"I've settled it all with Stovey already," said Belton. "He'll be glad enough to walk off with a twenty-pound note, which I'll give him. He can't make money out of the place. He hasn't got means to stock it, and then see the wages that hay-making runs away with! He'd lose by it even at what he's paying, and he knows it. There won't be any difficulty about Stovey."
By twelve o'clock on that day Mr. Stovey had been brought into the house, and had resigned the land. It had been let to Mr. William Belton at an increased rental,—a rental increased by nearly forty pounds per annum,—and that gentleman had already made many of his arrangements for entering upon his tenancy. The twenty pounds had already been paid to Stovey, and the transaction was complete. Mr. Amedroz sat in his chair bewildered, dismayed—and, as he himself declared,—shocked, quite shocked, at the precipitancy of the young man. It might be for the best. He didn't know. He didn't feel at all sure. But such hurrying in such a matter was, under all the circumstances of the family, to say the least of it, very indelicate. He was angry with himself for having yielded, and angry with Clara for having allowed him to do so. "It doesn't signify much," he said, at last. "Of course he'll have it all to himself before long."
"But, papa, it really seems to be a much better arrangement for you. You'll get moremoney—"
"Money is not everything, my dear."
"But you'd sooner have Mr. Belton, our own cousin, about the place, than Mr. Stovey."
"I don't know. We shall see. The thing is done now, and there is no use in complaining. I must say he hasn't shown a great deal of delicacy."
On that afternoon Belton asked Clara to go out with him, and walk round the place. He had been again about the grounds, and had made plans, and counted up capabilities, and calculated his profit and losses. "If you don't dislike scrambling about," said he, "I'll show you everything that I intend to do."
"But I can't have any changes made, Mr. Belton," said Mr. Amedroz, with some affectation of dignity in his manner. "I won't have the fences moved, or anything of that kind."
"Nothing shall be done, sir, that you don't approve. I'll just manage it all as if I was acting as your own—bailiff." "Son," he was going to say, but he remembered the fate of his cousin Charles just in time to prevent the use of the painful word.
"I don't want to have anything done," said Mr. Amedroz.
"Then nothing shall be done. We'll just mend a fence or two, to keep in the cattle, and leave other things as they are. But perhaps Clara will walk out with me all the same."
Clara was quite ready to walk out, and had already tied on her hat and taken her parasol.
"Your father is a little nervous," said he, as soon as they were beyond hearing of the house.
"Can you wonder at it, when you remember all that he has suffered?"
"I don't wonder at it in the least; and I don't wonder at his disliking me either."
"I don't think he dislikes you, Mr. Belton."
"Oh, but he does. Of course he does. I'm the heir to the place instead of you. It is natural that he should dislike me. But I'll live it down. You see if I don't. I'll make him so fond of me, he'll always want to have me here. I don't mind a little dislike to begin with."
"You're a wonderful man, Mr. Belton."
"I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. Belton. But of course you must do as you please about that. If I can make him call me Will, I suppose you'll call me so too."
"Oh, yes; then I will."
"It don't much matter what a person is called; does it? Only one likes to be friendly with one's friends. I suppose you don't like my calling you Clara."
"Now you've begun you had better go on."
"I mean to. I make it a rule never to go back in the world. Your father is half sorry that he has agreed about the place; but I shan't let him off now. And I'll tell you what. In spite of what he says, I'll have it as different as possible before this time next year. Why, there's lots of timber that ought to come out of the plantation; and there's places where the roots want stubbing up horribly. These things always pay for themselves if they are properly done. Any good done in the world always pays." Clara often remembered those words afterwards when she was thinking of her cousin's character. Any good done in the world always pays!
"But you mustn't offend my father, even though it should do good," she said.
"I understand," he answered. "I won't tread on his toes. Where do you get your milk and butter?"
"We buy them."
"From Stovey, I suppose."
"Yes; from Mr. Stovey. It goes against the rent."
