That day was a long day. Just before luncheon the Thornleighs called, as Clare had expected. The Thornleighs were next neighbours to the Ardens in the county; and in the general estimation they were more fashionable than the Ardens, in so much that Mr. Thornleigh had married Lady Augusta Highton, a daughter of the Duke of Grandmaison; whereas the late Mr. Arden had married a wife whose antecedents were very little known, and who had been dead for years. So that while the Thornleighs had a house in town, and went a great deal into society, the Ardens had not budged for years from Arden Hall, and were very little known in the great world. This, however, was counterbalanced by the fact that while Clare was quite fresh and unworn, the five Thornleigh girls were rather too well known, and were talked about with just that shade of ennui which so speedily creeps over a fashionable reputation. “One sees them everywhere,” said the fastidious rulers of that capricious world; and as there were five of them, it was not easy to invite them to those choicest little gatherings in which Fashion is worshipped with the most perfect rites, and distinctions are granted or withdrawn. None of the Thornleigh girls were yet married, and many people were disposed to censure Lady Augusta for bringing out little Beatrice, who was just seventeen, while she had still Ada, and Gussy, and Helena, and Mary on her hands. How could she ever expect to be able to take them all out—people said?—which was very true.

But, however, the thing was done, and could not be mended. Lady Augusta was not a matchmaker, in the usual sense of the word; neither were her daughters trained to the pursuit of elder sons or other eligible members of society, as it is common to suppose such young women to be. But it cannot be denied that as a reasonable woman, much concerned about the wellbeing of her children, Lady Augusta now and then allowed, with a sigh, that if Gussy and Ada were comfortably married it would be a very good thing, and a great relief to her mind. “Not to say that they could take their sisters out,” she would sometimes say to herself, with a sigh reflecting upon all the cotillions to which little Beatrice, in the fervour of seventeen, would no doubt subject her mother. And it would be vain to attempt to deny that a little thrill of curiosity was in Lady Augusta’s mind as she drove up the avenue to Arden. Edgar was their nearest neighbour, he was young and “nice,” so far as anybody knew—for, of course, he had been met abroad from time to time by wandering sons and cousins, and reports of him had been brought home—and just a suitable age for Gussy, or, indeed, for any of the girls, should the young people by any chance take a fancy to each other. I cannot see why Lady Augusta should be condemned for having this speculation in her mind. If she had been quite indifferent to the future fate of her daughters she would have been an unnatural woman. It was her chief business in the world to procure a happy life for them, and provide them with everything that was best; and why—a good husband being placed, by common consent, foremost in the list of those good things—a mother’s efforts towards the securing of him should not be thought the very highest and best of her occupations, it is very hard to say. As a matter of fact, everywhere but in England it is her first and most clearly recognised duty. And I for one do not feel in the least disposed to sneer at Lady Augusta. She went with her husband to look at this young man with a sense that one day he might be very important to her. It is possible that Edgar might not have liked it had the idea occurred to him that he was thus already a subject of speculation, and that his tenderest affections—the things which belong most exclusively to a man’s personal being—were already being directed, whether potentially or not, by the imagination of another, into channels as yet totally unknown to him. I believe such a thought is not pleasant to a young man. But still it was quite natural—and, indeed, laudable—on the part of Lady Augusta, and demands neither scorn nor condemnation. She had made Mr. Thornleigh give up a morning’s consultation with the keeper on some interesting young moorland families and the general prospects of the game, in order that no time might be lost in making this call. Of course, she said nothing to him as he sat rather sulkily by her side, thinking all the time of the young pheasants; but on the whole, perhaps, the mother’s were not the least elevated thoughts.

“I am so very glad to be the first to welcome you home, Mr. Arden,” she said. “We don’t know each other yet—at least we two individuals don’t know each other; but the Ardens and the Thornleighs have been friends these hundreds of years. How many hundreds, Clare? You girls are so dreadfully well-informed now-a-days, I never dare open my lips. And I hope now your sister will go out a little more, and come to us a little more. She has been such a little hermit all her life.”

