“Tell me something about the Thornleighs,” Edgar said on the morning of the day they were to dine at Thorne. “I like to know what sort of people I am about to make acquaintance with. Are they friends of yours, Clare?”

“Pretty well,” Clare answered, with just that little elevation of her head which Edgar began to know. “What is the use of describing them when you will see them to-night, and then judge for yourself? Ada is nice. She is the eldest of all, and she talks very little. I like her for that. Gussy is short, with heaps of light hair; and Helena is very tall, and rather dark, like her father. They are not at all like each other—not much more like each other than you and me.”

“That is a consolation,” said Edgar, with a smile.

“Not so much as you think, for they are like in their ways; and then you can tell in a moment which side of the house they belong to,” said Clare, with a shade crossing her face. “Whereas, Edgar—don’t be vexed with me for saying so—but you are not even—like mamma.”

“How do you know?” said Edgar, a little sharply; for that he was like his mother had been one of the established principles of his life.

“I have a little miniature in a bracelet. Nobody knows of it, I think, but myself. She must have been fair, to be sure; but you are not very like her, Edgar. You are not vexed? Of course, you must be like her family. But Helena Thornleigh is like her father, and Ada and Gussy are like Lady Augusta. You can’t mistake it; and then they all have little ways of speaking, and little movements: if you are going to like any of them, I wish it may be Ada. She is really nice. But Gussy is a chatterbox, and Helena is superior; and as for Mary and Beatrice——”

“Is it certain that I must like one more than another?” said Edgar. “I mean to like them all, as they are our next neighbours. Is there any reason why I should confine myself to one?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” said Clare, with a suppressed laugh; “only somehow one always thinks where there are girls—— Look! Edgar; here is some one coming up the avenue. Who can it be? The servant is in livery, and I don’t recognise the carriage, nor anything. It can’t be the Thorpes, or the Mandevilles, or the Blundells; and it can’t be the Earl, for he is in town. Look! they don’t see us and I do so want to make them out.”

“The servants are in purple and green, and there is an astounding coat of arms on the panel,” said Edgar. “You must know that—arms as big as a saucer—and somebody very big inside.” The two were in a little morning room which opened from the great drawing room, where they could see the avenue and even the flight of steps before which the carriage stopped. Clare uttered an exclamation of horror as she stood gazing out at the new comers. She seemed to her brother to shiver with sudden dismay. “It cannot be possible!” she said. What could she mean? Perhaps it was some secret enemy whom she recognised but he did not know; somebody, perhaps, connected with the secret which more or less weighed on Edgar’s life.

“Who is it?” he said, in serious alarm, coming close to her. “Any one we have reason to be afraid of? Don’t tremble so. Nobody can harm you while I am here.”

“On the contrary, they would never have ventured had not you been here!” said Clare, with vehement indignation. “They never could have had the presumption—— Edgar, it is an insult! We ought to send and say we are not at home. There are some things one ought not to bear——”

“Who are they?” he asked, beginning to perceive that there was no serious cause for fear.

But Clare’s flushed and indignant countenance showed no signs of softening. “I knew they were presuming, but I never could have imagined anything so bad as this,” she cried. “Edgar, it is the Pimpernels!”

“The Pimpernels?” Edgar repeated, confused and wondering; but before he could ask another question the door was thrown open, and Wilkins appeared in front of the invading party. Wilkins’ face was a study of suppressed consternation and dismay. He did his office as if he were going to the stake, stern necessity compelling him in the shape of those three solid figures behind. “Mr., Mrs., and Miss Pimpernel,” said Wilkins, with a voice in which the protest of a martyr was audible behind the ordinary formality. Edgar did not know anything about the Pimpernels. He saw before him a large man, made larger by light summer costume, which magnified his breadth and diminished his height, with sparkling jewelled studs in his shirt, and a great coil of watch-chain spreading across his buff waistcoat; and a large lady, enveloped in black silk and lace, which somehow, though so totally different, seemed to have the same effect of enlarging and setting forth her amplitude of form. Behind these two there appeared, seen by intervals, the slim figure of a tall girl, with a pretty blushing face. Nothing could have made Edgar uncivil—not even the terrible fact, had he known it, that Mr. Pimpernel was a Liverpool cotton-broker, such a man as had never before made his appearance in the capacity of visitor within the stately shades of Arden. But he was not aware of that awful fact. He knew only that Clare had been moved by horror at the sight of them, and that she stood now at as great a distance as possible, and made a very solemn curtsey, and looked as if she were assisting at a funeral. The Pimpernels, who had produced this melancholy effect, were themselves so utterly unlike it, at once in manners and appearance, that the situation affected Edgar rather with comic than with solemn feelings.

