Mrs. Pimpernel considered that she did well to be angry. It was all very well for her husband to put off and give him time; but a man who did not show proper respect to herself and Alice was certainly not a man to be encouraged in the house. She was glad she had had the opportunity of throwing that arrow at him from the hall, and letting him see that she was not so short-sighted as other people. But, as the morning went on, she cast several glances from more than one window upon the scene on the lawn, which was a very pretty scene. Alice was seated quite in the shade, with her worsted work and her basket of wools, the wools so bright, and her dress so light and cool, against the shady green background. And on the grass at her feet lay Arthur Arden, so fine a contrast in his dark manhood to her fairness. He was a little too old, perhaps, to make the contrast perfect. But he was still very handsome, and had about him a certain air of youth such as often clings to an unmarried vagrant. He lay looking up at Alice, telling his story; and Alice, with her head dreamily bent over her work, sat rapt and listened. As the narrative went on, her interest became too great for her work. She dropped the many-coloured web on her knee and clasped her hands, and fixed her eyes upon the teller of the tale. “Oh, Mr. Arden!” she exclaimed by intervals, carried away by her excitement. Mrs. Pimpernel took views of this group from all the bedrooms on that side of the house, and then she went downstairs and seated herself at the drawing-room window, and studied it at her leisure. Her thoughts changed gradually as she gazed. Arden looking up at Alice, and Alice shyly gazing down at Arden, were arguments of the most convincing character. After all, probably he had been making a sacrifice of himself. That stuck-up cousin of his could not possibly be so charming as Alice, who was open to every new interest, and made such a flattering absorbed listener. “That is what the men like,” Mrs. Pimpernel said to herself. “She is not clever, poor love; but they never like women to be clever.” And then, after a long interval, she added, still within herself, “I shouldn’t wonder a bit if he was frightened for the stuck-up cousin.” Yes, no doubt that was it. He had to conciliate her, and pretend to be fond of her society. “After all, he is always here all the evening,” she went on, softening more and more; and the result was that at length she took down a broad hat which hung in the hall, and stepped out herself to join the garden party. “You look so comfortable, and there is evidently something so interesting going on, that I should like to have a share,” she said, in a voice so softened that Arthur instantly felt his device had succeeded. “Oh, go on, please. I can always imagine what has gone before. Don’t go over it again for me.”

“Oh, mamma, it is so exciting,” cried Alice; “it was one of the Ardens, you know, that was a sailor, and went abroad; and then he took a town out in South America; and then the Governor’s daughter, the most beautiful creature in the whole place—— Oh, mamma! and that is why all the Ardens have black hair and blue eyes.”

“Mr. Arden of Arden has not black hair and blue eyes,” said Mrs. Pimpernel.

“No,” said Arthur, very distinctly and emphatically. He did not add another syllable. The very brevity of his reply was full of significance, and told its own story. And Mrs. Pimpernel looked upon him with more and more favourable eyes.

“Do you find out all this in the papers at Arden?” she resumed. “How nice it must be. I do respect an old family. My grandmother—though Mr. Pimpernel will never hear of it; he says he has enriched himself by his own exertions, and he is not ashamed of it, and won’t have any pretensions made—just like a man’s impetuosity—but my own grandmother was a Blundell, Mr. Arden. I often think I can trace a resemblance between my Alice and the Blundells. Does Miss Arden go over the papers with you, may I ask, when you are at the Hall?”

Arthur was so much taken by surprise that he was afraid he blushed; but his looks were less treacherous than he thought them to be, and it did not show. “Sometimes—No. I mean, the first day she gave the old bureau up to me,” he said, faltering a little, “she showed a little interest too; but my cousin Clare—I am sorry you do not know Clare a little better, Mrs. Pimpernel. It would do her good to come under your influence. She wants a little womanly trifling and that sort of thing, you know. She is always full of such high designs and plans for everybody. She is——”

“A little tiresome sometimes and high-flown. Oh, I see exactly,” Mrs. Pimpernel replied, nodding her head. Too clever for him evidently; men all hate clever women, she said inwardly, with a smile; while Arthur, with a savage desire to cut his own throat, or fly at hers, after his treachery to Clare, got hold of the basket of wools and scattered them wildly about the grass. He broke the basket, and he was glad. It would have been a satisfaction to his mind if he could have trampled upon all the flower-beds, and thrown stones at the windows of the peaceful house.

