“Those Pimpernels!” said Mr. Fielding, shaking his head. “Ah, Clare! they are flesh and blood like yourself, and the young lady is a very nice girl; and why should I not permit them to be kind to their fellow-creatures because you think that is your right? Everybody has a right to be good to their neighbours. And then they find us places for our boys and girls.”
“I have forgotten about everything since Edgar came,” said Clare, with a blush. “I have not seen old Sarah since the first day. Please come with me, and I will go and see her now. What sort of places? They are much better in nice houses in the country than in Liverpool. The girls get spoiled when they go into a town.”
“But they get good wages,” said Mr. Fielding, “and are able to help their people. I have not told you of this, for I knew you were prejudiced. Old Sarah has a lodger now, a relation of Mr. Perfitt—an old Scotchwoman—something quite new. I should like you to see her, Clare. I have seen plenty of Scotch in Liverpool, both workmen and merchants; but I do not understand this old lady. She is a new type to me.”
“I suppose being Scotch does not make much difference,” said Clare, discontentedly. “I do not like them much for my part. Is she in want, or can I be of any use to her? I will go and see her in that case——”
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Fielding, in alarm, “Want! I tell you she is a relation of Perfitt’s, and they are all as proud as Lucifer. I almost wonder, Clare,” he added more softly, dropping his voice, “that you, who are so proud yourself, should not have more sympathy with the pride of others.”
“Others!” cried Clare, with indignation, and then she stopped, and looked at him with her eyes full. If they had not been in the open air in the village street she would have eased herself by a burst of tears. “I am all wrong since Edgar came home,” she cried passionately out of the depths of her heart.
“Since Edgar came home? But my dear child—my dear child!” cried Mr. Fielding, “I thought you were so proud of your brother.”
“And so I am,” said Clare, hastily brushing away the tears. “I know he is good—he is better than me; but he puts me all wrong notwithstanding. He will not see things as I do. His nature is always leading him the other way. He has no sort of feeling—no—Oh! I don’t know how to describe it. He puts me all wrong.”
“You must not indulge such thoughts,” said the Rector, with a certain mild authority which did not misbecome him. “He shows a great deal of right feeling, it appears to me. And we must not discuss Edgar’s qualities. He is Edgar, and that is enough.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” cried Clare, with sudden offence; and then she stopped, and controlled herself. “I should like to go and see this old Scotchwoman,” she added, after a moment’s pause. What she had said was true, though she was sorry for having said it. Edgar, with his strange ways of thinking, his spontaneousness, and freedom of mind, had put her all wrong. She had been secure and certain in her own system of life so long as everybody thought with her, and the bonds of education and habit were unbroken. But now, though she was still as strong in her Ardenism as ever, an uneasy, half-angry feeling that all the world did not agree with her—nay, that the person of most importance to her in the world did not agree with her—oppressed Clare’s mind, and made her wretched. It is hard always to bear such a blow, struck at one’s youthful convictions. It is intolerable at first, till the young sufferer learns that other people have really a right to their opinions, and that it is possible to disagree with him or her and yet not be wicked. Clare could not deny that Edgar’s different views were maintained with great gentleness and candour towards herself—that they were held by one who was not an evil-minded revolutionary, but in every other respect all that she wished her brother to be. But she felt his eyes upon her when she said and did many little things which a few weeks ago she would have thought most right and natural; and even while she chafed at the tacit disapprobation, a secret self-criticism, which she ignored and struggled against, stole into the recesses of her soul. She would not acknowledge nor allow it to be possible; but yet it was there. The natural consequence was that all her little haughtinesses, her airs of superiority, her distinctions between the Ardens and their class and all the rest of the world, sharpened and became more striking. She was half-conscious that she exaggerated her own opinions, painted the lights whiter and the shadows more profound, in involuntary reaction against the new influences which began to affect her. She had not noticed the Pimpernels, though she knew them well by sight, and all about them; but she had no active feeling of enmity towards them until that unfortunate day when they ventured to call, and Edgar, in his ignorance, received them as if they had been the family of a Duke. Since then Clare had come to hate the innocent people. She had begun to feel rabid about their class generally, and to find words straying to her lips such as had struck her as in very bad taste when old Lady Summerton said them. Lady Summerton believed the poor were a host of impostors, and trades-people an organised band of robbers, and attributed to the nouveaux riches every debasing practice and sentiment. Clare had been disgusted by these opinions in the old days. She had drawn herself up in her youthful dignity, and had almost reproved her senior. “They are good enough sort of people, only they are not of our class,” Clare had said; “please don’t call them names. One may be a Christian though one is not well-born.” Such had been her truly Christian feeling while yet she was undisturbed by any doubt that to be well-born, and especially to be born in Arden, was the highest grace conceded by heaven. But now that doubt had been cast upon this gospel, and that she daily and hourly felt the scepticism in Edgar’s eyes, Clare’s feelings had become as violent as old Lady Summerton’s. The sentiment in her mind was that of scorn and detestation towards the multitude which was struggling to rise into that heaven wherein the Ardens and Thornleighs shone serene. “The poor people” were different; they made no pretences, assumed no equality; but the idea that Alice Pimpernel came under the generic title of young lady exactly as she herself did, and that the daughter of a Liverpool man might ride, and drive, and dress, and go everywhere on the same footing as Clare Arden, became wormwood to her soul.