“I am very glad to see you, and to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” said Mr. Pimpernel, when they had all sat down in the form of a semicircle, of which Edgar and Clare formed the base. “I can’t pretend to be an old neighbour, but we have been here long enough to take an interest in the county. I have always taken a great interest in the county, as my wife knows.”

“Yes, indeed,” said that ample woman. “Since ever we settled here Mr. Pimpernel has quite thrown himself into Arden ways. We were so very lucky in getting the Red House—the only one in the neighbourhood. It is wicked to say so, but I felt so much obliged to poor Mr. Dalton when he died and let us have it—I did indeed. It was quite obliging of him to die.”

Upon this Miss Pimpernel laughed shyly, and Mr. Pimpernel smiled; and Edgar, seeing it was expected of him, would have smiled too had he not encountered Clare’s stormy countenance, without a gleam of light upon it. It embarrassed him sadly, poor fellow; for of course he did not want to wound his sister, and yet he could not be uncivil. “I am such a stranger in my own country,” he said, “that I really don’t know where the Red House is. I know only the village, and nothing more.”

“It is the sweetest village,” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “We were so glad to hear that there were no building sites to be given, though, of course, in one way it must have been a sacrifice. It is selfish of us, because we have been so fortunate as to secure the only house; but the moment you begin to build villas you spoil the place. It never would have been the same sweet old place again. Mr. Pimpernel drives over every morning to Farnham Green, the station. Of course, he could not do it unless he was able to afford horses; but we are able to afford them, I am glad to say. I don’t know if you have ever remarked his Yankee waggon, with two beautiful bright bays? I hope I am not horsey, which is very unladylike, but I do like to see a fine animal. It is next to a pretty girl, my husband always says.”

“The only thing wanting in Arden is a little society,” said Mr. Pimpernel; “and I hope, Mr. Arden, that your happy return, and the new life you must bring with you, will change all that. We hoped you would perhaps dine with us on Monday week? Young Newmarch is coming, the Earl’s eldest son, a very nice young fellow—quite a man of his century; but of course you must know him better than I do; and we expect some young Oxford men with my son, who is at Christchurch. My wife wanted to write, but I think it is always best to settle such things by word of mouth.”

“I am afraid Miss Arden may think all this a little abrupt,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, taking up the strain when her husband paused. “Of course, if it had not been for the change, and Mr. Arden coming, as it were, fresh to the place, it was not our part to call first; but all this last year I have done nothing but think of you, so lonely as you must have been. I have said to Alice a hundred times—‘How I wish I could go and call upon that poor dear Miss Arden.’ But I never knew whether you would like it. I am sure, many and many a time, when I have seen all my own young ones so merry about me, I have thought of you. ‘If we could only have her here, and cheer her up a little,’ I used to say——”

“It was kind of you to think of my sister. I am very much obliged to you,” said Edgar, warmly. Clare made a little bow, and after her brother had spoken murmured something vaguely under her breath.

“I know what it is to have no mother,” continued the large lady, “and to be left alone. I was an only daughter myself; and when I looked at all mine, and me spared to them, and thought ‘Oh, that poor dear girl, all by herself!’ I could have cried over you; I could, indeed.”

“You were very kind,” said Edgar once more, and Clare uttered another faint murmur, as if echoing him, unable to originate any sentiment of her own.

