will show her better than I can how wrong she is,” the gentle Rector had said to himself. But, alas, Edgar had come home, and the result had not been according to his hope. “He is young and impetuous, and he has hurried her convictions,” was the comment he made in his grieved mind as he accompanied her along the village street. Mr. Fielding blamed no one as long as he could help it; much less would he blame Clare, who was to him as his own child. He thought within himself that now the only chance for her was Life, that best yet hardest of all teachers. Life would show her how vain were her theories, how harsh her opinions; but then Life itself must be harsh and hard if it is to teach effectual lessons, and it was painful to anticipate any harshness for Clare. He went with her, somewhat drooping and despondent, though the air was sweet with honeysuckle and early roses. The summer was sweet, and so was life, at that blossoming time which the girl had reached; but there were still scorching suns, as well as the winds of autumn and the chills of winter, to come.
Old Sarah had more ways than one of gaining her homely livelihood. The upper floor of her cottage, on which there were two rooms, was furnished out of the remains of some old furniture which an ancient mistress had bequeathed to her; and there at distant intervals the old woman had a lodger, when such visitors came to Arden. They were homely little rooms, low-roofed, and furnished with the taste peculiar to a real cottage, and not in the least like the ideal one; but people in search of health, with small means at their disposal, were very glad to give her the ten or twelve shillings a week, which was all she asked. Down below, in the rooms where Sarah herself lived, she was in the habit of receiving one or two young girls, orphans, or the children of the poorest and least dependable parishioners, to train them to household work and plain sewing. It was Clare’s idea, and it had worked very well; but for some time past Clare had neglected her protégées. Edgar’s arrival and all the dawning struggles of the new life had occupied and confused her, and she had left her old nurse and her young pupils to themselves. She could scarcely remember as she went in who they were, though Sarah’s pupils were known in the parish as Miss Arden’s girls. There were two on hand at the present moment in the little kitchen which was Sarah’s abode. One stood before a large white-covered table ironing fine linen, while the old nurse sat by in her big chair, spectacles on nose, and a piece of coarse needlework in hand, superintending the process, with many comments, which, added to the heat of the day and the irons, had heightened Mary Smith’s complexion to a brilliant crimson. The other sat working in the shady background, the object of Mary’s intensest envy, unremarked and unreproved. It was the unfortunate clear-starcher who had to make her bob to the gentlefolks, and called forth Miss Arden’s questions. “I hope she is a good girl,” Clare said, looking at Mary, who stood curtseying and hot, with the iron in her hand. “She is none so good but she might be better, Miss Clare,” said old Sarah; “I don’t know none o’ them as is; but she do come on in her ironing. As for collars and cuffs and them plain things, I trust her by herself.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Clare, “and I hope Jane is as satisfactory; but we have not time to talk about them to-day. Mr. Fielding says you have a new lodger, whom he wishes me to go and see. Is she upstairs? Is she at home? Does she like the place? And tell me what sort of person she is, for I am going to see her now.”
Sarah got up from her chair with a bewildered look, and took off her spectacles, which she always did in emergencies. “I beg your pardon, Miss Clare,” she said with a curtsey, “but– She ain’t not to say a poor person. I don’t know as she’d—be pleased– Not as your visit, Miss, ain’t a compliment; but–”
“The Scotch are very proud,” said Mr. Fielding, in his most deprecating tone; “they are dreadfully independent, and like their own way. And, besides, she does not want anything of us. She is not, as Sarah says, a poor person. I think, perhaps, another day–”
“Then why did you bring me here to see her?” said Clare, with some reason. Was it to read her a practical lesson—to show her that she was no longer queen in Arden? A flush of hasty anger came to her pale cheek.
“I only meant–” Mr. Fielding began; “all that I intended was– Why, here is Edgar! and Mr. Perfitt with him. About business, I suppose, as you two are going together. My dear boy, I am so glad you are taking to your work.”
