“Yes; most likely I shall write a book. You can’t think how many interesting stories there are in the family. Should you like me to tell you one this morning before the children are ready for their croquet? I don’t know if I can do it well, but if you like——”
“Oh, Mr. Arden, I should like it so much!”
“Then, come out on the lawn,” said Arthur. “I know a spot where it will be delicious this warm morning to lie on the grass and tell you about our Spanish lady. Did you ever hear of our Spanish lady? It was she who gave us our olive complexions and our black hair.”
“Oh, Mr. Arden!” Alice cried, dazzled by the prospect; “only wait, please, till I fetch my work;” and she hurried away into the drawing-room, leaving him to finish his breakfast. Alice ran across her mother in the hall, as she crossed from one room to the other. Her pretty complexion was heightened, and her eyes shining with pleasure and interest. “Oh, mamma! I am going out to the lawn to hear Mr. Arden tell a story,” she cried, “about the Spanish lady—a family story; and, oh! he says he does not go away for his own pleasure, but because of something papa put into his head. Fancy—papa!”
“That is all very well,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “Your papa, indeed!—but I happen to know better. Your papa only told him, if he could find a flaw in the title—— Your papa is a great deal too liberal, Alice—offering to help people that have not a penny to bless themselves with—as if it could ever be anything to us!—or, as if there was such a thing as gratitude in the world.”
“Oh, mamma—hush!” whispered Alice, pointing to the open door of the dining-room, through which Arthur heard every word that was said; and then she added, plaintively, with ready tears gathering in her eyes, “Mayn’t I go?”
“I suppose he thinks we are all to be ready as soon as he holds up his little finger,” said the indignant mother. And then she paused, and calmed herself down. “I don’t want you to be uncivil, Alice,” she added, still much to Arthur’s edification, who heard every word. “As long as he is your father’s guest, of course you must be polite to him. Oh, yes, you can go. But mind you don’t stay too long, or expose yourself to the sun; and don’t forget that I expect my daughter to show a little proper pride.”
Poor Alice lingered for a long time in the hall before she had courage to rejoin the guest, who must have heard everything that was said. She made believe to return to the drawing-room to look for something else which she had forgotten. And it was not till Arthur himself—who was much more amused than angry—had leisurely ended his breakfast, and strolled out into the hall, that she ventured to join him. “Oh! Mr. Arden—I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she cried. “Never mind. I had nothing to do but wait,” he said, smiling, and took the basket with her work out of her hand. He took her to the very shadiest seat, brought her a footstool, arranged everything for her with an air of devotion which went to the heart of Alice, and then he threw himself on the grass at her feet, and prepared to tell his tale.
CHAPTER XIV.
Mrs. Pimpernel considered that she did well to be angry. It was all very well for her husband to put off and give him time; but a man who did not show proper respect to herself and Alice was certainly not a man to be encouraged in the house. She was glad she had had the opportunity of throwing that arrow at him from the hall, and letting him see that she was not so short-sighted as other people. But, as the morning went on, she cast several glances from more than one window upon the scene on the lawn, which was a very pretty scene. Alice was seated quite in the shade, with her worsted work and her basket of wools, the wools so bright, and her dress so light and cool, against the shady green background. And on the grass at her feet lay Arthur Arden, so fine a contrast in his dark manhood to her fairness. He was a little too old, perhaps, to make the contrast perfect. But he was still very handsome, and had about him a certain air of youth such as often clings to an unmarried vagrant. He lay looking up at Alice, telling his story; and Alice, with her head dreamily bent over her work, sat rapt and listened. As the narrative went on, her interest became too great for her work. She dropped the many-coloured web on her knee and clasped her hands, and fixed her eyes upon the teller of the tale. “Oh, Mr. Arden!” she exclaimed by intervals, carried away by her excitement. Mrs. Pimpernel took views of this group from all the bedrooms on that side of the house, and then she went downstairs and seated herself at the drawing-room window, and studied it at her leisure. Her thoughts changed gradually as she gazed. Arden looking up at Alice, and Alice shyly gazing down at Arden, were arguments of the most convincing character. After all, probably he had been making a sacrifice of himself. That stuck-up cousin of his could not possibly be so charming as Alice, who was open to every new interest, and made such a flattering absorbed listener. “That is what the men like,” Mrs. Pimpernel said to herself. “She is not clever, poor love; but they never like women to be clever.” And then, after a long interval, she added, still within herself, “I shouldn’t wonder a bit if he was frightened for the stuck-up cousin.” Yes, no doubt that was it. He had to conciliate her, and pretend to be fond of her society. “After all, he is always here all the evening,” she went on, softening more and more; and the result was that at length she took down a broad hat which hung in the hall, and stepped out herself to join the garden party. “You look so comfortable, and there is evidently something so interesting going on, that I should like to have a share,” she said, in a voice so softened that Arthur instantly felt his device had succeeded. “Oh, go on, please. I can always imagine what has gone before. Don’t go over it again for me.”