WHILE Arthur went to the Red House, Edgar had been exerting himself to still all the roads and deaden every sound about Sally Timms’ cottage. Sally’s boys considered the operation as a personal compliment. They tumbled in the straw, and threw it about, and buried each other with cries of delight which had to be suppressed in the most forcible and emphatic way—until at last Edgar, driven to interfere, had to order the removal of Johnny and Tommy. “They can go to the West Lodge for the night,” he said, with a hospitable liberality, at which the West Lodge keeper, who was helping in the work, groaned aloud. Sally herself, however, was very indignant at this exercise of despotic authority. She rushed to the front, and demanded to know why her cottage should be taken possession of, and the children carried off for the benefit of a stranger. “A lass as nobody knows, nor don’t care to know,” said Sally, “as has a deal too many gentlefolks alooking after her to be an honest lass.” “Take her away too,” said Edgar with benevolent tyranny. And Sally, with a scream of despair, snatched the old petticoat which stuffed her broken window, and fled from the bystanders, who did not attempt to carry out the Squire’s command. “I’ll go and I’ll see what Miss Clare says to it,” she cried. Edgar was a great deal too busy to pay any attention. He saw the work completed, and urged the necessity of care upon John Hesketh and his wife without considering that even they were but partial sympathisers. “I don’t hold with no such a fuss,” the women were saying among themselves. “If it had been the mother of a family she’d have had to take her chance; but a bit of a wench with a pretty face——” Thus he got no credit for his exertions, notwithstanding the injunctions of Dr. Somers. If Jeanie had been altogether unfriended, the village people would have shown her all manner of care and sympathy; but the Squire’s kindness put an end to theirs. They sympathised with Sally in her banishment. “You’ll see as Miss Clare won’t like it a bit,” cried one. “I don’t think nothing of Sally, but she has a right to her own place.” “She’ll be well paid for it all,” said another. Sally, and the fuss that was being made, and Miss Clare’s supposed sentiments bulked much more largely with the villagers than the thought that Jeanie lay between life and death, although many of them liked Jeanie, and had grown used to see her, so small and so fair, wandering about the street. Only old Sarah stood with her apron to her eyes. “I’m as fond of her as if she was my own. She’s the sweetest, patientest, good-temperedest lamb—none of you wenches can hold a candle to her,” sobbed the old woman. “She stitches beautiful, though I’m not one as holds with your pretty faces,” said Sally, the sexton’s daughter; but these were the only voices raised in poor Jeanie’s favour throughout the village crowd.
Edgar lingered last of all at the cottage door. John Hesketh’s wife, partly moved by pity for the grandmother left thus alone, partly by curiosity to investigate the amount of dirt and discomfort in Sally Timms’ cottage—had taken her place in the outer room, to remain with Mrs. Murray until Sally returned or some other assistant came. And Edgar lingered to hear the last news of the patient before going away. The twilight by this time was falling, faint little stars were appearing in the sky, the dew and the peacefulness of approaching night were in the atmosphere. While he stood waiting at the door, Mrs. Murray herself came out upon him all at once. She had an air of suppressed excitement about her which struck him strangely—not so much anxiety, as agitation, highly excited feeling. He put out his hand to her as she approached, feeling, he could not tell how, that she wanted his aid and consolation. She took his hand between both hers, and held it tight and pressed it close; and then surely the strangest words came from her lips that were ever spoken in such circumstances. “He carried her here in his arms—he left the other to save her. You’ll no forget it to him—you’ll no forget it to him. That is the charge I lay on you.”
Edgar half drew away his hand in his surprise; but she held it fast, not seeming even to feel his attempt at withdrawal. “What do you mean?” he said. “I came to ask for Jeanie. Is it of Arthur Arden you are speaking—my cousin? But it is about Jeanie I want to know.”
“Ay, your cousin,” she said anxiously. “It’s strange that I never kent you had a cousin. Nobody ever told me that—— But mind, mind what I say. Whatever happens, you’ll no forget this. He carried her here in his arms. He forgot all the rest, all the rest. And you’ll no forget it to him. That’s my injunction upon you, whatever anybody may say.”