“Oh, Mr. Arden, never mind,” said Alice. “The basket does not matter; it was not a dear basket. Oh, please, never mind. Go on with the Spanish lady. I do want so much to hear.”

“It was a Spanish lady, and she loved an Englishman,” said Arthur, making an effort, and resuming his tale. He did not dislike Alice. There was no impulse upon him to fly upon her and shake her, or do anything but be very civil and gentle to the pretty inoffensive girl. In short, he was like all coarse-minded men. The young fresh creature exercised a certain influence over him by reason of her beauty; but the elder woman was simply an inferior being of his own species—a weaker man in disguise, whom he dared not treat as he would a man, and accordingly hated with a double hatred. Mrs. Pimpernel perhaps would scarcely have objected to the sentiment. She had as little refinement of the heart as he had, and was ready to use all the privileges of her sex as weapons of offence to goad and madden with them any man who was any way obnoxious to her. “He knows he cannot take me in. I am not a simpleton to be deceived by his fair talk; and I know he hates me,” she would have said, with real triumph. But in the meantime he was obliged to keep the peace. So he resumed his story. The hour of luncheon was approaching, and after that would come the welcome hour when for three or four days back he had been able to escape from all the Pimpernels. But he did not dare to make his escape that day; and while he told his romantic tale he was painfully contriving how he should manage to send word to Clare, and wondering if she would miss him! It would be a dreary business for himself, giving up the day to croquet and Pimpernels. Would Clare feel the disappointment too? Would the house be lonely to her without him? His heart gave a leap, and he felt for a moment as if he was certain it would be lonely. Curiously, this thought did not sadden but exhilarate his mind; and then he returned anxiously to the question—How could he, without exciting suspicion, have a note sent to Clare?

The ladies were so interested that they neglected the sound of the luncheon bell, and did not even perform that washing of hands which gives a man space to breathe. They did not budge, in short, until the butler came out, solemn in his black clothes, to intimate that their meal awaited them; and Arthur, in dismay, had nothing for it but to offer his arm to his hostess. It was a hot day, and the luncheon was hot too. How he loathed it!—and not a moment left him to write a word, explaining how it was, to Clare!

“Positively, Mr. Arden, you have been so interesting that one forgot how the time had gone,” cried Mrs. Pimpernel. “It is an idle sort of thing amusing one’s self in the morning; but when one has such a temptation—it was quite as good as any novel, I declare!”

“Oh, mamma! Mr. Arden said he was perhaps going to write a book,” said Alice, who had grown bolder after this whole long morning which had been given up to herself.

“That would be very nice,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, with affable patronage. “Mr. Pimpernel would take half-a-dozen copies at once, I am sure. How I envy talent, Mr. Arden. It is the only thing I covet. And to find all your materials in your own family——”

“Talking of that,” said Arthur, “I must make a run up to the Rectory, after luncheon, to see Mr. Fielding. I have a—question to ask——”

At this he could see Mrs. Pimpernel’s brow cloud over at once, and the look of suspicion and angry distrust come back to her face. Alice was better advised. She looked down on the table, and broke a piece of bread in little pieces, which answered nearly as well as a glove to button. “Oh, Mr. Arden,” she said; “I thought this day you were going to stay with us. I thought we were really to have had a game at croquet to-day?”

“Oh, my dear! don’t attempt to interfere with Mr. Arden’s engagements,” said Mrs. Pimpernel, with a forced laugh. “Gentlemen are always so much happier when they have their own way.”

“And do ladies dislike their own way?” said Arthur; but he was in the toils, and could not escape. “I am looking forward to my game of croquet,” he said; “and I have no engagements. I will do my business with Mr. Fielding while you are putting on your hat. It will not take me twenty minutes. He is a good old soul. He is as fond of the Ardens as if they were his own children; but not all the Ardens. I think he does, not approve of me.”

“Oh, Mr. Arden!—nonsense!” cried Alice, decidedly. Her mother did not say anything, but a rapid calculation ran through her mind. If the Rector did not like Arthur he could not be going to meet Clare at the Rectory; and Mr. Fielding had been quite civil—really very civil to herself. She did not see any reason to fear him.

“If you are in a hurry for your croquet, Alice,” she said, graciously, “the only thing is to send the carriage to take Mr. Arden there and back.”

