CHAPTER II.
A youthful Solomon.
Edgar felt so strong an inclination to say nothing about the sudden arrival of his cousins, that he thought it best to communicate at once what had happened. He told his hosts at dinner, describing the brother and sister, and Margaret’s remarkable beauty, which had impressed him greatly.
“And really you did not know she was so pretty?” Lady Mary said, fixing a searching look upon him. Instant suspicion flashed up in her mind, a suspicion natural to womankind, that his evident admiration meant at least a possibility of something else. And if she had been consistent, no doubt she would have jumped at this, and felt in it an outlet for all her difficulties, and the safest of all ways of detaching Edgar from any chance of influence over her niece; but she was as inconsistent as most other people, and did not like this easy solution of the difficulty. She offered promptly to call upon the new-comers; but she did not cease to question Edgar about them with curiosity, much sharpened by suspicion. She extracted from him, in full detail, the history of the Murrays, of Margaret’s early widowhood, and the special union which existed between her and her brother. Harry Thornleigh had arrived at Tottenham’s that day, and the story interested him still more than it did Lady Mary. Poor Harry was glad enough to get away from his father’s sole companionship; but he did not anticipate very much enjoyment of the kindred seclusion here. He grasped at Edgar as a drowning man grasps at a rope.
“I say, let’s go somewhere and smoke. I have so many things to tell you, and so many things to ask you,” he cried, when Lady Mary had gone to bed, and Mr. Tottenham, too, had departed to his private retirement, and Edgar, not knowing, any more than Harry himself did, that young Thornleigh was set over him as a sentinel, to guard him from all possibility of mischief, was but too glad to find himself with an uninstructed bystander, from whom he could have those bare “news” without consciousness or under-current of meaning, which convey so much more information than the scrap of enlightenment which well-meaning friends dole out with more and more sparing hands, in proportion as the feelings of the hearer are supposed to be more or less concerned. Harry was not so ignorant as Edgar thought him. He was not bright, but he flattered himself on being a man of the world, and was far from being uninterested in Gussy’s persistent neglect of all possible “opportunities.” “A girl don’t stand out like that without some cause for it,” Harry would have said, sagaciously; but he was too knowing to let it be perceived that he knew.
“There is a deal of difference up at home now,” he said. “I don’t mean my father—but you can’t think what changes Arden has made. Do you like to hear, or don’t you like to hear? I’ll guide myself accordingly. Very well, then I’ll speak. He’s on the right side in politics, you know, which you never were, and that’s a good thing: but he’s done everything you felt yourself bound not to do. Clare don’t like it, I don’t think. You should see the lot of new villas and houses. Arden ain’t a bit like Arden; it’s a new spick and span Yankee sort of town. I say, what would the old Squire have thought? but Arthur Arden don’t care.”
“He is right enough, Harry. He was not bound to respect anyone’s prejudices.”
“Well, there was Clare,” said Thornleigh. “They may be prejudices, you know; but I wouldn’t spite my wife for money—I don’t think. To be sure, if a man wants it badly that’s an excuse; but Arden has plenty of money, thanks to you. What a softy you were, to be sure, not to say anything disagreeable! Even if I had had to give up in the end, wouldn’t I have made him pay!”
“Never mind that,” said Edgar. “Tell me some more news. He hasn’t changed the house, I suppose, and they are very happy, and that sort of thing? How is she looking”? It is three years since I left, and one likes to hear of old friends.”
“Happy?” said Harry, “meaning Mrs. Arden? She’s gone off dreadfully; oh, I suppose she’s happy enough. You know, old fellow,” the young man continued, with a superior air of wisdom, “I don’t pretend to believe in the old-fashioned idea of living happy ever after. That’s bosh! but I daresay they’re just as comfortable as most people. Clare has gone off frightfully. She’s not a bit the girl she was; and of course Arden can’t but see that, and a man can’t be always doing the lover.”
“Is it so?” cried Edgar, with flashing eyes. He got up unconsciously, as if he would have rushed to Clare’s side on the spot, to defend her from any neglect. All the old affection surged up in his heart. “My poor Clare!” he said, “and I cannot do anything for you! Don’t think me a fool, Harry. She’s my only sister, though she doesn’t belong to me; and that fellow—What do you mean by gone off? She was always pale.”