"And it ought to go against the grain too,—living in the country and paying for milk! I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a cow. It shall be a little present from me to you." He said nothing of the more important present which this would entail upon him in the matter of the grass for the cow; but she understood the nature of the arrangement, and was anxious to prevent it.
"Oh, Mr. Belton, I think we'd better not attempt that," she said.
"But we will attempt it. I've pledged myself to do nothing to oppose your father; but I've made no such promise as to you. We'll have a cow before I'm many days older. What a pretty place this is! I do like these rocks so much, and it is such a comfort to be off the flat."
"It is pretty."
"Very pretty. You've no conception what an ugly place Plaistow is. The land isn't actual fen now, but it was once. And it's quite flat. And there is a great dike, twenty feet wide, oozing through it,—just oozing, you know; and lots of little dikes, at right angles with the big one. And the fields are all square. And there are no hedges,—and hardly a tree to be seen in the place."
"What a picture you have drawn! I should commit suicide if I lived there."
"Not if you had so much to do as I have."
"And what is the house like?"
"The house is good enough,—an old-fashioned manor-house, with high brick chimneys, and brick gables, tiled all over, and large square windows set in stone. The house is good enough, only it stands in the middle of a farm-yard. I said there were no trees, but there is an avenue."
"Come, that's something."
"It was an old family seat, and they used to have avenues in those days; but it doesn't lead up to the present hall door. It comes sideways up to the farm-yard; so that the whole thing must have been different once, and there must have been a great court-yard. In Elizabeth's time Plaistow Manor was rather a swell place, and belonged to some Roman Catholics who came to grief, and then the Howards got it. There's a whole history about it, only I don't much care about those things."
"And is it yours now?"
"It's between me and my uncle, and I pay him rent for his part. He's a clergyman you know, and he has a living in Lincolnshire,—not far off."
"And do you live alone in that big house?"
"There's my sister. You've heard of Mary;—haven't you?"
Then Clara remembered that there was a Miss Belton,—a poor sickly creature, with a twisted spine and a hump back, as to whose welfare she ought to have made inquiries.
"Oh, yes; of course," said Clara. "I hope she's better than she used to be,—when we heard of her."
"She'll never be better. But then she does not become much worse. I think she does grow a little weaker. She's older than I am, you know,—two years older; but you would think she was quite an old woman to look at her." Then, for the next half-hour, they talked about Mary Belton as they visited every corner of the place. Belton still had an eye to business as he went on talking, and Clara remarked how many sticks he moved as he went, how many stones he kicked on one side, and how invariably he noted any defect in the fences. But still he talked of his sister, swearing that she was as good as gold, and at last wiping away the tears from his eyes as he described her maladies. "And yet I believe she is better off than any of us," he said, "because she is so good." Clara began to wish that she had called him Will from the beginning, because she liked him so much. He was just the man to have for a cousin,—a true loving cousin, stalwart, self-confident, with a grain or two of tyranny in his composition as becomes a man in relation to his intimate female relatives; and one, moreover, with whom she could trust herself to be familiar without any danger of love-making! She saw his character clearly, and told herself that she understood it perfectly. He was a jewel of a cousin, and she must begin to call him Will as speedily as possible.
At last they came round in their walk to the gate leading into Colonel Askerton's garden; and here in the garden, close to the gate, they found Mrs. Askerton. I fancy that she had been watching for them, or at any rate watching for Clara, so that she might know how her friend was carrying herself with her cousin. She came at once to the wicket, and there she was introduced by Clara to Mr. Belton. Mr. Belton as he made his bow muttered something awkwardly, and seemed to lose his self-possession for the moment. Mrs. Askerton was very gracious to him, and she knew well how to be both gracious and ungracious. She talked about the scenery, and the charms of the old place, and the dullness of the people around them, and the inexpediency of looking for society in country places; till after awhile Mr. Belton was once more at his ease.
"How is Colonel Askerton?" asked Clara.
"He's in-doors. Will you come and see him? He's reading a French novel, as usual. It's the only thing he ever does in summer. Do you ever read French novels, Mr. Belton?"