“She shall not be a hermit now, if I can help it,” said Edgar. And he was pleased with the kindness of the elder woman, who was still a handsome woman, and gracious in her manner, as became a great lady. He sat down by her, as was his duty, but without thinking it was his duty—another sign of the spontaneousness which puzzled Clare, and gave Edgar’s simple ways their greatest charm.

And the fact was that Lady Augusta, without in the least meaning it, was captivated by the young man. “He is not the least like an Arden,” she said to her husband, as they drove away; “he has not their stiffness, any more than their black hair. I think he is charming. There is something very nice in a foreign education, you know. One would not choose it for one’s own boys; but it does give a certain character when you meet with it by accident. Young men in general are so frightfully like each other,” she added, with a sigh. Mr. Thornleigh gave a half articulate grunt, being full of calculations about the partridges; besides, the young men did not trouble him much. He was not called upon to remember which was which, and to hear them say exactly the same things to his girls ball after ball. Lady Augusta’s sigh turned into a half yawn as she glanced back upon all her experiences. He was just about the age and about the height for Gussy. Gussy was a small, little thing, and Edgar was not tall. He would not answer at all for the stately Helena, who was five feet ten. And then, if the mother had a weakness, it was for little Gussy of all her children. And it would be so nice to have her settled so near. “But just because it is so nice, and would be so desirable, of course it will never come to pass,” she said to herself, with another sigh. She had left an invitation behind her, and had made up her mind it should not be her fault if it came to nothing. Thus Edgar was assailed by altogether unexpected dangers the very day after his return.

And then there was the dinner in the evening, which was not so pleasant to think of as the dinner to which the brother and sister had been invited at Thorne. There were only three gentlemen—the Rector, and the Doctor, and Mr. Fazakerley—all twice as old as Edgar, and all patronising and explanatory. They knew his affairs so much better than he did, that it was not wonderful if they alarmed him. So long as Clare sat at the other end of the table her brother did not mind, for she was used to them, and used to having her own way with them; but Edgar felt it would be hard upon him when he was left to their tender mercies. He was very anxious to detain Clare, so as to shorten the awful hour after dinner. “Why should you go away?” he said, “wait till we are all ready. Are we such bears in England that ladies can’t stay with us for an hour? We don’t mean to smoke; that is the only thing that need send you away.”

“Smoke!” said Mr. Fielding, with horror. “Edgar, I hope you don’t mean to introduce these new-fangled foreign ways. I shall have to retire with the ladies if you do. I detest smoke, except in the open air.”

“That is one of his old-fashioned notions,” said Dr. Somers, “but you must have a smoking-room fitted up: then the ladies can’t object. The old Squire resisted such an innovation. He was of the antique school, like Fielding here, and hated everything that was new.”

“Just the reverse of our young friend,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “I and Tom Perfitt have been giving him a great many ideas to-day. You will find Tom a very satisfactory fellow, I am sure. He is broad Scotch, and he is fond of having his own way, but he knows every inch of the land, and what is best for it. If you do any amateur farming you could not have a better man. If that sort of thing ever was anything but ruinous, Tom is the man to make it pay.”

“I must take a little time to think what I am going to do,” said Edgar, “and to make acquaintance with the place. You forget that I don’t know Arden, though you all do. Clare, why should you go away?”

“I am going to make you some tea,” said Clare, with a smile, as she went away. And she took no notice of his appealing look. She was half vexed, indeed, that he should have suggested such an innovation. It was a bad symptom for the time to come. Why should not Edgar be content, as everybody else was, with the usual customs of society? She was annoyed that he should show his foreign breeding even before his old friends. It seemed to her that Dr. Somers’ keen eye launched a gleam of mockery at her as she went out. They would laugh at him, even these old gentlemen; and of course other people would laugh still more.