“This is very strange,” Edgar said, in spite of himself. Who was she, that she should lay injunctions upon him—should bid him do this or that? And then he thought to himself that her head too must be a little turned. So startling an event probably had confused her, as Jeanie had been confused by a sudden shock. He looked at her very sympathetically, and pressed the hands that held his. “Tell me first how Jeanie is—poor little Jeanie; that is by far the most important now.”
“It’s no the most important,” said the old woman almost obstinately. “I ken both sides, and you ken but little—very, very little. But whatever you do or say, you’ll no forget him for this—promise me that you’ll never forget.”
“That is easy enough to promise,” said Edgar; “but he was to blame, for it was he who put her in the carriage. I think he was to blame. And what am I to reward him for?—for carrying the poor child home?”
“Yes, for carrying her home,” said Mrs. Murray, “in his arms, when the other was waiting that was more to him than Jeanie. You’ll no please me, nor do your duty, if you do not mind this good deed. They say he’s no a good man; but the poor have many a temptation that never comes near the rich; and if he had been in your place at Arden and you in his—or even——”
“My dear, kind woman,” said Edgar, trying with a pressure of her hands to recall her to herself, “don’t trouble yourself about Arthur or me. You are excited with all that has happened. Think of Jeanie. Don’t take any trouble about us——”
“Eh, if I could help troubling!” she said, loosing her hands from his. And then the look of excitement slowly faded out of her face. “I am bidding you bear my burdens,” she said, with a deep sigh; “as if the innocent could bear the load of the guilty, or make amends—— You must not mind what I say. I’ve been a solitary woman, and whiles I put things into words that are meant for nobody’s ear. You were asking about Jeanie. She is real ill—in a kind of faint—but if she is kept quiet, the doctor says she may come round. I think she will come round, for my part. She is delicate, but there is life in her: me and mine have all so much life.” When she said these words Mrs. Murray fixed her eyes upon Edgar keenly and surveyed him, as if trying to fathom his constitution and powers. “I cannot tell for you,” she said, with a sudden pause. He smiled, but he was grieved, thinking sadly that her brain was affected, as Jeanie’s had been. What was to become of the hapless pair if the mother’s brain was gone as well as the child’s. The thought filled him with infinite pity, so great as almost to bring tears to his eyes.
“You must try and compose yourself,” he said. “I will send Perfitt to see that you have everything you want, and perhaps when she is a little better she may be removed to your own rooms. This is not a comfortable cottage, I fear. But you must compose yourself, and not allow yourself to be worried one way or another. You may be quite sure I will stand by you, and take care of you as much as I can—you who have been so kind to everybody, so good——”
“Oh no, no, no good!” she cried, “not good. I think night and day, but I cannot see what to do; and when a wronged man heaps coals of fire on your head—— Oh, you’re kind, kind; and I’m no ungrateful, though I may look it. And it is not excitement, as you say, that makes me speak. There’s many a thing of which a young lad like you is ignorant. You’ll mind this to his credit if ever you can do him a good turn——”
“Yes, yes,” said Edgar impatiently; and then he added, “Think of Jeanie. Arthur Arden is very well qualified to take care of himself.”
And so he turned away, chafed and disquieted. Arthur Arden had been the cause of his leaving home, and here as soon as he returned Arthur Arden again was in his way, and a trouble to him. He walked through the village street very uneasy about poor Mrs. Murray, and Jeanie, who would be in her sole charge. If the grandmother’s mind was unsettled, how could she look after the child, and what would become of two creatures so helpless in a strange place? No doubt it must be in the family, as people say. Jeanie’s monomania was about her brother, and Mrs. Murray’s was about Arthur Arden. What had he to do with Arthur Arden? He was not his brother’s keeper, that he should step in and make of himself a providence for Arthur’s benefit. Altogether it was odd and disagreeable and discomposing. As his mind was thus occupied he walked along the village street, pre-occupied and absorbed. When he had nearly reached the Arden Arms he met Dr. Somers, and immediately seized the opportunity to make inquiries. The Doctor held up his hand as if warding him off.