"I read very little at all, and when I do I read English."
"Ah, you're a man who has a pursuit in life, no doubt."
"I should rather think so,—that is, if you mean, by a pursuit, earning my bread. A man has not much time for French novels with a thousand acres of land on his hands; even if he knew how to read French, which I don't."
"But you're not always at work on your farm?"
"It's pretty constant, Mrs. Askerton. Then I shoot, and hunt."
"You're a sportsman?"
"All men living in the country are,—more or less."
"Colonel Askerton shoots a great deal. He has the shooting of Belton, you know. He'll be delighted, I'm sure, to see you if you are here some time in September. But you, coming from Norfolk, would not care for partridge-shooting in Somersetshire."
"I don't see why it shouldn't be as good here as there."
"Colonel Askerton thinks he has got a fair head of game upon the place."
"I dare say. Game is easily kept if people knew how to set about it."
"Colonel Askerton has a very good keeper, and has gone to a great deal of expense since he has been here."
"I'm my own head-keeper," said Belton; "and so I will be,—or rather should be, if I had this place."
Something in the lady's tone had grated against his feelings and offended him; or perhaps he thought that she assumed too many of the airs of proprietorship because the shooting of the place had been let to her husband for thirty pounds a-year.
"I hope you don't mean to say you'll turn us out," said Mrs. Askerton, laughing.
"I have no power to turn anybody out or in," said he. "I've got nothing to do with it."
Clara, perceiving that matters were not going quite pleasantly between her old and new friend, thought it best to take her departure. Belton, as he went, lifted his hat from his head, and Clara could not keep herself from thinking that he was not only very handsome, but that he looked very much like a gentleman, in spite of his occupation as a farmer.
"By-bye, Clara," said Mrs. Askerton; "come down and see me to-morrow, there's a dear. Don't forget what a dull life I have of it." Clara said that she would come. "And I shall be so happy to see Mr. Belton if he will call before he leaves you." At this Belton again raised his hat from his head, and muttered some word or two of civility. But this, his latter muttering, was different from the first, for he had altogether regained his presence of mind.
"You didn't seem to get on very well with my friend," said Clara, laughing, as soon as they had turned away from the cottage.
"Well, no;—that is to say, not particularly well or particularly badly. At first I took her for somebody else I knew slightly ever so long ago, and I was thinking of that other person at the time."
"And what was the other person's name?"
"I can't even remember that at the present moment."
"Mrs. Askerton was a Miss Oliphant."
"That wasn't the other lady's name. But, independently of that, they can't be the same. The other lady married a Mr. Berdmore."
"A Mr. Berdmore!" Clara as she repeated the name felt convinced that she had heard it before, and that she had heard it in connection with Mrs. Askerton. She certainly had heard the name of Berdmore pronounced, or had seen it written, or had in some shape come across the name in Mrs. Askerton's presence; or at any rate somewhere on the premises occupied by that lady. More than this she could not remember; but the name, as she had now heard it from her cousin, became at once distinctly connected in her memory with her friends at the cottage.
"Yes," said Belton; "a Mr. Berdmore. I knew more of him than of her, though for the matter of that, I knew very little of him either. She was a fast-going girl, and his friends were very sorry. But I think they are both dead or divorced, or that they have come to grief in some way."
"And is Mrs. Askerton like the fast-going lady?"
"In a certain way. Not that I remember what the fast-going lady was like; but there was something about this woman that put me in mind of the other. Vigo was her name; now I recollect it,—a Miss Vigo. It's nine or ten years ago now, and I was little more than a boy."
"Her name was Oliphant."
"I don't suppose they have anything to do with each other. What riled me was the way she talked of the shooting. People do when they take a little shooting. They pay some trumpery thirty or forty pounds a year, and then they seem to think that it's almost the same as though they owned the property themselves. I've known a man talk of his manor because he had the shooting of a wood and a small farm round it. They are generally shopkeepers out of London, gin distillers, or brewers, or people like that."
