Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3. Маргарет Олифант
think any one meant to offend you,” said Clare; and then she turned and bowed to Mrs. Pimpernel, who started from her seat to detain her. “I must go, thank you; I am busy,” she said, with another stately gesture of leave-taking to where Arthur and Alice stood together. “Bring Jeanie to see me to-morrow,” she added, pausing as she went away. It was an impulse she could not restrain, though Jeanie’s part in it was very small. She lingered that there might be a chance for some one else to say something—a possibility. And then she made that chance impossible. “Come up as early as twelve o’clock, please, if she is well enough. I have a great deal to talk to you about.” And with these words she hurried away. She would not look at him, or permit any sympathetic glance to open the way for a word. And yet she had lingered that a look or word might come. Strange inconsistency! She ran downstairs, leaving them above, leaving them together, and went out alone, without saying a word to Sarah or her myrmidons, feeling so lonely, so sad, so solitary, so deserted by heaven and earth! It was right, quite right, of Arthur Arden to make some provision for himself; she had no fault to find with him, not a word to say. But she was very solitary, and very sad. If she only had been spared the sight of it! But no; all her fortitude would be required. He would probably live here in the neighbourhood somewhere after he had married Alice Pimpernel; and he would be well off at least, if not happy! Oh! surely not happy with that insipid creature, who buttoned her gloves and trembled to hear her own name.
Clare hurried along the village street at a pace quite unusual to her; but she had not gone far when she found that she was pursued. She would not look back for the first moment; but, notwithstanding the repugnance in her own mind to turn and speak to him, it was inconsistent to her dignity to be thus followed by her cousin, whom everybody knew. She turned round with the best grace she could muster, and addressed him with her usual manner. “Did you want me?” she said, and slackened her pace that he might come up.
“It seems so strange that you should ask,” said Arthur, “Want you? As if I dared tell you half how much– But never mind! I went to the Pimpernels’ thinking I should be at hand and might have opportunities– I did not know you were so prejudiced against them. May not I even come to see you while I am there?”
“Being there does not matter much,” said Clare, hastily, and then she corrected herself. “Of course, you think me prejudiced and disagreeable,” she said; “but I am as I was brought up. Edgar thinks me dreadfully prejudiced. I dare say they are very nice, and all that; but perhaps it would be as well that you did not come to Arden while you were there.”
“Why?” said Arthur, in a low voice.
“Why? Oh, I can’t tell why. Because I don’t like it. Because I am cross and testy, and like to contradict you. Because– But you know it is no use asking. If a woman is not to chose who she will call on, she must be oppressed and trampled down indeed.”
“You are concealing your real objection,” said Arthur; and I, who went because I thought– Why, I met Edgar there! But never mind; of course, it must be as you please. I said I would stay a fortnight. Must I never come near you all that time? It is very hard. And it is harder still that Edgar should have gone away as he did, breaking all our party up. Do you know, I have never been so happy, not all my life?”
“I am sure you must be quite as happy now,” said Clare; “and I hope you will be prosperous in everything you may undertake. Edgar, I am sure, would be very glad to hear, and I– I do so hope, Mr. Arden, that everything you wish will thrive—as you wish–” And here Clare stopped short, breathing quickly, almost overcome by mixture of despite, and self-restraint, and sorrow for herself, which was in her mind.
“Do you, indeed?” he said. “That is very, very kind of you. It would be kinder still if you knew—but you don’t care to know. If I should ever remind you of your good wishes—not now, because I dare not, but afterwards—some time—if I should pluck up courage–”
“I don’t think there is any great courage required,” said Clare. “Trust me, I shall always be glad to hear that you have done—well for yourself. There could be no more agreeable news. Neither Edgar nor I could have any desire but to see you—happy. Excuse me, I am going to see Miss Somers. I should ask you to come in too, but she is such an invalid, and I am keeping you from your friends. You may be sure you have my very best wishes—good-bye–”
And Clare held out her hand to him, and smiled a smile which was very proud and uncomfortable. She had not in the least intended to visit Miss Somers, but it would have been utterly impossible for her (she thought) to have walked up all the length of the avenue by Arthur Arden’s side. Most likely he would have told her of his progress with Alice. And how could she bear that? It was better to part thus abruptly as long as she was capable of smiling and uttering those good wishes which, she had some faint perception, were gall and wormwood to the recipient. She could see that her benevolent hopes and desires were bitter to him, and it pleased her to see it. Yet, notwithstanding, she still believed in Alice Pimpernel. Why should he be there otherwise? He might not like it to be known until everything was settled—it might be galling to his pride. But still, why should he be there but for that? It was the only possible attraction. And no doubt it was a very sensible thing to do. She hurried across to the doctor’s house without looking back, eager to be rid of him—to get away—to forget all about it. And yet not without a thought that perhaps he would refuse to be dismissed—perhaps would insist upon explaining—perhaps– But the door opened and closed upon her, and not a word was said to prevent her visit to Miss Somers. When she looked out of the invalid’s window Arthur was walking very slowly and quietly down the street to rejoin his friends. This was how it was to be. Well! he had been driven out of Arden, poor fellow! he had been discouraged in his dearer hopes. She herself had been unkind to him; and Edgar had been, oh, how unkind! And he was poor, and must do something to re-establish himself in the world. Was he to blame? Clare clasped her two hands tightly together, and set her lips close that no sigh might escape from them. What alternative was there for him but to act as he was doing; and what for her but to wish him well? And Edgar, too, no doubt, would wish him well—Edgar, who had done it all.
CHAPTER VII
Arthur Arden went back to the Pimpernels’ with no very comfortable feelings. He had gone to the Red House, he said, in order to be near Arden, and that he might make frequent visits to the central object of his pursuit; but he had not been aware how far Clare carried out her principles, and that she really declined to know the people whom she did not think her equals. Arthur was accustomed to people who sneer yet visit and take advantage of all the wealth and luxuries of the nouveaux riches. Make use of them: was not that what all the world did, accepting their costly dinners and fine carriages, and laughing at them behind their backs? How was it that Clare refused to do this like other people? Her kinsman could not tell. He thought it foolish of her, if Clare could do anything foolish, and in his own mind quoted the example of a great many very fine people indeed who did it freely. Why should one be so much better than others? he thought to himself; and so went back disconcerted to join the Pimpernels.
Clare was wrong in the conclusion she had jumped at, and still she was not altogether wrong. Alice was pretty and quite inoffensive, and she would have thirty thousand pounds. When a young man of good family without any money or any profession has arrived at the borders of forty, various questions present themselves to him in a very decided way, and demand consideration. What is to become of him? You may keep time at bay if you have all the aids and preventives at hand for doing so; but when that is not the case, when you have, on the other hand, anxieties instead of cosmetics, and increase your wrinkles by every hour’s thought, the crisis is a very formidable one. Arthur Arden had been brought up, like so many young men, with vague thoughts of an appointment which was to do everything for him. This expectation had quieted the consciences of everybody belonging to him. He had been waiting for an appointment as long as he could recollect, and he was still waiting for it now. To tell the truth, the progress of years did not make it more likely or bring it any nearer; but still, he knew a great many people who had in their hands the giving of appointments, and it was not impossible that such a thing might drop from the skies at any moment. What he would have done with it when it came, after so many years’ lounging about the world without anything definite to do, is a different question. But, in the meantime, Alice Pimpernel,