“Not a word, Mr. Edgar, not another word. I have said if she’s kept quiet and not excited she’ll do. I don’t like fuss any more than the villagers. You don’t put straw down when a comfortable matron adds to the number of society, and why should you for this girl? You are all mad about Jeanie. She is a pretty girl, I allow; but there is as pretty to be seen elsewhere. You should hear your cousin on that subject. He and his misfortunes are as good as a play.”
“What are his misfortunes?” said Edgar, and in spite of himself a certain coldness crept into his voice.
“You don’t like him?” said Dr. Somers; “neither do I. I hate a man who lives on his wits. Generally neither the wits nor the man are worth much. But as I say, this time Arthur Arden’s as good as a play. He has been turned out of the Red House—the Pimpernels will have no more of him. It is a capital story. He has been sponging upon them for a month (this, of course, is between ourselves), and I daresay they were very glad to get rid of him. You never can tell when such a visitor may go away.”
“I thought the Pimpernels liked it,” said Edgar; but did not care to enter into any discussion about his cousin; and he walked on in silence for some seconds by the Doctor’s side, meaning thus to express his desire to be quit of the subject. He had, on the whole, had quite too much of Arthur Arden. He felt with the Pimpernels that to be quit of him would be a relief.
“Where are you going?” said the Doctor. “It is getting late. Come with me and dine. I have just asked Arden. He is houseless and homeless, you know; and I know what it is to be condemned to the hospitalities of the Arden Arms——”
“Is he at the Arden Arms?” said Edgar. “I suppose only for to-night. He must have plenty of houses to go to—a man who is so well known in the world. Thanks, Doctor; but Clare must have been expecting me for some time. I must go home.”
“Clare has not been very well,” said the Doctor. “I am glad you have come back. If there ever had been such a thing as brain disease among the Ardens I should have been frightened. Fielding gave me a hint, and I went to see her. The girl has something on her mind. I don’t know if it is about Arthur Arden——”
“Confound Arthur Arden!” said Edgar. “What do you suppose he could have to do with my sister Clare?”
“Oh, nothing; nothing, of course,” said the Doctor, “except that they were great friends, and now they are friends no longer. And she has not looked well since; there is a look of anxiety and trouble about her. My dear fellow, you and I may not think much of Arthur Arden, but with women he could cut us both out. Some men have that way. There is no genuine feeling about them, and yet they get far before the best. His father was the same sort of fellow; he was my contemporary, and it used to set me on edge to see him. My poor sister, Letty, to this day imagines that he was fond of her. Your cousin is not a man to be despised.”
“Doctor, I don’t doubt you are very wise and very right,” said Edgar; “but you forget you are speaking of Clare. Tell Miss Somers I am coming to see her to-morrow after church. And, Doctor, I think it would be worth your while to examine the old woman, Jeanie’s grandmother. I don’t think she is quite right. She was speaking wildly. I did not know what to make of her. And if you consider what a helpless pair they would be! What could they do? especially if they were both ill in that way——”
“In what way?—concussion of the brain?” said the Doctor. “Is it Mrs. Murray’s brain you are anxious for? My dear boy, you may dismiss your fears. That woman has life enough for half-a-dozen of us cold-blooded people. Her brain is as sound as yours and mine. But it is a very anxious case, and it may well disturb her. Perhaps the accident may be good for the child if she mends. Everything is so mysterious about the brain. Won’t you reconsider the matter, and come? I don’t want to say too much for my dinner; but it is not bad—not bad, you know—a little better than usual, I think. No? Well, I think it would do you more real good than a long walk in the dark; but, of course, you must have your own way.”
And thus they parted at the great gates. The avenue was very dark, and Edgar was not in brilliant spirits. He seemed to himself to be entering a moral as well as a physical obscurity, confused by many mysterious shadows, as he took the way to his own door.