"Why, Mr. Belton, I didn't think you could be so furious!"
"Can't I? When my back's up, it is up! But it isn't up yet."
"And I hope it won't be up while you remain in Somersetshire."
"I won't answer for that. There's Stovey's empty cart standing just where it stood yesterday; and he promised he'd have it home before three to-day. My back will be up with him if he doesn't mind himself."
It was nearly six o'clock when they got back to the house, and Clara was surprised to find that she had been out three hours with her cousin. Certainly it had been very pleasant. The usual companion of her walks, when she had a companion, was Mrs. Askerton; but Mrs. Askerton did not like real walking. She would creep about the grounds for an hour or so, and even such companionship as that was better to Clara than absolute solitude; but now she had been carried about the place, getting over stiles and through gates, and wandering through the copses, till she was tired and hungry, and excited and happy. "Oh, papa," she said, "we have had such a walk!"
"I thought we were to have dined at five," he replied, in a low wailing voice.
"No, papa, indeed,—indeed you said six."
"That was for yesterday."
"You said we were to make it six while Mr. Belton was here."
"Very well;—if it must be, I suppose it must be."
"You don't mean on my account," said Will. "I'll undertake to eat my dinner, sir, at any hour that you'll undertake to give it me. If there's a strong point about me at all, it is my appetite."
Clara, when she went to her father's room that evening, told him what Mr. Belton had said about the shooting, knowing that her father's feelings would agree with those which had been expressed by her cousin. Mr. Amedroz of course made this an occasion for further grumbling, suggesting that Belton wanted to get the shooting for himself as he had got the farm. But, nevertheless, the effect which Clara had intended was produced, and before she left him he had absolutely proposed that the shooting and the land should go together.
"I'm sure that Mr. Belton doesn't mean that at all," said Clara.
"I don't care what he means," said the squire.
"And it wouldn't do to treat Colonel Askerton in that way," said Clara.
"I shall treat him just as I like," said the squire.
A dear cousin, and safe against love-making! This was Clara's verdict respecting Will Belton, as she lay thinking of him in bed that night. Why that warranty against love-making should be a virtue in her eyes I cannot, perhaps, explain. But all young ladies are apt to talk to themselves in such phrases about gentlemen with whom they are thrown into chance intimacy;—as though love-making were in itself a thing injurious and antagonistic to happiness, instead of being, as it is, the very salt of life. Safe against love-making! And yet Mrs. Askerton, her friend, had spoken of the probability of such love-making as being the great advantage of his coming. And there could not be a second opinion as to the expediency of a match between her and her cousin in a worldly point of view. Clara, moreover, had already perceived that he was a man fit to guide a wife, very good-humoured,—and good-tempered also, anxious to give pleasure to others, a man of energy and forethought, who would be sure to do well in the world and hold his head always high among his fellows;—as good a husband as a girl could have. Nevertheless, she congratulated herself in that she felt satisfied that he was safe against love-making! Might it be possible that that pressing of hands at Taunton had been so tender, and those last words spoken with Captain Aylmer so soft, that on his account she felt delighted to think that her cousin was warranted not to make love?
And what did Will Belton think about his cousin, insured as he was thus supposed to be against the dangers of love? He, also, lay awake for awhile that night, thinking over this new friendship. Or rather he thought of it walking about his room, and looking out at the bright harvest moon;—for with him to be in bed was to be asleep. He sat himself down, and he walked about, and he leaned out of the window into the cool night air; and he made some comparisons in his mind, and certain calculations; and he thought of his present home, and of his sister, and of his future prospects as they were concerned with the old place at which he was now staying; and he portrayed to himself, in his mind, Clara's head and face and figure and feet;—and he resolved that she should be his wife. He had never seen a girl who seemed to suit him so well. Though he had only been with her for a day, he swore to himself that he knew he could love her. Nay;—he swore to himself that he did love her. Then,—when he had quite made up his mind, he tumbled into his bed and was asleep in five minutes.
