“And that we will, Squire,” cried the women. There was nothing in this speech about “confounded children.” But the results to the children were more terrible than anything proposed by the Doctor. The mothers made a general rush at them, and put them to bed. “Bless you, it’s the only place they’re quiet,” cried one and another; and Edgar, hurrying to the house of the most respected inhabitant of Arden, got a little party organised at once to lay down straw upon the road. He went with them himself, eager and busy, while Arthur stood at the corner with the Doctor. “Just like him,” Dr. Somers said, “and very unlike the Ardens. Was it he that helped on this catastrophe, that he is so anxious and busy now?”
“No,” said Arthur, without seeing the full meaning of the question; “he had nothing to do with it. It was I who was to blame.”
“Ah! I thought so,” cried Dr. Somers, rubbing his hands together with a suppressed chuckle. His professional gravity was over for the moment, having lasted as long as was necessary; and now he was at leisure to indulge in his ordinary speculations.
“Why did you think so?” asked Arthur, coldly.
“Because you are a true Arden, and you are taking no trouble about it,” was the reply; and Dr. Somers went on, after he had discharged this shaft, with an inward satisfaction not unnatural in the circumstances. It was not that he was indifferent to poor Jeanie’s fate; but he was used to danger, and was not awe-stricken by it, as are the inexperienced. Even while he walked up the side-path into the village street he was turning over with professional seriousness and anxiety what measures it would be best to take—pondering closely which was most suitable; but he could not refuse himself the pleasure of shooting that javelin. It did not do Arthur Arden any great harm, and it relieved him about Jeanie more than a more favourable judgment of her case would have done. In his ignorance he concluded that a doctor could not jibe at other men if his patient was in very great danger; and as for the straw and so forth, that was in Edgar’s way, not his. Edgar was the master, and free to order what he pleased; and, besides, was a commonplace being, who naturally thought of such matters of detail. So long as Jeanie was not going to die, that was all that absolutely affected him. And heaven knows, being relieved of that first dread, he had enough on his hands and his mind. There were the Pimpernels, whom he would have to face with the consciousness that he had been instrumental in risking their daughter’s life, or, at least, in putting her in circumstances to risk it; and—what was still worse—that he had thought nothing of Alice, done nothing for her, had not even inquired if she was badly hurt or in danger. This last reflection disconcerted him wholly. He could not hasten to the Red House, as he had intended, to show a tardy but still eager sympathy, while still he was unaware what had happened to Alice. He had to hasten after his cousin, who knew all about her, pursuing him to the home-farm and the stacks, where he was loading his volunteer labourers, and losing the precious time which he ought to have spent in smoothing down the Pimpernels. “Wait a little; I have no time to speak to you,” Edgar said to him. “I am busy; watch the road that no carts pass till we are ready——” What were all these ridiculous details to him? The girl was not going to die; and how was he to face the Pimpernels?
“Miss Pimpernel? She is not much hurt. I sent her home in the dogcart; but, Arden, don’t go—look after the road,” Edgar managed to shout to him at last across the farmyard. Arthur took no further thought about keeping Jeanie quiet—except, indeed, that he gave Johnny Timms sixpence to stand and watch at the corner of the road. Edgar, however, was on the spot before he had gone quite away. He saw the work proceeding as he turned in at the gate of the Red House, and asked himself, with a half sneer at his cousin, a half wonder for himself, what made the difference? Edgar had nothing to do with the accident, and yet was taking all this trouble to repair it; whereas he, who was really involved in it, after the first moment, never dreamed of taking any trouble. What was the use, indeed, of thus troubling one’s self about others? He had been weakly, foolishly compunctious at the first moment. Why could he not have left Jeanie to Edgar? Why should he have concerned himself at all about her? Why for her sake, a girl who had never even given him a smile, should he have committed himself thus with the Pimpernels? Arthur Arden cursed his own folly, and the impulse which had made him snatch up Jeanie in his arms instead of Alice. Edgar was there, who would have done it, and taken all the responsibility; and such a piece of Quixotism would not harm Edgar. There was the difference—not in the nature, as that insolent Doctor insinuated, but in the fact that Edgar could afford to be helpful, and liberal, and generous—that it could do him no harm. Whereas he, Arthur, dependent upon circumstances—obliged to keep on good terms with this one, to curry favour with that, to consider how everything would affect his own interests—did not venture to be helpful and sympathetic. That was the true explanation of the whole. A man, when he is rich, can afford to be better, kinder, more self-forgetting than a man who is poor; and, above all, the man who lives by his wits, is the man least capable of sacrifices for others. Arthur Arden was very sorry for himself as he went reluctantly, yet quickly, through the shrubberies of the Red House. He knew he had a mauvais quart d’heure before him. However eager or anxious he might manage to look, he knew very well that the father and mother would never forgive him for having left their child to take her chance, while he cared for the little village girl. He cursed his unhappy impulsiveness as he approached the house of the Pimpernels. Taking trouble about other people was always a mistake, unless they were people who could repay that care. Could not he have left Jeanie alone to take her chance? Was not Jeanie somehow at the bottom of Clare’s caprice, which had thrown out all his calculations a week ago? And now again, no doubt, she had ruined him with the Pimpernels. Poor Arthur Arden!—if he had been the Squire he would have been above all these miserable calculations—all these apprehensions and regrets. The least sympathetic spectator could scarcely have refrained from a sentiment of pity for the unfortunate schemer as he crossed the threshold of the Red House.
END OF VOL. II.