Маргарет Олифант: Squire Arden; volume 3 of 3

“How is Miss Pimpernel?” Arthur asked as he entered the house. He went in with a great appearance of anxiety and haste, and he repeated his question to a maid who was just preparing to ascend the stairs. The footman had given him no answer—a fact which he did not even observe; and the maid made him a little curtsey, and cast down her eyes, and looked confused and uncomfortable. “My mistress is coming, sir,” she said; and Arthur, looking up, saw that Mrs. Pimpernel herself was advancing to meet him. He saw at the first glance that there was to be war, and war to the knife, and that conciliation was impossible. “How is Miss Pimpernel?” he asked, taking the first word. “I was so glad to see she was able to move at once; but I fear she must have been much shaken, at least.”

Mrs. Pimpernel came downstairs upon him before she made any answer. She bore down like a conquering ship or a charge of cavalry. Her face was crimson; her eyes bright with anger; her head was agitated by a little nervous tremble. “Mr. Arden,” she said, rushing, as it were, into the fray, “I don’t think Miss Pimpernel would have been much the better for you, whatever had happened. I don’t think from what I have heard, that your kind service would have been much good to her. To tell the truth, when I heard some one asking, I never thought it could be you.”

“Miss Pimpernel fortunately, had no need of my services,” said Arthur firmly, standing his ground. “I cannot tell you what a relief it was to me to find her unhurt.”

“Unhurt, indeed!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Who says she is unhurt? A delicate young creature thrown from a high phæton like that, and all but trampled under the horses’ feet! And whose fault was it, Mr. Arden? I hope I shall have patience to speak. Whose fault was it, I say? And then to find herself deserted by those that ought to have taken care of her! All for the sake of a designing girl—an artful little cheat and hussy—a—a–”

“I am not the girl’s defender,” said Arthur Arden. “She may be all you say, and it is quite unimportant to me; but I thought she was killed, and Mr. Pimpernel and my cousin Edgar Arden were with your daughter.”

“Ah, Mr. Arden!” said Mrs. Pimpernel, “he is a gentleman—he is a true gentleman, notwithstanding all the nonsense you have been putting in Mr. Pimpernel’s head. And I tell you I don’t believe a word of it—not a word! Mr. Arden is what he always was, and you are a poor, mean, shabby adventurer, poking into people’s houses, and making yourself agreeable, and all that. Yes! I’ll make you hear me! that I shall! I tell you you are no better than a–”

“Is it necessary that John and Mary should assist at this explanation?” said Arthur. He smiled, but he was very pale. He said to himself that to attach any importance to the words of such a woman would be folly indeed; but yet shame and rage tore him asunder. A lady would not have condescended to abuse him. She would have treated him with deadly civility, and given him to understand that his room was wanted for another guest. But Mrs. Pimpernel had not been trained to habits of conventional decorum. Her face was red, her head trembled with rage and excitement. She had suffered a great deal in silence nursing her wrath—and now there was no longer any need to restrain herself. Now, Mr. Pimpernel himself was convinced, and Alice was indignant. He had been making use of them, trifling with them, taking advantage of the shelter of their house to carry on first one “affair” and then another. Had it been Clare Arden who had at this last crowning moment led him away from Alice, the affront would have been bitter, but not so unpardonable. But a girl out of the village, a nobody, an artful– Words forsook Mrs. Pimpernel’s burning lips. She felt herself no longer able to stand and pour forth her wrath. She made a dash at the door of Mr. Pimpernel’s library, and sat down, calling the culprit before her, with a wave of her hand. Arthur went in; but he shut the door, which was not what she had wanted. A certain moral support was in the fact that she stood, as it were, in the open centre of her own house, speaking loud enough to be heard by her husband and daughter above, and by the servants below stairs. But Mrs. Pimpernel, notwithstanding her courage, did not feel so comfortable when she found herself shut into the silence of a separate room, with Arthur Arden, pale and composed, and overwhelmingly gentlemanly, before her, and not even the presence of John or Mary to give her strength. It was a strategical mistake.

“I am glad to say it does not matter to me who hears me,” she said. “Let those be ashamed that have acted shabby, and shown themselves what they are. For my part, I couldn’t have believed it. To creep into a house, and live on the best of everything, and carriages and horses and all at your command—I should have been ashamed to do it. No man would have done it that was better than an adventurer—a mean, miserable–”

“Mrs. Pimpernel,” said Arthur, “you have been very civil and friendly, asking me to your house, and I have done my best to repay it in the way that was expected. Pray don’t suppose I am ignorant it was an affair of barter—the best of everything, as you say, and the carriages, &c., on one side; but on my side a very just equivalent. Let us understand each other. What am I supposed to have done amiss? Of course, our mutual accommodation is over, after this scene—but I should be glad to know, before I accept my dismissal, what I am supposed to have done amiss–”

“Equivalent! Accommodation! Oh you!– Without a penny to bless yourself with—and living on the fat of the land– Champagne like water, and everything you could set your face to. And now you brazen it out to me. Oh you poor creature! Oh you beggarly, penniless–”

“Pray let us come to particulars,” said Arthur; “these reproaches are sadly vague. Come, things are not so bad after all. You expected me to be your attendant, a sort of upper footman, and I have been such. You expected me to lend the name of an Arden to all your junketings, and I have done it. You expected me, perhaps– But I don’t want to bring in the name of Miss Pimpernel–”

“No, don’t—if you dare!” cried the mother. “Mention my child, if you dare. As if she was not, and hadn’t always been, a deal too good for you. Thirty thousand pounds of her own, and as pretty a girl and as good a girl– Oh, don’t you suppose she cares! She would not look at you out of her window, if there was not another man; she would never bemean herself, wouldn’t my Alice. You think yourself a great man with the ladies, but you may find out your mistake. Your cousin won’t see you, nor look at you—you know that. Oh, you may start! She has seen through you long ago, has Miss Arden—and if you thought for a moment that my Alice– Good gracious!—to think a man should venture to look me in the face, after leaving my child to be killed, and going after a– Don’t speak to me! Yes, I know you. I always saw through you. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Pimpernel, and that sweet angel upstairs–”

And here Mrs. Pimpernel paused, and sobbed, and shed tears—giving her adversary the advantage over her. She was all the more angry that she felt she had wasted her words, and had not transfixed and made an end of him, as she had hoped—as she had meant to do. To see him standing there unsubdued, with a smile on his face, was gall and wormwood to her. She choked with impotent rage and passion. She could have flown at him, tooth and claw, if she had not put force on herself. Arthur felt the height of exasperation to which he was driving her, and, perhaps, enjoyed it; but nothing was to be made by continuing such a struggle.