Miss Amedroz was a handsome young woman, tall, well-made, active, and full of health. She carried herself as though she thought her limbs were made for use, and not simply for ease upon a sofa. Her head and neck stood well upon her shoulders, and her waist showed none of those waspish proportions of which ladies used to be more proud than I believe them to be now, in their more advanced state of knowledge and taste. There was much about her in which she was like her cousin, as though the blood they had in common between them had given to both the same proportions and the same comeliness. Her hair was of a dark brown colour, as was his. Her eyes were somewhat darker than his, and perhaps not so full of constant movement; but they were equally bright, and possessed that quick power of expressing tenderness which belonged to them. Her nose was more finely cut, as was also her chin, and the oval of her face; but she had the same large expressive mouth, and the same perfection of ivory-white teeth. As has been said before, Clara Amedroz, who was now nearly twenty-six years of age, was not a young-looking young woman. To the eyes of many men that would have been her fault; but in the eyes of Belton it was no fault. He had not made himself fastidious as to women by much consort with them, and he was disposed to think that she who was to become his wife had better be something more than a girl not long since taken out of the nursery. He was well to do in the world, and could send his wife out in her carriage, with all becoming bravery of appurtenances. And he would do so, too, when he should have a wife. But still he would look to his wife to be a useful partner to him. She should be a woman not above agricultural solicitude, or too proud to have a care for her cows. Clara, he was sure, had no false pride; and yet,—as he was sure also, she was at every point such a lady as would do honour to the carriage and the bravery when it should be forthcoming. And then such a marriage as this would put an end to all the trouble which he felt in reference to the entail on the estate. He knew that he was to be master of Belton, and of course had, in that knowledge, the satisfaction which men do feel from the consciousness of their future prosperity. And this with him was enhanced by a strong sympathy with old-fashioned prejudices as to family. He would be Belton of Belton; and there had been Beltons of Belton in old days, for a longer time backwards than he was able to count. But still the prospect had not been without its alloy, and he had felt real distress at the idea of turning his cousin out of her father's house. Such a marriage as that he now contemplated would put all these things right.
When he got up in the morning he was quite as keen about it as he had been on the previous evening;—and as he thought about it the more, he became keener and still more keen. On the previous evening, as he was leaning out of the window endeavouring to settle in his own mind what would be the proper conduct of the romance of the thing, he had considered that he had better not make his proposal quite at once. He was to remain eight days at Belton, and as eight days was not a long period of acquaintance, he had reflected that it might be well for him to lay what foundation for love it might be in his power to construct during his present sojourn, and then return and complete the work before Christmas. But as he was shaving himself, the habitual impatience of his nature predominated, and he became disposed to think that delay would be useless, and might perhaps be dangerous. It might be possible that Clara would be unable to give him a decisive answer so quickly as to enable him to return home an accepted lover; but if such doubt were left, such doubt would give him an excuse for a speedy return to Belton. He did not omit to tell himself that very probably he might not succeed at all. He was a man not at all apt to feel assurance that he could carry all before him in love. But in this matter, as in all others which required from him any personal effort, he prepared himself to do his best, leaving the consequences to follow as they might. When he threw his seed corn into the earth with all such due appliances of agricultural skill and industry as his capital and experience enabled him to use, he did his part towards the production of next year's crop; and after that he must leave it to a higher Power to give to him, or to withhold from him, the reward of his labour. He had found that, as a rule, the reward had been given when the labour had been honest; and he was now prepared to follow the same plan, with the same hopes, in this matter of his love-making.
After much consideration,—very much consideration, a consideration which took him the whole time that he was brushing his hair and washing his teeth,—he resolved that he would, in the first instance, speak to Mr. Amedroz. Not that he intended that the father should win the daughter for him. He had an idea that he would like to do that work for himself. But he thought that the old squire would be better pleased if his consent were asked in the first instance. The present day was Sunday, and he would not speak on the subject till Monday. This day he would devote to the work of securing his future father-in-law's good opinion; to that,—and to his prayers.
