Маргарет Олифант - Squire Arden; volume 1 of 3

“I never saw this Mr. Fazakerley,” he said, as Clare and he sat alone over their breakfast on that second morning. Already it had become natural to him to be the master of the great house, of all those silent servants, the centre of a life so unlike anything that he had known. His mind was very rapid, went quickly over the preliminary stages, and accustomed itself to a hundred novelties, while a slower fancy would but have been having its first gaze at them; but the absolutely New startled him to a greater degree than it ever could have startled a more leisurely imagination. “I don’t know him a bit,” he repeated, with a half laugh, in which there was more nervousness than amusement. “What sort of a man is he? I always like to know–”

“Mr. Fazakerley!” said Clare, with a soft echo of wonder, “why, all the Ardens have known all the Fazakerleys from their cradles. He must have had you on his knee a hundred times, as I am sure he had me.”

“I don’t think so,” said Edgar, suppressing, because of the servants, any other question, “or, if I ever saw him I have forgotten. Why must we have business breaking in upon us at every turn? I am afraid I like play.”

“I am afraid you have had too much play,” Clare said, looking at him with those eyes of young wisdom, utterly without experience, which look so soft yet judge so hardly; “but, Edgar, you must remember you are not a wanderer now. You have begun serious life.”

“I wonder if life is as serious as you are, Clare,” he said, looking at her with that half-tender, half mocking look, which Clare did not quite understand nor like; “or whether this lawyer and his green bag will be half as alarming as those looks of yours. I may satisfy him; but I fear I shall never come up to your mark.”

“Don’t speak so, please,” said Clare. “Why shouldn’t you come up to my mark? I like a man to be very high-minded and generous, and that you are, Edgar; but then I like people to have proper pride, and believe in their own position, and feel its duties. That is all—and I like people to be English–, and it would be so nice to think you were going to show yourself a true Arden, in spite of everything.” This was said at a fortunate moment, when Wilkins, the butler, was at the very other end of the great room, fetching something from the sideboard, and could not hear. She leant across the table hastily, before the man turned round, and added, in a hurried tone, “Don’t discuss such things before the servants, Edgar; they listen to everything we say.”

“I forgot,” he said; “I never had servants before who knew English. You don’t recollect that English has always been a grand foreign language to me.”

“The more’s the pity!” said Clare, with a deep sigh. This sentiment made her beautiful face so long, and drooped the corners of her mouth so sadly, that her brother laughed in spite of himself.

“But it is possible to live out of England for all that,” he said; “and I know people in Germany that would have the deepest sympathy with you. The Von Dummkopfs think just the same of themselves as the Ardens do, and look down just as much upon outsiders. I wonder how you would like the Fraulein Ida? They have twenty quarterings in their arms, and blood that has been filtered through all the veins worth speaking of in Germany for ever so many centuries; but then the Von Dummkopfs are not so rich as we are, Clare.”

“As if I ever thought of that!” she said. “Who is Fraulein Ida? I have no doubt I shall like her—if she is nice. But, Edgar, though I would not say a word against your German friends, it would be so much nicer if you would marry an English girl. I should be able to love her so much more.”

“Softly,” said Edgar; “don’t go so fast, please. I have not the least intention of marrying any one; and I don’t admire the Fraulein Ida. I want nobody but my sister, as long as she will keep faithful to me. Let us have the good of each other for a little now, without any one to interfere.”

“Edgar, no one can interfere,” said Clare hurriedly. “Now that man is gone, oh, Edgar! I must say one word for poor papa. I know he was hard upon you, dear; but he never interfered—never said a word—never tried to keep me from loving you. Indeed, indeed, he never did! I know I was cross yesterday about that picture. If you don’t like it, it shall come down; it is only right it should come down. But oh, Edgar, he was so kind, he was so good to me!”

Edgar had risen before the words were half said, and stood by her, holding her tenderly in his arms. “My dear little sister!” he said, “you have always been the one star I had to cheer me. You shall hang all the house with his picture if you like. I forgive him all my grievances because he was good to you. But, Clare, he hated me.”

“No, Edgar, not hated,” cried Clare, raising to him her weeping face. “Oh, not hated; but he loved mamma so, and you were so like her, he never could bear–”

Her voice faltered as she spoke. It was all she could say, but she did not believe it. As for Edgar, he shook his head with a smile that was half bitter half sad.

“I know better,” he said; “but it is a question we need not discuss. Believe the gentle fiction, dear, if you can. But I will never say a word again about any picture. Let it be. It would be hard if your brother could not put up with anything that was dear to you. Now tell me about Mr. Fazakerley, and what he is going to say.”

“Edgar, it all belongs to the same subject,” said Clare, drying her eyes. “I am glad you have spoken. I should not have had the courage to begin. There is something about the Old Arden estate; they told me, but I would not listen to them—would not hear anything about it till you came back. They said it was your doing as well as his; I don’t understand how that can be. They said you wanted it to be settled on me; but why, Edgar, should it be settled on me? It is neither right nor natural,” said Clare, her blue eyes lighting up, though tears still hung upon the eyelashes. “Arden, that gave us our name—that was the very beginning of the race—why should you wish to give it to me?”

“Is it given to you?” said Edgar, with a certain sense of bewilderment creeping over him. “I am afraid I have been like you—I have not understood, nor thought on the subject indeed for that matter. There was something about breaking the entail between him and me; but I did not understand anything about it. I never knew—Clare, I can’t make it out,” he said, suddenly sitting down and gazing at her. “Why did he hate me?”

Then they looked at each other without a word. Clare’s great blue eyes, dilated with grief and wonder, and two big tears which filled them to overflowing, were fixed upon her brother’s face. But she had no elucidation to give. She only put out her hands to him, and took his, and held it close, with that instinctive impulse to tender touch and contact which is more than words. She followed her brother with her eyes while he faced this new wonder. “Well,” he was saying to himself, “of course you must have known he meant something by breaking the entail. Of course it was not for your sake he did it. What could it be for? You never asked—never thought. Of course it could only be to take it from you. And why not give it to Clare? If not to you, of course it must go to Clare; and but for that she could not have had it. It is very well that it should be so. It is best; is it not best?” Thus he reasoned according to his nature, while Clare sat watching him with wistful dilated eyes. While he calmed himself down she was rousing herself. Her agitation rose to the intolerable pitch, while his was slowly coming down to moderation and composure. The sudden cloud floated away from him, and the light came back to his eyes. “I begin to see it,” he said slowly. “Don’t be vexed, Clare, that I did not see it all at once. It is not that I grudge you anything; he might have given you all, and I don’t think I should have grudged it. It is the mistrust—the preference. It is so strange. One wonders what it can mean.”