But Clare’s flushed and indignant countenance showed no signs of softening. “I knew they were presuming, but I never could have imagined anything so bad as this,” she cried. “Edgar, it is the Pimpernels!”
“The Pimpernels?” Edgar repeated, confused and wondering; but before he could ask another question the door was thrown open, and Wilkins appeared in front of the invading party. Wilkins’ face was a study of suppressed consternation and dismay. He did his office as if he were going to the stake, stern necessity compelling him in the shape of those three solid figures behind. “Mr., Mrs., and Miss Pimpernel,” said Wilkins, with a voice in which the protest of a martyr was audible behind the ordinary formality. Edgar did not know anything about the Pimpernels. He saw before him a large man, made larger by light summer costume, which magnified his breadth and diminished his height, with sparkling jewelled studs in his shirt, and a great coil of watch-chain spreading across his buff waistcoat; and a large lady, enveloped in black silk and lace, which somehow, though so totally different, seemed to have the same effect of enlarging and setting forth her amplitude of form. Behind these two there appeared, seen by intervals, the slim figure of a tall girl, with a pretty blushing face. Nothing could have made Edgar uncivil—not even the terrible fact, had he known it, that Mr. Pimpernel was a Liverpool cotton-broker, such a man as had never before made his appearance in the capacity of visitor within the stately shades of Arden. But he was not aware of that awful fact. He knew only that Clare had been moved by horror at the sight of them, and that she stood now at as great a distance as possible, and made a very solemn curtsey, and looked as if she were assisting at a funeral. The Pimpernels, who had produced this melancholy effect, were themselves so utterly unlike it, at once in manners and appearance, that the situation affected Edgar rather with comic than with solemn feelings.
“I am very glad to see you, and to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” said Mr. Pimpernel, when they had all sat down in the form of a semicircle, of which Edgar and Clare formed the base. “I can’t pretend to be an old neighbour, but we have been here long enough to take an interest in the county. I have always taken a great interest in the county, as my wife knows.”
“Yes, indeed,” said that ample woman. “Since ever we settled here Mr. Pimpernel has quite thrown himself into Arden ways. We were so very lucky in getting the Red House—the only one in the neighbourhood. It is wicked to say so, but I felt so much obliged to poor Mr. Dalton when he died and let us have it—I did indeed. It was quite obliging of him to die.”
Upon this Miss Pimpernel laughed shyly, and Mr. Pimpernel smiled; and Edgar, seeing it was expected of him, would have smiled too had he not encountered Clare’s stormy countenance, without a gleam of light upon it. It embarrassed him sadly, poor fellow; for of course he did not want to wound his sister, and yet he could not be uncivil. “I am such a stranger in my own country,” he said, “that I really don’t know where the Red House is. I know only the village, and nothing more.”
“It is the sweetest village,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “We were so glad to hear that there were no building sites to be given, though, of course, in one way it must have been a sacrifice. It is selfish of us, because we have been so fortunate as to secure the only house; but the moment you begin to build villas you spoil the place. It never would have been the same sweet old place again. Mr. Pimpernel drives over every morning to Farnham Green, the station. Of course, he could not do it unless he was able to afford horses; but we are able to afford them, I am glad to say. I don’t know if you have ever remarked his Yankee waggon, with two beautiful bright bays? I hope I am not horsey, which is very unladylike, but I do like to see a fine animal. It is next to a pretty girl, my husband always says.”
“The only thing wanting in Arden is a little society,” said Mr. Pimpernel; “and I hope, Mr. Arden, that your happy return, and the new life you must bring with you, will change all that. We hoped you would perhaps dine with us on Monday week? Young Newmarch is coming, the Earl’s eldest son, a very nice young fellow—quite a man of his century; but of course you must know him better than I do; and we expect some young Oxford men with my son, who is at Christchurch. My wife wanted to write, but I think it is always best to settle such things by word of mouth.”
“I am afraid Miss Arden may think all this a little abrupt,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, taking up the strain when her husband paused. “Of course, if it had not been for the change, and Mr. Arden coming, as it were, fresh to the place, it was not our part to call first; but all this last year I have done nothing but think of you, so lonely as you must have been. I have said to Alice a hundred times—‘How I wish I could go and call upon that poor dear Miss Arden.’ But I never knew whether you would like it. I am sure, many and many a time, when I have seen all my own young ones so merry about me, I have thought of you. ‘If we could only have her here, and cheer her up a little,’ I used to say——”
“It was kind of you to think of my sister. I am very much obliged to you,” said Edgar, warmly. Clare made a little bow, and after her brother had spoken murmured something vaguely under her breath.
“I know what it is to have no mother,” continued the large lady, “and to be left alone. I was an only daughter myself; and when I looked at all mine, and me spared to them, and thought ‘Oh, that poor dear girl, all by herself!’ I could have cried over you; I could, indeed.”