“To write a book!” said Clare. Miss Arden had rather a contempt for literature; but to write a book which was not for money, like the books of professional authors, but about “the family,” like so many handsome books she had seen—a glorification, not of one’s self to be sure, but of one’s ancestors—was a different matter. A slight, very slight, rose-tint came upon her pale face. It was not the kind of flush which appeared when Arthur Arden talked of other subjects. It was a thrill of pleasurable excitement—a movement of sudden interest and pride.
“If you will permit me to see what papers there are,” said Arthur; “I know there are some which must be interesting, for I remember your father—— He was peculiar in some things, Miss Arden; but how full of knowledge and power he was!”
“Oh, was not he?” cried Clare, with sudden tears in her eyes. “Poor papa! Poor dear papa! I think he knew everything. Mr. Arden, it is so kind of you to speak of him. No one ever speaks of him to me. People think it brings one’s grief back—as if one would not give the world to have it back! And Edgar and I—poor Edgar!—he can’t talk of him as—as most children can. You know why: it is no one’s fault. Perhaps if I had been a little more firm—— But, oh, it is so kind of you to talk to me of papa!”
“I did not mean to be kind,” said Arthur Arden, with a sudden compunction, feeling his own treachery. “But perhaps I knew him better than Edgar could,” he added, gently. “And he loved you so—no child was ever more to a father. But I should not say anything to make you cry——”
“I like to cry,” said Clare. “I have not cried for months, and it does me so much good. Nobody ever loved me as poor papa did. I am not blaming any one. Edgar is very fond of me, Mr Arden—he is very fond of me and very good to me—but you know—papa——”
“He was like no one else,” said the traitor; and, good heavens, he asked himself, am I putting all this on by way of getting possession of her father’s papers? What a horrible villain I must be! But he did not feel himself a villain. He went on talking about the Squire with the profoundest seriousness, and feeling what he said, though he was conscious of his own motive all the time. It was frightful to think of, but yet thus it was. And Clare, who had so much emotion pent up within her—so much which she would have been ashamed to trace to its just source, and which nothing in the world would have persuaded her to show—when the fountains of her heart were thus opened, and a feasible occasion given her, Clare’s whole being seemed to flow forth. She talked of her father, and felt that of him alone could she thus have talked. And her tears flowed, and were dried, and flowed again. Not all for her father—a great deal for herself, for the complications of her own life—for nameless agitations and trouble. But this one legitimate reason for weeping relieved them all.
“How stupid I am,” she said at last, “entertaining you with my silly crying, as if that could be anything to you. Mr. Arden, I don’t think you need wait for Edgar’s leave. I am sure he would let me give it. I don’t know whether the papers are interesting—but there is that old bureau in the library. It was papa’s bureau—he always used it as long as he lived. I have never said anything about it, and I have never had the heart to go over them myself: but there are quantities of letters in it. I suppose they ought to be burnt. If you find anything that interests you, I might go over papa’s papers at the same time—it would be something to do——”
“And I shall be at hand, if you want anything,” said Arthur. Was it possible he was to get his wish so easily? This poor little lamb did not even wait to be asked, she thrust her milk-white head into the wolf’s mouth. The papers; not only those old papers which he had pretended to want, but any windfall of modern letters that might fall in his way—and not only this, but Clare’s society, and full opportunity to work upon her as he might. He could not believe it was true as he went away. It was his first visit, and he would not stay too long, nor run any risk. He left her, as it were, on the verge of a new world. To-morrow even might bring forth results more important than anything that had yet dawned on his life—to-morrow he might discover something which would put Arden within his reach—or to-morrow’s chances might place Clare within his reach, the next thing to Arden. His head throbbed with excitement and his heart with hope.
As for Clare, she too was on the verge of a new world—but it was one of excitement and emotion only. Her dull life quickened into sudden radiance. She looked out again from the window, and saw the silvery water gleaming, and the branches waving, and all the face of nature gay. The day had brightened, the world grown cheery—and to-morrow, with new things in it, new companionship, new work, new interests, smiled and invited her. She did not say even to herself “I shall see him again.” On the contrary, she thought of her father and his papers, and the melancholy pleasure of setting them in order. It would be, of course, a melancholy pleasure; and yet she caught herself singing as she ran upstairs to get her hat, and go out for a walk. Could it be this prospect only which made her heart so light and so gay?