And he had gained very much upon Mr. Amedroz before the evening of the day was over. He was a man before whom difficulties seemed to yield, and who had his own way simply because he had become accustomed to ask for it,—to ask for it and to work for it. He had so softened the squire's tone of thought towards him, that the future stocking of the land was spoken of between them with something like energy on both sides; and Mr. Amedroz had given his consent, without any difficulty, to the building of a shed for winter stall-feeding. Clara sat by listening, and perceived that Will Belton would soon be allowed to do just what he pleased with the place. Her father talked as she had not heard him talk since her poor brother's death, and was quite animated on the subject of woodcraft. "We don't know much about timber down where I am," said Will, "just because we've got no trees."
"I'll show you your way," said the old man. "I've managed the timber on the estate myself for the last forty years." Will Belton of course did not say a word as to the gross mismanagement which had been apparent even to him. What a cousin he was! Clara thought,—what a paragon among cousins! And then he was so manifestly safe against love-making! So safe, that he only cared to talk about timber, and oxen, and fences, and winter-forage! But it was all just as it ought to be; and if her father did not call him Will before long, she herself would set the way by doing so first. A very paragon among cousins!
"What a flatterer you are," she said to him that night.
"A flatterer! I?"
"Yes, you. You have flattered papa out of all his animosity already. I shall be jealous soon; for he'll think more of you than of me."
"I hope he'll come to think of us as being nearly equally near to him," said Belton, with a tone that was half serious and half tender. Now that he had made up his mind, he could not keep his hand from the work before him an instant. But Clara had also made up her mind, and would not be made to think that her cousin could mean anything that was more than cousinly.
"Upon my word," she said, laughing, "that is very cool on your part."
"I came here determined to be friends with him at any rate."
"And you did so without any thought of me. But you said you would be my brother, and I shall not forget your promise. Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have come,—both for papa's sake and my own. You have done him so much good that I only dread to think that you are going so soon."
"I'll be back before long. I think nothing of running across here from Norfolk. You'll see enough of me before next summer."
Soon after breakfast on the next morning he got Mr. Amedroz out into the grounds, on the plea of showing him the proposed site for the cattle shed; but not a word was said about the shed on that occasion. He went to work at his other task at once, and when that was well on hand the squire was quite unfitted for the consideration of any less important matter, however able to discuss it Belton might have been himself.
"I've got something particular that I want to say to you, sir," Belton began.
Now Mr. Amedroz was of opinion that his cousin had been saying something very particular ever since his arrival, and was rather frightened at this immediate prospect of a new subject.
"There's nothing wrong; is there?"
"No, nothing wrong;—at least, I hope it's not wrong. Would not it be a good plan, sir, if I were to marry my cousin Clara?"
What a terrible young man! Mr. Amedroz felt that his breath was so completely taken away from him that he was quite unable to speak a word of answer at the moment. Indeed, he was unable to move, and stood still, where he had been fixed by the cruel suddenness of the proposition made to him.
"Of course I know nothing of what she may think about it," continued Belton. "I thought it best to come to you before I spoke a word to her. And I know that in many ways she is above me. She is better educated, and reads more, and all that sort of thing. And it may be that she'd rather marry a London man than a fellow who passes all his time in the country. But she couldn't get one who would love her better or treat her more kindly. And then as to the property; you must own it would be a good arrangement. You'd like to know it would go to your own child and your own grandchild;—wouldn't you, sir? And I'm not badly off, without looking to this place at all, and could give her everything she wants. But then I don't know that she'd care to marry a farmer." These last words he said in a melancholy tone, as though aware that he was confessing his own disgrace.