“We have been half over the estate,” said Edgar, coming in, and putting down his hat on Mary Smith’s ironing table, while she stood and gaped at him, forgetting her curtsey in the awe of so close an approach to the young Squire; “but Perfitt has some one to visit here, and I have come to see Sarah, which is not work, but pleasure. I did not expect to find you all. Perfitt, go and see your friend; never mind me. Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Edgar, standing suddenly aside. They all looked up for the moment with a little start, and yet there was nothing to startle them. It was only Sarah’s Scotch lodger, Mr. Perfitt’s relative, who had come into the little room.
CHAPTER XIII
She was a woman of about sixty, with very dark eyes and very white hair—a tall woman, quite unbent by the weight of her years, and unshaken by anything she could have met with in them; and yet she did not look as if she had encountered little, or found life an easy passage from the one unknown to the skirts of the other. She did not look younger than her age, and yet there was no sentiment of age about her. She was not the kind of woman of whom one says that they have been beautiful, or have been pretty. She had perhaps never been either one or the other; but all that she had ever been, or more, she was now. Her eyes were still perfectly clear and bright, and they had depths in them which could never have belonged to them in youth. The outline of her face was not the round and perfect outline which belongs to the young, but every wrinkle had its meaning. It was not mere years of which they spoke, but of many experiences, varied knowledge, deep acquaintance with that hardest of all sciences—life. Not a trace of its original colour belonged to the hair—slightly rippled, with an irregularity which gave a strange impression of life and vigour to it—which appeared under her cap. The cap was dead white too, tied under her chin with a solid bow of white ribbon; and this mass of whiteness brought out the pure tints of her face like a picture. These tints had deepened a little in tone from the red and white of youth, but were as clear as a child’s complexion of lilies and roses. The slight shades of brown did but mellow the countenance, as it does in so many painted faces. The eyes were full of energy and animation, not like the eyes of a spectator, but of one accustomed to do and to struggle—acting, not looking on. The whole party assembled in old Sarah’s living-room turned round and looked at her as she came in, and there was not one who did not feel abashed when they became conscious that for a moment this inspection was not quite respectful to the stranger. So far as real individuality and personal importance went, she was a more notable personage than any one of them. The Rector, who was the nearest to her in age, drew a little aside from before the clear eyes of this old woman. He had been a quiet man, harboured from all the storms, or almost all the storms of existence; but here was one who had gone through them all. As for Edgar, there was something in her looks which won his heart in a moment. He went up to her with his natural frankness, while the others stood looking on doubtfully. “I am sure it is you whom Perfitt has been talking to me about,” he said. “I hope you like Arden. I hope your granddaughter is better. And I trust you will tell Perfitt if there is anything than can be done to make you more comfortable; my sister and I will be too glad–”
Here Clare stepped forward, feeling that she must not permit herself to be committed. “I am sure Sarah will do her very best to make you comfortable,” she said, with great distinctness, not hurrying over her words, as Edgar did—and not disposed to permit any vague large promises to be made in her name. She was not particularly anxious about the stranger’s comfort; but Edgar was hasty, and would always have his way.
“I am much obliged to ye both,” said the newcomer, her strong yet soft Scotch voice, with its broad vowels, sounding large and ample, like her person. She gave but one glance at Clare, but her eyes dwelt upon Edgar with curious interest and eagerness. No one else in the place seemed to attract her as he did. She returned the touch of his hand with a vigorous clasp, which startled even him. “I hear ye’re but late come hame,” she said, in a deep melodious tone, lingering upon the words.
“Yes,” said Edgar, somewhat surprised by her air of interest. “I am almost as much a stranger here as you are. Perfitt tells me you have come from the hills. I hope Arden will agree with the little girl.”
“Is there some one ill?” said Clare.
