Mrs. Arden made him an excellent wife. She was as proud as he was, and held her head very high in the county. The Countess of Marchmont, Lord Newmarch’s mother, was nothing in comparison with Mrs. Arden of Arden. But people said she was too cold in her manners ever to be popular. When her husband stood for the county, and she had to show the ordinary gracious face to all the farmers and farm-men, Clare’s manners lost more votes than her beauty and her family might have gained. She could not be cordial to save her life. But then the Ardens were always cold and proud—it was the characteristic of the family—except the last poor fellow, who was everybody’s friend, and turned out to be no Arden at all, as anyone might have seen with half an eye.
Mr. Arden’s horse and his groom were waiting in the stableyard of the “Arden Arms.” He himself, looking more gloomy than usual, had gone upstairs to the best room, to meet the stranger, of whom all the “Arden Arms” people felt vaguely that they had seen him before. The landlady, passing the door, heard their voices raised high now and then, as if there was some quarrel between them; but she was too busy to listen, even had her curiosity carried her so far. When Mrs. Arden, driving past, stopped in front of the inn, to ask for some poor pensioner in the village, the good woman rushed out, garrulous and eager.
“The Squire is here, ma’am, with a gentleman. I heard him say as his horse was dead beat, and as he’d have to take the train home. What a good thing as you have come this way! Please now, as they’ve done their talk, will your ladyship step upstairs?”
“If Mr. Arden is occupied with some one on business—” said Clare, hesitating; but then it suddenly occurred to her that, as there had been a little domestic jar that morning, it might be well to show herself friendly, and offer to drive her husband home. “You are sure he is not busy?” she said, doubtfully, and went upstairs with somewhat hesitating steps. It was a strange thing for Mrs. Arden to do, but something impelled her unconscious feet, something which the ancients would have called fate, an impulse she could not resist. She knocked softly at the door, but received no reply; and there was no sound of voices within to make her pause. The “business,” whatever it was, must surely be over. Clare opened the door, not without a thrill at her heart, which she could scarcely explain to herself, for she knew of nothing to make this moment or this incident specially important. Her husband sat, with his back to her, at the table, his head buried in his hands; near him, fronting the door, his face very serious, his eyes shining with indignant fire, stood Edgar. Edgar! The sight of him, so unexpected as it was, touched her heart with a quick, unusual movement of warmth and tenderness. She gave a sudden cry, and rushed into the room.
Arthur Arden raised his head from his hands at the sound of her voice—he raised himself up, and glanced at her, half-stupefied.
“What has brought you here?” he cried, hoarsely.
But Clare had no eyes for him, for the moment. She went up to her brother, who stood, scarcely advancing to meet her, with no light of pleasure on his face at the sight of her. They had not met for three years.
“Edgar!” she said, with pleasure so sudden that she had not time to think whether it was right and becoming on the part of Mrs. Arden of Arden to express such a sentiment. But, before she had reached him, his pained and serious look, his want of all response to her warm exclamation, and the curious atmosphere of agitation in the room, impressed her in spite of herself. She stopped short, her tone changed, the revulsion of feeling which follows an overture repulsed, suddenly clouded over her face. “I see I am an intruder,” she said. “I did not mean to interfere with—business.” Then curiosity got the upper hand. She paused and looked at them—Edgar so determined and serious, her husband agitated, sullen—and as pale as if he had been dying. “But what business can there be between you two?” she asked, with a sharp tone of anxiety in her voice. The two men were like criminals before her. “What is it?—what is it?” she cried. “Something has happened. What brings you two together must concern me.”
“Go home, Clare, go home,” said Arthur Arden, hoarsely. “We don’t want you here, to make things worse—go home.”
She looked at Edgar—he shook his head and turned his eyes from her. He had given her no welcome, no look even of the old affection. Clare’s blood was up.