The squire had listened to it all, and had not as yet said a word. And now, when Belton ceased, he did not know what word to speak. He was a man whose thoughts about women were chivalrous, and perhaps a little old-fashioned. Of course, when a man contemplates marriage, he could do nothing better, nothing more honourable, than consult the lady's father in the first instance. But he felt that even a father should be addressed on such a subject with great delicacy. There should be ambages in such a matter. The man who resolved to commit himself to such a task should come forward with apparent difficulty,—with great diffidence, and even with actual difficulty. He should keep himself almost hidden, as behind a mask, and should tell of his own ambition with doubtful, quivering voice. And the ambages should take time. He should approach the citadel to be taken with covered ways,—working his way slowly and painfully. But this young man, before he had been in the house three days, said all that he had to say without the slightest quaver in his voice, and evidently expected to get an answer about the squire's daughter as quickly as he had got it about the squire's land.
"You have surprised me very much," said the old man at last, drawing his breath.
"I'm quite in earnest about it. Clara seems to me to be the very girl to make a good wife to such a one as I am. She's got everything that a woman ought to have;—by George she has!"
"She is a good girl, Mr. Belton."
"She is as good as gold, every inch of her."
"But you have not known her very long, Mr. Belton."
"Quite long enough for my purposes. You see I knew all about her beforehand,—who she is, and where she comes from. There's a great deal in that, you know."
Mr. Amedroz shuddered at the expressions used. It was grievous to him to hear his daughter spoken of as one respecting whom some one knew who she was and whence she came. Such knowledge respecting the daughter of such a family was, as a matter of course, common to all polite persons. "Yes," said Mr. Amedroz, stiffly: "you know as much as that about her, certainly."
"And she knows as much about me. Now the question is, whether you have any objection to make?"
"Really, Mr. Belton, you have taken me so much by surprise that I do not feel myself competent to answer you at once."
"Shall we say in an hour's time, sir?" An hour's time! Mr. Amedroz, if he could have been left to his own guidance, would have thought a month very little for such a work.
"I suppose you would wish me to see Clara first," said Mr. Amedroz.
"Oh dear, no. I would much rather ask her myself;—if only I could get your consent to my doing so."
"And you have said nothing to her?"
"Not a word."
"I am glad of that. You would have behaved badly, I think, had you done so while staying under my roof."
"I thought it best, at any rate, to come to you first. But as I must be back at Plaistow on this day week, I haven't much time to lose. So if you could think about it this afternoon, youknow—"
Mr. Amedroz, much bewildered, promised that he would do his best, and eventually did bring himself to give an answer on the next morning. "I have been thinking about this all night," said Mr. Amedroz.
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," said Belton, feeling rather ashamed of his own remissness as he remembered how soundly he had himself slept.
"If you are quite sure of yourself—"
"Do you mean sure of loving her? I am as sure of that as anything."
"But men are so apt to change their fancies."
"I don't know much about my fancies; but I don't often change my purpose when I'm in earnest. In such a matter as this I couldn't change. I'll say as much as that for myself, though it may seem bold."
"Of course, in regard to money such a marriage would be advantageous to my child. I don't know whether you know it, but I shall have nothing to give her—literally nothing."
"All the better, sir, as far as I am concerned. I'm not one who wants to be saved from working by a wife's fortune."
"But most men like to get something when they marry."
"I want to get nothing;—nothing, that is, in the way of money. If Clara becomes my wife I'll never ask you for one shilling."
"I hope her aunt will do something for her." This the old man said in a wailing voice, as though the expression of such a hope was grievous to him.
"If she becomes my wife, Mrs. Winterfield will be quite at liberty to leave her money elsewhere." There were old causes of dislike between Mr. Belton and Mrs. Winterfield, and even now Mrs. Winterfield was almost offended because Mr. Belton was staying at Belton Castle.
"But all that is quite uncertain," continued Mr. Amedroz.
"And I have your leave to speak to Clara myself?"
"Well, Mr. Belton; yes; I think so. I do not see why you should not speak to her. But I fear you are a little too precipitate. Clara has known you so very short a time, that you can hardly have a right to hope that she should learn to regard you at once as you would have her do." As he heard this, Belton's face became long and melancholy. He had taught himself to think that he could dispense with that delay till Christmas which he had at first proposed to himself, and that he might walk into the arena at once, and perhaps win the battle in the first round. "Three days is such a very short time," said the squire.
"It is short certainly," said Belton.
