“Was that after her—children were born?” asked Arthur, eagerly.
“It was before she had any bairn. It was thought she never would have one, and her husband was sore disturbed. But, ye see, the doctors turned out fools, as they do so often,” Mrs. Murray added hastily, turning and fixing her eyes upon him. She made a pause between the two sentences, and changed her tone completely. The first was mere reminiscence, the other had a certain defiance in it; and Arthur felt there was some meaning, though one he could not read, in the suddenly watchful expression of her eyes.
“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “so it appears.” And as he spoke the watchfulness went off Mrs. Murray’s face, and she evidently (though why he could not think) calmed herself down. “So it appears,” he repeated vaguely. “She was some time married, then, I suppose, before my cousin Edgar was born?”
“I have heard say five years,” said the old woman, once more rousing up, with a watchful light in each steady eye.
“Ah, then, that’s impossible,” he said to himself. An idea had been growing in Arthur’s mind that the Squire’s wife might have been a widow with an infant child—an explanation which would make everything clear, yet save her from the imputation of a capital crime in respect to her husband. That was impossible. He mused on it for a minute or two, and then he resumed his questions.
“Who was Mrs. Arden? I am anxious to know,” he said, and then corrected himself, for his tone had been peremptory. “I am thinking of the family history,” he added. “She was a stranger, and we don’t know even where she belongs to. That will explain my curiosity to you. I am anxious to know.”
“She was Mrs. Arden when I saw her, and I ken nothing more,” said the Scotchwoman, shortly; and again he noted that her interest had failed. Evidently she knew something which it might possibly concern him much to know, but what kind of knowledge it was remained a mystery to him. He had not even light enough on the subject to guide him as to what questions he ought to put to her. Old Sarah sat gazing, open-mouthed and full of wonder. Only little Jeanie took no interest in the inquiry. She sat at the window, now dreaming, now working, sometimes playing with a long tendril of the honeysuckle, sometimes pausing to look out from the window. The talk was nothing to her. And Arthur’s interest flagged as this pretty figure caught his eye. Why should he attempt to find out anything about Edgar’s mother? What difference could it ever make to him? Whereas, here was a human plaything which it would be pleasant to toy with, which would amuse and distract him in the midst of his cares. What a pretty little thing she was! much prettier than Alice Pimpernel—in some things even more attractive than Clare. Ah, Clare! This thought brought him back to his original subject; but yet the other thought was in his mind, and found expression first.
“Your daughter seems better,” he said. “I don’t think she is frightened for me now; are you, Jeanie? You know I am a friend now. The man must have been a wretch who frightened such a sensitive sweet little creature. I don’t think he can have been like me.”
“Sir, did ye speak?” said Jeanie, with a start. And she turned to him an innocent, unconscious face, moved with a little wonder only at the sound of her name.
“No; the gentleman did not speak to you,” said her grandmother. “Go ben the house, my darling, where you will be quiet, and away from all clashes. Sir, my bairn is Jeanie to her own folk,” she added, as the docile girl withdrew into the inner room, “but no to every stranger that hears her innocent name. It will be kindest of you not to speak to her. The attack might come again.”