“My granddaughter,” said the stranger, “but no just a little girl—little enough, poor thing—the weakliest I ever trained; but she’s been seventeen years in this world—a weary world to her. Her life is a thread. I cannot tell where she got her weakness from—no from my side.”
“Na; not from your side,” echoed Perfitt, who had been standing behind. “But Mr. Arden has other things ado than listen to our clavers about our family. I’ll go with you, with his leave, up the stair.”
“Has Dr. Somers been to see her?” said Clare. “If she is Mr Perfitt’s relation, perhaps we could be of some use; some jelly perhaps, or fruit–”
“I am much obliged to the young lady, but I’ll not trouble anybody,” was the answer. “Thank ye all. If I might ask the liberty, when Jeanie is able, of a walk about your park–”
She had turned to Edgar again, upon whom her eyes dwelt with growing interest. Even Mr. Fielding thought it strange. “If she wants anything, surely I am the fit person to help her,” Clare could not help saying within herself. But it was Edgar to whom the stranger turned. He, too, was a little surprised by her look. “The park is open to everybody” he said; “that is no favour. But if you would like to go through the gardens and the private grounds—or even the house—Perfitt, you can arrange all that. And perhaps you might speak to the gardener, Clare?”
“Whatever you wish, Edgar,” said his sister, turning away. She was displeased. It was she who ought naturally to have been appealed to, and she was left out. But the new-comer evidently was honestly oblivious of Clare’s very presence. She had no intention of disrespect to the young lady, or of neglecting her claims; but she forgot her simply, being fascinated by her brother. It was him whom she thanked with concise and reserved words, but a certain strange fulness of tone and expression. And then she made the party a little bow, which took in the whole, and turned and led the way up the narrow cottage stair—Perfitt following her—leaving them all considerably puzzled, and more moved than Clare would have allowed to be possible. “If this is your Scotchwoman,” she said, turning to the Rector, “I don’t wonder you found her original;” and Clare went hastily out of the cottage, without a word to Sarah, followed by the gentlemen, who did not know what to say.
“Listen to her story before you begin to dislike her,” said Edgar. “Perfitt told me as we came along. It appears she had her daughter’s family thrown on her hands a great many years ago. She has a little farm in Scotland somewhere, and manages it herself. When these children came to her, she set to work as if she had been six men. She has brought up and educated every one of them,—not to be ploughmen, as you would think—but educated them in the Scotch way; one is a doctor, another a clergyman, and so on. If you don’t respect a woman like that, I do. Perfitt says she never flinched nor complained, but went at her work like a hero. And this is a granddaughter of another family whom she has taken charge of in the same way.”
“I felt sure she was something remarkable,” said Mr. Fielding, “I told Clare I had never seen any one quite like her; now, didn’t I? Scotch, you know—very Scotch; but to me a new type.”
“I think I prefer the old type,” said Clare, with a feeling of opposition, which she herself scarcely understood; “one knows what to do with them; and then they are civil, at least. I am going to see some now,” and she turned back suddenly, waving her hand to her companions, and went on past Sarah’s cottage to pay her visits. The people she was going to see were quite of the old type. They had no susceptibilities to menagér, no over-delicate feelings to be studied. They were ready to accept all that could be procured, and to ask for more. Clare knew, when she entered these cottages, that she was about to hear a long list of wants, and to have it made apparent to her that the comfort, and health, and happiness of her pensioners was entirely in her hands. It was more flattering than the independence of the stranger, who wanted nothing; but yet the contrast confused the mind of the girl, who had never had anything of the kind made so clearly apparent to her before. One of her old women had an orphan granddaughter too; but her complaints were many of the responsibility this threw upon her, and the trouble she had in keeping her charge in order. “Them young lasses, they eats and they drinks, and they’re never done; when a cup o’ tea would serve me, there’s a cooking and a messing for Lizzy; and out o’ evenings when I just want her; and every penny a going for nonsense. At my time o’ life, Miss, it ain’t bother as one wants; it’s quiet as does best for ou’d folks.”
