Clare was going towards the village school when Arthur overtook her. She had been walking very fitfully, sometimes with great haste, sometimes slow and softly, losing herself in thought. He came up to her when she had fallen into one of these lulls of movement, and Arthur was satisfied to see that he was recognised with a start, and that the little shock of thus suddenly perceiving him brought light to her eyes and colour to her face.
“You, Mr. Arden!” she said, with a kind of forced steadiness. “I thought you were still occupied about—that—girl. I am so sorry, it seems uncivil, but I don’t really know her name. Was she better? It was good of you to interest yourself so much.”
“I did no more than any man must have done,” said Arthur. “Your maid promised to go, and gave me salts, &c. But she was better, I think. The old woman seemed quite used to it. She was lying asleep in the grass—a very pretty picture. But the old woman is an old dragon. She fairly drove me away.”
“Indeed!” said Clare feebly, with white lips, feeling that the crisis of her fate might be near.
“I only looked at the child—pretty she is, you know, but a little dwarf—when the mother got up and drove me away. I dared not stay a moment longer; and she gave me my orders, to turn my head away if I met them, and never to show my face again. Droll, is it not? One surely should be permitted a little property in one’s own head and face.”
“Yes; but it is not every head and face that have the same effect.” And then Clare paused a little to collect her energy. She had the fortitude of a young princess and ruling personage, accustomed (for their good) to speak very freely to the persons under her, and even to ask questions which would have covered her with confusion had she looked at them in another point of view; but the queen of a community, however small, is not permitted to blush and hesitate like other girls. She made a pause, and collected all her energies, and looked her cousin in the face, not with any shyness, but pale, with a passionate sense of her duty. She was so simple at bottom, notwithstanding all her stateliness, that she thought she could assume over him the same authority which she had over the lads of the village. “Mr. Arden,” she said, with tremulous firmness, “you may think it is a matter with which I have nothing to do—you may think even that it is unwomanly in me to ask anything about it,” and here a sudden violent blush covered her face; “but I have always considered myself responsible for the village, and—and entitled to interfere. One’s position is of no use unless one can do that. I wish to know what you have to do with these people—what is—your business—with that poor girl?”
Clare’s courage almost gave way before she concluded. She faltered and stumbled in her words; her face burned; her courage fled. If she could have sunk into the earth she would gladly have done it. This was very different from a village lad. She felt his eye upon her; she imagined the curious gleam that was passing over his countenance; she was almost conscious of putting herself in his power. And yet she made her speech, going on to the end, though her excitement was such that she felt quite incapable of paying any attention to the answer. She did not look at him, and yet she divined the look of mingled wonder and offence and partial amusement that was in his face. There was something else besides—a look of less innocent meaning—the significant glance which such a man gives to the woman who has committed herself; but Clare was too innocent, too void of evil thought to divine that.
“My dear Miss Arden, you surprise me very much,” he said. “What could be my business with the girl? What could I have to do with such people? Your imagination goes more quickly than mine. I do not know what connection there could possibly be between us. Do you? I am at a loss to understand——”
Poor Clare felt herself ready to sink to the ground with shame and mortification; and then her pride blazed up in sudden fury. “How can you ask me? How dare you ask me?” she said, at the height of passion; and he was so quiet, so entirely in command of himself.
“Why should not I dare?” he said softly. “My cousin has always been very good to me, except once, when she mistook my meaning, as she does now. There is nothing I dare not tell you about myself at this moment.” He winced a little when he had said this, not intending to make so explicit a declaration; but yet went on courageously. “About these poor people, there is really nothing in the world to say. I never saw them in my life before. The old woman said so, if you remember. I was like somebody who had disturbed their peace—very unlucky indeed for me, for I feel I shall be subject to all manner of false construction. But my cousin Clare can understand me, I think. Should I be likely to venture into her presence while carrying on a vulgar—— Such things should never so much as be mentioned in her hearing. I am ashamed to seem to imply——”