“I don’t think there is any great courage required,” said Clare. “Trust me, I shall always be glad to hear that you have done—well for yourself. There could be no more agreeable news. Neither Edgar nor I could have any desire but to see you—happy. Excuse me, I am going to see Miss Somers. I should ask you to come in too, but she is such an invalid, and I am keeping you from your friends. You may be sure you have my very best wishes—good-bye——”
And Clare held out her hand to him, and smiled a smile which was very proud and uncomfortable. She had not in the least intended to visit Miss Somers, but it would have been utterly impossible for her (she thought) to have walked up all the length of the avenue by Arthur Arden’s side. Most likely he would have told her of his progress with Alice. And how could she bear that? It was better to part thus abruptly as long as she was capable of smiling and uttering those good wishes which, she had some faint perception, were gall and wormwood to the recipient. She could see that her benevolent hopes and desires were bitter to him, and it pleased her to see it. Yet, notwithstanding, she still believed in Alice Pimpernel. Why should he be there otherwise? He might not like it to be known until everything was settled—it might be galling to his pride. But still, why should he be there but for that? It was the only possible attraction. And no doubt it was a very sensible thing to do. She hurried across to the doctor’s house without looking back, eager to be rid of him—to get away—to forget all about it. And yet not without a thought that perhaps he would refuse to be dismissed—perhaps would insist upon explaining—perhaps—— But the door opened and closed upon her, and not a word was said to prevent her visit to Miss Somers. When she looked out of the invalid’s window Arthur was walking very slowly and quietly down the street to rejoin his friends. This was how it was to be. Well! he had been driven out of Arden, poor fellow! he had been discouraged in his dearer hopes. She herself had been unkind to him; and Edgar had been, oh, how unkind! And he was poor, and must do something to re-establish himself in the world. Was he to blame? Clare clasped her two hands tightly together, and set her lips close that no sigh might escape from them. What alternative was there for him but to act as he was doing; and what for her but to wish him well? And Edgar, too, no doubt, would wish him well—Edgar, who had done it all.
CHAPTER VII.
Arthur Arden went back to the Pimpernels’ with no very comfortable feelings. He had gone to the Red House, he said, in order to be near Arden, and that he might make frequent visits to the central object of his pursuit; but he had not been aware how far Clare carried out her principles, and that she really declined to know the people whom she did not think her equals. Arthur was accustomed to people who sneer yet visit and take advantage of all the wealth and luxuries of the nouveaux riches. Make use of them: was not that what all the world did, accepting their costly dinners and fine carriages, and laughing at them behind their backs? How was it that Clare refused to do this like other people? Her kinsman could not tell. He thought it foolish of her, if Clare could do anything foolish, and in his own mind quoted the example of a great many very fine people indeed who did it freely. Why should one be so much better than others? he thought to himself; and so went back disconcerted to join the Pimpernels.
Clare was wrong in the conclusion she had jumped at, and still she was not altogether wrong. Alice was pretty and quite inoffensive, and she would have thirty thousand pounds. When a young man of good family without any money or any profession has arrived at the borders of forty, various questions present themselves to him in a very decided way, and demand consideration. What is to become of him? You may keep time at bay if you have all the aids and preventives at hand for doing so; but when that is not the case, when you have, on the other hand, anxieties instead of cosmetics, and increase your wrinkles by every hour’s thought, the crisis is a very formidable one. Arthur Arden had been brought up, like so many young men, with vague thoughts of an appointment which was to do everything for him. This expectation had quieted the consciences of everybody belonging to him. He had been waiting for an appointment as long as he could recollect, and he was still waiting for it now. To tell the truth, the progress of years did not make it more likely or bring it any nearer; but still, he knew a great many people who had in their hands the giving of appointments, and it was not impossible that such a thing might drop from the skies at any moment. What he would have done with it when it came, after so many years’ lounging about the world without anything definite to do, is a different question. But, in the meantime, Alice Pimpernel, as a pis aller, was as good as an appointment, and Clare a great deal better, and it seemed only natural that the best should claim his devotion first. He had not attempted to exercise upon Alice the full force of those fascinations which he had poured forth upon Clare; but he kept her in hand, as it were, ready for an emergency. He cleared the cloud off his face as he approached the door of old Sarah’s cottage, where the ladies had just appeared. Young Denbigh, the curate, had left them when they went in, so that Arthur was their sole escort. He arrived in time to hear Mrs. Pimpernel’s parting words.
“Don’t think any more about the loss. It was not very expensive lace, you know, and I have plenty. Thank heaven, I am not in circumstances to be obliged to consider every trifle. I was annoyed at first, of course, and it was dreadfully careless of the girl. What does she expect is to become of her, I wonder, if she takes no more pains? I have known a girl just simply ruined by such carelessness. Oh, you need not cry—crying does very little good. I assure you I have, indeed.”
“It’s what I’m atelling ’em morning, noon, and night,” said old Sarah, while the culprit retired into her apron, and sobbed, and curtsied, being past all power of speech.
“Simply ruined,” said Mrs. Pimpernel with solemn iteration; “but I trust you will think what you are doing, and never be so wicked again. I am very much interested in your lodgers, Sarah. What a very nice old woman, and so clean! Mr. Arden did you observe? But there is no use speaking to you gentlemen—you are always thinking of something else. So very clean! If anything should ever be wanted for her or for the sick girl, you may send to me freely. We are never without some little delicacy, you know—something that would tempt an invalid. Mr. Pimpernel is so very particular about what he eats. All you gentlemen are. I dare say you want it more after being out in the world all day knocking about. Well, Mr. Arden, and so you went and made your peace with your cousin? I hope everything is right now.”
“Nothing was wrong,” said Arthur hastily. “I had no peace to make. I was only anxious to ask Miss Arden about—Edgar. I don’t know where he is, and I wanted his address.”
“She does not half like your staying with us,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Oh, don’t speak to me! I know better. I don’t know what we have ever done to her, but she hates us, does Miss Arden. She is quite spiteful because you are staying with us.”