“But she has nobody to take care of her except you,” said Clare, pondering her new lesson.
“Eh, Miss! They ben’t good for nothing for taking care o’ young ones ben’t ou’d folks.”
Clare turned away with a little disgust. She promised to supply all the wants that had been indicated to her, and they were many. But she did it with less than her usual kindness, and a sensation of indignation in her mind. How different was this servile dependence and denial of all individual responsibility from the story she had just heard! She was wrong, as was natural; for the old egotist was in reality very fond of her Lizzy, and only made use of her name in order to derive a more plentiful supply from the open hand of the young lady. Had there been no young lady to depend on, probably old Betty would have made no complaint, but done her best, and grudged nothing she had to her grandchild. Clare, however, was too young and inexperienced in human kind to know that what is bad often comes uppermost, concealing the good, and that there are quantities of people who always show their worst, not their best, face to the world. She went away in suppressed discontent, revolving in her mind without knowing it those questions of social philosophy with which every alms-giver must more or less come in contact. It was right for the Ardens, as lords of the manor, to watch over their dependents; of that there could be no doubt. Clare would have felt, as one might imagine a benevolent slaveholder to feel, had there been any destitution or unrelieved misery in her village: but the question had never occurred to her whether it was good for the people to be so watched over and taken care of? Supposing, for instance, such a case as that of Mr. Perfitt’s relative, Sarah’s lodger. Was it best for a woman in such circumstances to toil and strive, and deny herself all ease and pleasure, and bring up the children thus cast upon her with the sweat of her brow, according to that primeval curse or blessing which was not laid upon woman? Or would it be better to appeal to others, and make interest, and establish the helpless beings in orphan schools and benevolent institutions? The last was the plan which Clare had been chiefly cognisant of. When any one died in the village, it had been her wont to bestir herself instantly about their children, as if the responsibility was not upon the widow or the relatives, but upon her. She had disposed of them in all sorts of places—here one, and there another; and she had found, in most cases, that the villagers were but too willing to transfer their burdens to the young shoulders which were so ready to undertake them. But was that the best? If Edgar had enunciated this new doctrine in words, no doubt she would have combated it with all her might, and would have been very eloquent about the duties of property and the bond between superiors and inferiors. But Edgar had not said a word on the subject, probably had not thought at all about it. He was as liberal as she was, even lavish in his bounty, ready to give to anybody or everybody. He had said nothing on the subject; but he had told the story of that strange new-comer, who was (surely) so out of place, so unlike everything else in the little Arden world.
Clare passed by Sarah’s house again as the thoughts went through her mind. The window of the upper room was a broad lattice window with diamond panes, half concealed by honeysuckles, which were not in very good trim, but waved their long branches in sweet disorder over the half-red half-white wall, where the original bricks, all stained with lichens, peered through the whitewash. The casement was open, and against it leaned a little figure, the sight of which sent a thrill through the young lady’s heart. The face looked very young, and was surrounded by softly curling masses of hair, of that ruddy golden hue which is so often to be seen in children’s hair in Scotland, and which is almost always accompanied by the sweetest purity of complexion. It was a lovely face, like an angel’s, with something of the half-divine abstraction about it of Raphael’s angel children. She had never seen anything so strangely visionary, fair, and wild, like something from another world. Clare stood still and gazed, forgetting everything but this strange beautiful vision. The stranger’s eyes were turned towards Arden, to the great banks of foliage which stood up against the sky, hiding the house within their depths. What was she thinking of? whom was she looking for? or was she thinking of, looking for no one, abstracted in some dream? Clare’s heart began to beat as she stood unconscious and gazed. She was brought back to herself and to the ordinary rules of life by seeing that the old woman had come to the window, and was looking down upon her with equal earnestness. Then she went on with a little start, trembling, she could not tell why. Was it a child or a woman she had seen? and why had she come here?