“But I fear Miss Arden has poor health,” Mrs. Pimpernel continued, fixing her eyes, which had been contemplating the company in general, upon Clare. And Mr. Pimpernel, who had been inspecting the room with some curiosity, looked too at the young lady of the house; and the slim daughter gave her a succession of shy glances, so that she was hemmed in on every side, and could no longer meet with silence, or with her haughty little bow, those expressions of friendly interest.

“Indeed I am very well—quite well,” she said. “I must have been getting sympathy on false pretences. There is no lack of society had I wanted it. It was my choice to be alone.”

“Oh, my dear, that I have no doubt of,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; “in your position, of course, you can pick and choose; but still, when you are not in good spirits, nor feeling up to much exertion—— However, I do hope you will waive ceremony, and come in a friendly way with your brother to dine at the Red House on Monday. It would give me so much pleasure. And Alice has been looking forward to making your acquaintance for so long.”

“Oh, yes; for a very long time,” said pretty Alice, under her breath. She was as pretty as Clare herself, though in a different way; and sat a little behind her mother, looking from one to the other of her parents, like a silent chorus, softly backing them with smiles and sympathy. When she caught Edgar’s eyes during this little performance, she blushed and cast down her own, and played with the fringe of her parasol; and with a certain awe now and then, her looks strayed to Clare’s beautiful, closed-up, repellent face. She was shy of the brother, but downright frightened for the sister; and besides these two sentiments, and a faith as yet unbroken in her father and mother, showed no personal identity at all.

“I do not go out at present,” said Clare, looking at her black dress; upon which Mrs. Pimpernel rushed into remonstrance and entreaty. Edgar sat looking on, feeling almost as much bewildered as Alice; for, notwithstanding her black dress, Clare had shown no particular unwillingness to go to Thorne.

“For the sake of your health you ought not to shut yourself up,” urged Mrs. Pimpernel; “a young creature at your age should enjoy life a little; and for the sake of your friends, who would be so glad to have you—and for your brother’s sake, my dear, if you will let me say so—I speak freely, because I have daughters of my own.”

“Thanks, you are very kind,” said courteous Edgar; while his sister shut her beautiful lips close. And then there was a pause, which was not comfortable. Mrs. Pimpernel began to smooth the gloves which were very tight on her plump hands, and Mr. Pimpernel resumed his inspection of the room.

“That is a Turner, I suppose,” he said, pointing to a very poor daub in a dark corner. “I hope you are fond of art, Mr. Arden. When you come to the Red House I can show you some rather pretty things.”

“It is not a Turner; it is very bad,” said Edgar. “We have no pictures except portraits. I don’t think the Ardens have ever taken much interest in art.”

“Never,” said Clare, with a little emphasis. She said so because she had heard a great deal about Mr. Pimpernel’s pictures, and felt it her duty to disown all participation in any such plebeian taste; and then she recollected herself, and grew red, and added hurriedly—“The Ardens have always had to think of their country, Edgar. They have had more serious things to do.”

“But I am not much of an Arden, I fear, and I am very fond of pictures,” said Edgar carelessly, without perceiving the cloud that swept over his sister’s face.

“Then I assure you, though I say it that shouldn’t, I have some pretty things to show you at the Red House,” said Mr. Pimpernel. Thus it came to be understood that Edgar had accepted the invitation for Monday week, and the party rose,—first the mother, then Alice, obedient to every impulse, and finally Mr. Pimpernel, who extended his large hand, and took into his own Clare’s reluctant fingers. “I hope we shall soon see you with your brother,” he said, raising his other hand, as if he was pronouncing a blessing over her. “Indeed, I hope so,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, following him with outstretched hand. Alice put out hers too, but withdrew it shyly, and made a little curtsey, like a school girl, Clare thought; but to her brother there was something very delicate, and gentle, and pretty in the girl’s modest withdrawal. He went to the door with them to put Mrs. Pimpernel in her carriage, and came back to Clare without a suspicion of the storm which was about to burst upon his head.