Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
Squire Arden; volume 2 of 3
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
England -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; Landowners -- Fiction
This view of the matter made it almost a duty to balk him. Had she
foreseen that Arthur was going to remain in the neighbourhood, of course
she would have told her brother; but she did not know. Nobody could be
more surprised than she was to find him with the Pimpernels; and it was
no pleasure to her, but quite the reverse, that he should be with the
Pimpernels. Besides, it might justify and strengthen Edgar in his
democratic ways if he heard that his cousin, so much more true an Arden
than himself, was staying at the Red House. Accordingly, she wrote to
her brother less frequently than usual, and said nothing about Arthur,
which was not perhaps quite what Edgar might have expected from his
sister. Probably, if he heard of it, he would manage in some insidious
way to get her carried off to town, which Clare detested; or he would
return himself, which, in present circumstances, Clare did not desire.
So she let the days run on, finding a subtle sweetness in them. There
was nothing said between her kinsman and herself which all the world
might not have heard--except, perhaps, by times, a tone, an inflection
of voice, an almost imperceptible inference. Arthur was skilful in such
ways of making himself secretly understood; but he said nothing to
agitate or alarm her. And thus they went on with their respective
pursuits, side by side. What could be more sober, more grave, less like
any sentiment or romance or nonsense? But Clare _lived_ in those hours,
which were thus sensibly and seriously spent. All the evening she
remembered, all the morning she looked for them. She had not been into
the village for a week; she had not seen the Rector except at church,
nor any of her old friends. She took her evening ramble through the park
all alone, and happy to be alone. “It is just as it used to be,” she
said to herself; but Clare knew very well that it was not as it used to
be. Even now a dread of the arrival of some friendly visitor, bent upon
taking care of her, would sometimes overcloud her mind. If they but knew
how she detested being taken care of--if they but understood how happy
she could be alone!
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