Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3. Маргарет Олифант
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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—
“If Maud were all that she seemed,
And her smile were all that I deemed,
Then this world were not so bitter
But a smile might make it sweet.”
Clare heard, but she did not smile. She kept her eyes on her work, and her lips shut close. And after he had discharged this little arrow, he sat and looked at her and wondered. She gave him no encouragement—not the least. She would not even let it be apparent that she understood, or that there was any meaning whatever perceptible to her in what he said. The only thing that could give him any hope was a subdued consciousness about her, a thrill of suppressed excitement—something which made her fix her eyes upon her work and restrain her breath. Arthur saw this, and it made his heart beat. She was expectant—waiting for other words which she foresaw were coming—words which he would have given a great deal to be allowed to speak. For one moment he hesitated, and had almost gone on. But again a cold dread came over him. Was it according to nature that a proud girl like Clare should thus wait for her lover’s declaration if she meant to answer it favourably? Was it not a stately, reluctant kindness on her part, to get over a crisis which she felt to be coming, and spare him as much pain as possible? He shrank back into himself with a sense of suffering greater than he could have considered possible when this idea took possession of him. Would she have given him this gracious opportunity, waited for him in such stillness and consciousness, had any word but “No” been on her lips? He did not think that Clare felt herself like a sovereign princess, one whom men dare not woo unless when signs and tokens to justify the daring are supplied. She sat motionless, expecting, meaning to give him courage. And he took from this indication of royal readiness to listen only an intimation of despair.
“Yes, it is fatal news to me,” he said, with a deep sigh; and he got up, and stood over her, reluctant to go, too unhappy to stay. “When shall I see Arden again, I wonder, and what will have become of us all by that time?” he added, taking momentary courage; but just then Edgar came up to them, and it was too late.
CHAPTER III
Clare’s thoughts had travelled very far during Arthur Arden’s visit at the Hall. When he arrived she had made up her mind to endure him, to have as little to say to him as possible, to watch anxiously all his relations with her brother, and keep all her wits about her to counteract his schemes against Edgar, if he had any. But all these original intentions had floated away from her, she could not tell how. The whole condition of affairs was changed. He had no schemes against Edgar: on the contrary, he heartily liked and thought well of the strange, generous, open-hearted soul, who was so very unlike all the Ardens had ever been, and yet was the head of the Ardens, and master of the family destiny. Arthur did not understand him any more than Clare did, but had given in his declaration of loyalty and support. So that the great obstacle—was it the only obstacle between them?—was swept away at once. And then there had been the doubt of her cousin’s motives, the uncertainty as to his meaning, whether he loved her for herself, or whether—but this Clare had been very reluctant to think of—he had contemplated enriching himself by her means. It would have been quite natural that he should have done so by means of any other lady. It was not the mere mercenary pretence at love which revolted his young kinswoman, but simply a personal aversion to be herself the subject of such a commercial transaction.