“Oh! that would be so nice!” cried Alice, with transport. But Arthur was of a very different frame of mind. “Confound the carriage,” he said within himself; but his outward speech was more civil. He had not the least occasion for it. He would so much rather not give trouble. A walk would be good for him—he should like it. At last his earnestness prevailed; and it is impossible to describe his sense of relief when he walked out into the blazing afternoon, along the dusty, shadeless road that led to the village. He had got free from them for the moment; but he could not rush to Arden in the half-hour allotted to him. He could not secure for himself a peep at Clare. He did not even feel that he could trust the Rector to deliver his note for him; and where was he to write his note? And what would Clare think? Would she despise him for his subserviency to the Pimpernels? And why should he be subservient to them? Arthur knew very well why. He would have to abandon his researches altogether, and leave to chance the furtherance of his designs upon Clare, if he had to leave the Red House. “Everything is lawful in love and in war,” he said to himself. It was both love and war he was carrying on. Love to the sister, war to the brother; and, with such a double pursuit, surely a little finesse was permissible to him, if to any man in the world.

But he did not reach the Rectory nor run the risk of Mr. Fielding’s enmity that day. He had not gone half way up the village when he bethought himself of a much safer medium in the shape of old Sarah. Sarah’s cottage was very quiet when he reached the door. Neither Mary, the clear-starcher, nor Ellen, the sempstress, were visible in it, and Sarah herself was not to be seen. He gave a glance in at the door into the little living room, which looked cool and green—all shaded with the big geranium. The place was quite silent, too; but in the corner near the stair sat a little figure, with bright hair braided, and head bent over its work. “Jeanie, by Jove!” said Arthur Arden; and he forgot Clare’s note; he forgot Alice Pimpernel, who was waiting for him. He went in and sat down by her, in that safe and tempting solitude. “Are you all alone?” he said; “nobody to keep you company, and nothing but that stupid work to amuse you? I am better than that, don’t you think, Jeanie? Come and talk a little to me.”

“Sir!” said Jeanie, with a little start; and then she looked him steadily in the face. “I’m no feared for you now. I see you’re no that man; but I cannot believe you when you speak. Eh, that’s dreadful to say to one like you!”

“Very dreadful,” said Arthur, laughing, and drawing closer to her. “So dreadful, Jeanie, that you must be very kind to me to make up for having said it. You don’t believe me—not when I tell you are the loveliest little creature I ever saw, and I am very fond of you? You must believe that. I should like to take you away to a much prettier house than this, and give you all kinds of beautiful things.”

Jeanie looked at him with steadfast eyes. Not a blush touched her face—not the slightest gleam of consciousness came into her quiet, steady gaze. “It’s a dreadful thing to say of a man,” she said; “a man should be a shelter from the storm and a covert from the tempest. It’s in the Bible so; but you’re no shelter to anybody, poor man. You’re growing old, and yet ye never learn——”

“By Jove!” said Arthur, rising up. He had forgotten both Clare and Alice for the moment, and this little cottager was avenging them. But yet the reproof was so whimsical that it diverted him. “Do you know you are a very uncivil little girl,” he said. “Are you not afraid to speak to me so, and you quite alone?”

“I’m no feared for you now,” said Jeanie. “I was silly when I was feared. There is nothing you could do to me, even if ye wanted; and ye’re no so ill a man as to want to harm me.”

“Thank you for your good opinion,” said Arthur; “but there are a great many things I could do. I could give you pretty dresses and a carriage, and everything you can think of; and if you were very sweet and kind to me——”

“Mr. Arden,” said a voice over his shoulders, “if you have business with Jeanie, maybe it would be mair simple and straightforward if ye would settle it with me.”

Arthur turned round with a mixture of rage and dismay, and found himself confronting Mr. Perfitt, who stood stern and serious in the doorway. He had need of all his readiness of mind to meet such an emergency. He paused a moment, feeling himself at bay; but he was not the man to lose his head even in so disagreeable a crisis.

“My business is not with Jeanie,” he said, briskly. “My business is with old Sarah, who is not to be found; but you will do quite as well, Perfitt. I want to send a note to Miss Arden. If Jeanie will get me some paper? Do you understand me, little one? Could you give me some paper to write a little letter? Poor child; do you think she understands?”

Thus he got the better of both the protector and protected. Jeanie, who had been impervious to all else, blushed crimson at this doubt of her understanding; and so did Perfitt. “She’s no like an innocent or a natural. She’s been well brought up and well learned,” the Scotchman said, with natural and national indignation. “Indeed! I thought she was an unmistakable innocent,” said Arthur; and thus it came about that Clare’s note was written after all.