“Let her go,” the Doctor said, as the door closed behind the young mistress of the house. “Don’t disturb the customs of your country, Edgar. It is all very well just now when you are young; but the time will come, my boy, when you will prefer having an hour’s serious talk, without any women to interfere with it. And they like it themselves, my dear fellow; they like a moment to put their hair straight and their ribbons, and have their private gossip. Don’t train Clare into evil ways.”

“I think they are much pleasanter ways,” said Edgar; but he was put down by acclamation. To suggest an innovation in Arden of all places in the world! the three old men looked at him as if he were a natural curiosity, and studied his unusual habits with a mixture of amusement and alarm.

“I don’t object to young men being fond of ladies’ society,” said Mr. Fielding, in his gentle voice; “it is a great preservative to them; but still not too much, not too much, my dear boy. Your sister, of course, will be a kind of guardian angel to you; but you know there are a great many Liverpool people about with large families—nice people enough, and of course they will be very friendly, if you will let them; and pretty girls, and all that. But you must be careful, you must be very careful. You must remember a great deal depends on the circle you collect round you at first.”

“I don’t see how I can collect a circle round me,” said Edgar, laughing. “I have always supposed it was the great ladies who did that—Lady Augusta, for instance, who called here to-day——”

“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, “take care of that woman. She has five daughters, and she will play the pretty comedy of the spider and the fly with you for the amusement of the county, if you don’t mind. If you let yourself be drawn into her net, you will have to marry one of the girls, and that is a severe price to pay for a few dinners. You must take care what you are about.”

“The Miss Thornleighs are nice girls,” said Mr. Fazakerley, “but they will have very little money. Young Thornleigh has been dreadfully extravagant at Oxford. I know for certain that his father has paid his bills three times. Of course they have so much under the marriage settlements; but when there are five, and only a certain sum to be divided, there can’t be very much for each.”

“She has Edgar booked for one, you may be sure,” said the Doctor, “and a very nice thing, too—for them. Next neighbours, and a fine old place, and a nice young fellow. For my part, I think Lady Augusta is quite right.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Edgar, “I’d rather not have myself suggested as the subject of anybody’s calculations. Suppose one of the Miss Thornleighs should do me the honour to marry me hereafter, do you think I should like to remember how you talked of it? I am aware I have ridiculous notions——”

Dr. Somers laughed; Mr. Fazakerley chuckled, interrupting the young man’s speech; but Mr. Fielding, who was of a gentler nature, peered at him through his short-sighted old eyes with kindly sympathy. “Edgar, I think you are quite right,” he said. “We all talk about women in a most unjustifiable way. The Miss Thornleighs are very nice girls, and never gave any one reason to speak of them without respect—nor their mother either, that I know of; but we all talk as if they were put up to auction, and you might buy which you please. You are quite right.”

“I do not know whether I am right or not,” said Edgar, with some vehemence; “but I know I should punch any man’s head who spoke so of Clare.”

“Clare! Ah, that’s different,” said the Doctor; “where Clare is concerned, I give you full leave to punch anybody’s head——”

“Miss Clare is an heiress,” said Mr. Fazakerley. “She is as great a prize in the matrimonial market as her brother. If I took the liberty to speak on such a subject at all, I should represent her, not as the huntress, but the hunted. Penniless girls are in a very different position; and why should we blame them? It is their natural way of providing for themselves, after all.”

“Then, money is everything,” said Edgar, “and to provide for one’s self one’s first duty. I have not been very well brought up, you know, but I thought I had heard something better than that.”

“Don’t be too severely virtuous, my boy,” the Doctor said, pushing back his chair. “You may be sure that, from the savage to the swell (two classes not so far apart), to provide for one’s self is one’s highest duty. Love, &c., are very nice things, but your living comes first of all. Now, come, we are getting metaphysical; let us join Clare.”