Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3. Маргарет Олифант
moved her to a little alarm. For she, too, had supposed he would yield, being so tender of giving pain, and he had not yielded nor budged a step. And Clare, high-minded and high-spirited and proud as she was, grew frightened, as she glanced with furtive eyes at her gentle brother, who, she knew well, would not hurt a fly.
But if Clare was frightened, the effect upon Edgar was still more serious. He felt that his flight was too late to do any good. She loved this man whom he thought so unworthy of her. So much older, poorer, less true and good than herself; a man, with so many soils of the world upon him, whom even Edgar felt to possess experiences of which he would rather know nothing; but Clare loved him! Nothing else could account for her agitation. It was too late to banish him from the house, too late to build up defences round her—the stronghold was gone. Edgar’s quick mind jumped from that conclusion to an instant and final summary of Arthur Arden’s character. He was a man who might mend, as so many men might mend, if prosperity smiled upon him. If he had love, and money, and an established position, he might settle down, as so many have settled down, all his wild oats sown, and himself a most virtuous member of society—“a sober man among his boys,” giving them the best advice and example. Had he been the Squire, he would have fitted the place beautifully. This idea came to Edgar in spite of himself. He would have made an admirable Squire, and the little process of wild oats-sowing would have been no social disadvantage to him. Even now, if he became Mr. Arden, of Old Arden, in right of his wife—this was one of the things that annoyed Edgar, but he tried to look it in the face. His sister had said no more about giving that possession up, and Edgar did not find it within the limits of his powers to make a proposal to her on the subject—and accordingly the chances were that Arthur would be Arden, of Old Arden, while Edgar was only the young Squire. It galled even his sweet temper to think of this transference. But, putting feeling aside, and thinking only of justice, he did not doubt that his cousin would mend. He had reached the age when men often mend, when dissipation becomes less sweet, and reputation more dear, and when comfort comes in as a powerful auxiliary to virtue. To have only such satisfaction as could be given by these thoughts when he was considering Clare’s future husband, and her hopes of happiness, was poor enough; but still it was better than the thought that he was giving her over to the charge of a man who would ruin her and break her heart.
The household at Arden was an uneasy one that night; the three kept together, making each other uncomfortable, but with a vague sense of safety in company. Edgar was anxious to prevent any definite explanation; Arthur was afraid to risk the words he would be sure to say if Clare and he were alone; and she, not knowing what she feared, not knowing what she wished, afraid of her brother, afraid of her cousin, uncertain of herself, kept between them, with such a painful attempt at ordinary talk as was possible. They were to separate to-morrow—the two men into the world, the woman into the stillness which had been familiar to her so long. “I am used to it, but it will be different,” she said, almost pathetically, strong in the presence of both, and feeling that what she said could produce no agitating response. “It will be very different for all of us,” said Arthur Arden. “Will there ever come days like these again?”
CHAPTER IV
It would be difficult to conceive anything more strangely lonely and bleak than Arden seemed to Clare the day after her brother and cousin left it. She wandered about the vacant rooms and out upon the terrace, and kept thinking that she heard their voices and steps, and caught glimpses of them turning the corners. But they were gone—Edgar to come back again shortly, so that could scarcely be counted a calamity. But Arthur—would he come at all? Would he be years of coming, as he had been before? It seemed to Clare that it was years instead of weeks since she had dwelt thus alone and tranquil, waiting for Edgar’s return. She had been alone, but then her loneliness had seemed natural. She took it as a matter of course, scarcely pausing to think that she was different from others, or, if she ever did so, feeling her isolation almost as much a sign of superiority as of anything less pleasant. She was the Chatelaine—the one sole lady of the land, in her soft maidenly state; and the visits of the kind friends who offered themselves on all sides to come and stay with her, out of pity for her solitude, had been more a trouble than a pleasure to her. But now it seemed to Clare that she would be thankful for any companionship—anything that would free her from her own thoughts. She felt like a boat which had drifted ashore, like something which had been thrown out of the ordinary course of existence. Life had gone away and left her; and yet she was more full of life than she had ever been before, tingling to the very finger points, expecting, hoping, looking for a thousand new things to come. Once it had not occurred to her to look for anything new; but now every hour as it came thrilled her with consciousness that her life might be changed in it, that it might prove the supreme moment which should decide the character and colour of all the rest.
And yet what hope, what chance, what possibility was there that this auspicious moment should come now? Had not “everybody” been driven away? This was how she phrased it to herself—not one person, but every one. Who could approach her now in the solitude which was a more effectual guard than twenty brothers? If “any one” wished to come, if any one had anything to say, why, the visit must be postponed, and the words left unsaid, until—how could she tell how long? Three years had passed between Arthur Arden’s two last visits. What if three years should come and go again before Chance or Fate brought him back? It could only be Chance that had done it this time, not Providence; for if Providence had been the agent, then the visit must have come to something, and not ended without result. Thus Clare mused, as it were, in the depths of her being, concealing even from herself what she was thinking. When Arthur Arden’s name flitted across that part of her mind which lay, so to speak, in the light, she blushed, and started with a sense of guilt; but in the shadowy corners, where thought has no need of words, and where a hundred aimless cogitations pass like breath, and no sense of responsibility comes in, she put no bridle upon her dreaming fancy. And it was all new to her; for dreams had never been much in Clare’s way. Hers had been a practical intelligence, busied with many things to do and think of—the village and her subjects in it; the legislation necessary for them; the wants of the old women and the children—a hundred matters of detail which deserved the consideration of a wise ruler, and yet must be kept subordinate to greater principles. Even the larger questions affecting the estate had come more or less into Clare’s hands. She had been allowed no time to dream, and she had not dreamt; but now idleness and loneliness fell upon her both together. She was weary of the village and its concerns. She had nothing else to occupy her. And, indeed, she had no desire for other occupations, but preferred this new musing—this maze of fancies—to anything else in earth and heaven.
But the evenings were dreary, dreary, when darkness fell, and the wistful shadows of the summer night gathered about her, and no one came to break the silence. She tried to follow her brother in imagination, and to picture to herself what he might be doing—hanging about Gussy Thornleigh, perhaps—letting himself drift into the channel indicated by Lady Augusta. Ah!—and then, while she thought she was still thinking of Edgar and Gussy, Clare’s fancies would take their flight in another direction to another hero. When this, however, had gone on for a few days and nights, she was seized with a sense that it must not continue—that such a way of passing her time was fatal. It was much too like the girls whom Clare had read of in novels, whom she had indignantly denied to be true representatives of womankind, and whom she had scorned and blushed for in her heart. Was she to become one of that maudlin, sentimental band, to whom love, as novel-writers and essayists said, was everything, and to whom the inclinations of one man in this world conveyed life or death? Clare’s modesty, and her pride, and her good sense, all rose in arms. She had given up all her former pursuits for these first dreamy days; but now she woke up, and tied on her hat, and forced herself down the avenue to the village. There something was sure to be found to do—whatever might be the state of her own mind or its fancies. She walked straight to Sarah’s cottage, where Mary Smith and Ellen Jones were still busy with their needlework and their clear-starching. Sarah was sitting out in her cottage doorway, enjoying the evening calm. The sun had not yet set, but it had fallen below the line of the trees; and Sarah’s doorway was shadowy and cool. The old woman had many grumbles bottled up for Clare’s private enjoyment, which had been aggravated by keeping. Mary was “the thoughtlessest lass.” She had burned a big hole in Miss Somers’ muslin dressing-gown with an iron that was too hot. She had torn Mrs Pimpernel’s