Маргарет Олифант - Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3

“The Thornleighs; oh, they are cheap enough. You will meet them everywhere,” said Arthur, with a sneer. “If that is all you go to town for–”

“The Thornleighs!” said Clare; and she made a rapid feminine calculation, and decided that though it was very sudden it must be Gussy, and that a new mistress to Arden was inevitable. It did not strike her so painfully as it might have done, in the tumult of her personal thoughts. “Everything will be strange to you,” she said. “And then you are so fond of the country, and have to make acquaintance with everything. Don’t you think, Edgar— that might wait?”

“What might wait?” said Edgar, laughing; but he kept firm to his proposal. “Yes, I must go as soon as it is practicable,” he said to Arthur when they were alone. “I have got to make acquaintance with my own country. I don’t know London any more than I know Constantinople; I have been in it, and gazed at it, but that is all. And Newmarch is a very sensible fellow,” he added, abruptly. “By the way, Arden, what do you say to coming with me? You might share my rooms. If you have not any pressing engagements–”

“I have nothing at all to do,” said Arthur. “Of course, I should rather have stayed here. I need not tell you that, after all I have told you. Arden is to me the most captivating place in England. But if you are going, of course I must go too.” And he sighed a profound sigh.

“Of course,” said Edgar, with quiet calmness; and then there was an uncomfortable pause.

“That is what I object to,” said Arthur Arden; “You give me to understand you won’t interfere, and then you as good as turn me out of the house by going away yourself. By Jove! I believe that is the reason why–”

“If you think I am to give up all control over my movements because you happen to be in the house–” said Edgar, with a laugh. “No, Arden, that will never do. And I never said I would not interfere. It might be my duty. I am Clare’s brother, and the head of the house.”

“Clare can take care of herself, and so can the house. Fancy you ——”

“I am all it has for a head,” said Edgar, keeping his temper with an effort. “But this is very unprofitable sort of talk.”

And then there was a gloomy pause, all conversation being arrested. Arthur Arden had been making, he thought, considerable progress with Clare, which was a thing that made Clare’s brother much less important. She and Old Arden seemed almost within reach of his hand, and what should he care for the Hall and the Squire if he were Mr. Arden of Old Arden, with a beautiful wife? But to be thus sent away at the most critical moment! Arthur was sullen, and did not think it worth his while to conceal it. He asked himself, Should he risk the final effort—should he put it to the test, and know at once what his fortune was to be? in which case he might scorn the spurious Arden and all his efforts; or should he be wary, and flatter him, and wait?

He had not yet resolved the question when they joined Clare on the terrace, which was her summer drawing-room. But Arthur’s mind was not relieved by seeing the lady of his hopes take her brother’s arm, and lead him away along the front of the house, talking to him. “Has anything happened that makes you want to go?” Clare asked. “Have you heard anything—have you had any letter—is it about—Gussy? I am the only one that has a right to know, Edgar; you might tell me .”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you are going to town: there must be some reason. I am sure it is not caprice. Edgar, don’t you know, I care for everything that concerns you; but you speak as if your affairs were of no consequence, as if they were nothing to me.”

“I am not so ungrateful nor so silly,” said Edgar: “but look here. I can’t tell you why I’m going, Clare; and yet I am going for a good reason, which is quite satisfactory to myself. Can you allow me as much private judgment as that?”

“Of course, your private judgment is all in all,” said Clare, affronted. “How could any one attempt to dictate to you? But one might wish to know without thrusting in one’s opinion– Tell me only this one thing, Edgar. Is it about Gussy Thornleigh?”

Edgar laughed in the fulness of his innocence. “No more about Gussy Thornleigh than about–”

“Me?” said Clare. “You are quite sure? If it is business, that is quite a different thing. I hope I am not so foolish as to think of interfering with business. But I do feel so concerned—so anxious, Edgar dear, about–”

“About what?” said Edgar, meeting her troubled look with his habitual smile.

“About your wife,” said Clare, solemnly. She only shook her head when he laughed, disturbing all the quiet echoes. “Ah, yes, you may laugh,” she said, “but it is of the greatest importance. I assure you our—cousin thinks so too.”

Edgar made a profane exclamation. “I am infinitely obliged to him, I am sure,” he said, after the objectionable words had escaped his lips. “Our cousin thinks so too!” What was “our cousin” between these two, who ought to be everything to each other? And then it occurred to him, with a softening sense of that comic element which runs through human nature, that while Arthur Arden so kindly interested himself in his (Edgar’s) hypothetical interests, he, on his side, was taking a good deal of trouble wholly and solely on Arthur’s account. His kinsman was not aware how much he was influenced by this consideration; and the thought of this mutual regard amused Edgar, even in the midst of his displeasure. “We all take an interest in each other,” he said, laughing, half jestingly, yet with a sense of fun which was very odd to Clare.

And then she went, all unconscious, to her little table, and sat down, and took her work. She did not work very much, her hands being full of things more important—the affairs of the parish and estate; but to her, as to most other women, it was a welcome occasional refuge. It was true, quite true, that she was anxious about Edgar’s wife, and ready to believe in the attractions of Gussy Thornleigh, or any one else who came in his way; but other feelings confused her mind at the same time. When Edgar went away of course Arthur must go also; and Arthur had managed to twine himself up with her life in the strangest subtle way. How should she bear the blank when they were gone? It would be like the time before Edgar’s return—the silent days when she was alone in Arden. But these days had not been quickened by any new touch of life as the present time had been; and it made her shudder to think how such grey days would look when they came back.

“This is fatal news to me,” said Arthur, softly sitting down opposite to her. “I thought I might have stayed here at Arden, and for once kept out of the racket of town.”

“I thought you liked town,” said Clare, “and I thought my brother hated it. I must have been mistaken in both.”

“Do not be so hard upon me. I have liked town more than I ought. When there are a good many things in a man’s life that he is very glad to forget, and not many that are much pleasure to think of, town is a resource to him; but when there comes a balmy time like this, when it almost looks as if the gates of heaven might open once in a way–”

“You are very poetical,” said Clare, forcing herself to smile, though her heart began to flutter and beat with the sense of something more to come.

“Am I?” he said, and then began to mutter between his teeth, the first line faintly, the second more audible—