The father's leave was however given, and armed with that, Belton was resolved that he would take, at any rate, some preliminary steps in love-making before he returned to Plaistow. What would be the nature of the preliminary steps taken by such a one as him, the reader by this time will probably be able to surmise.
"Why don't you call him Will?" Clara said to her father. This question was asked on the evening of that Monday on which Mr. Amedroz had given his consent as to the marriage proposal.
"Call him Will! Why should I?"
"You used to do so, when he was a boy."
"Of course I did; but that is years ago. He would think it impertinent now."
"Indeed he would not; he would like it. He has told me so. It sounds so cold to him to be called Mr. Belton by his relations."
The father looked at his daughter as though for a moment he almost suspected that matters had really been arranged between her and her future lover without his concurrence, and before his sanction had been obtained. But if for a moment such a thought did cross his mind, it did not dwell there. He trusted Belton; but as to his daughter, he knew that he might be sure of her. It would be impossible with her to keep such a secret from him, even for half a day. And yet, how odd it was! Here was a man who in three days had fallen in love with his daughter; and here was his daughter apparently quite as ready to be in love with the man. How could she, who was ordinarily circumspect, and almost cold in her demeanour towards strangers—who was from circumstances and from her own disposition altogether hostile to flirting intimacies—how could his Clara have changed her nature so speedily? The squire did not understand it, but was prepared to believe that it was all for the best. "I'll call him Will, if you like it," said he.
"Do, papa, and then I can do so also. He is such a good fellow, and I am so fond of him."
On the next morning Mr. Amedroz did, with much awkwardness, call his guest by his Christian name. Clara caught her cousin's eye and smiled, and he also smiled. At that moment he was more in love than ever. Could anything be more charming than this? Immediately after breakfast he was going over to Redicote, to see a builder in a small way who lived there, and whom he proposed to employ in putting up the shed for the cattle; but he almost begrudged the time, so anxious was he to begin his suit. But his plan had been laid out and he would follow it. "I think I shall be back by three o'clock," he said to Clara, "and then we'll have our walk."
"I'll be ready; and you can call for me at Mrs. Askerton's. I must go down there, and it will save you something in your walk to pick me up at the cottage." And so the arrangements for the day were made.
Clara had promised that she would soon call at the cottage, and was, indeed, rather anxious to see Mrs. Askerton on her own account. What she had heard from her cousin as to a certain Miss Vigo of old days had interested her, and also what she had heard of a certain Mr. Berdmore. It had been evident to her that her cousin had thought little about it. The likeness of the lady he then saw to the lady he had before known, had at first struck him; but when he found that the two ladies were not represented by one and the same person, he was satisfied, and there was an end of the matter for him. But it was not so with Clara. Her feminine mind dwelt on the matter with more earnestness than he had cared to entertain, and her clearer intellect saw possibilities which did not occur to him. But it was not till she found herself walking across the park to the cottage that she remembered that any inquiries as to her past life might be disagreeable to Mrs. Askerton. She had thought of asking her friend plainly whether the names of Vigo and Berdmore had ever been familiar to her; but she reminded herself that there had been rumours afloat, and that there might be a mystery. Mrs. Askerton would sometimes talk of her early life; but she would do this with dreamy, indistinct language, speaking of the sorrows of her girlhood, but not specifying their exact nature, seldom mentioning any names, and never referring with clear personality to those who had been nearest to her when she had been a child. Clara had seen her friend's maiden name, Mary Oliphant, written in a book, and seeing it had alluded to it. On that occasion Mrs. Askerton had spoken of herself as having been an Oliphant, and thus Clara had come to know the fact. But now, as she made her way to the cottage, she remembered that she had learned nothing more than this as to Mrs. Askerton's early life. Such being the case, she hardly knew how to ask any question about the two names that had been mentioned. And yet, why should she not ask such a question? Why should she doubt Mrs. Askerton? And if she did doubt, why should not her doubts be solved?
She found Colonel Askerton and his wife together, and she certainly would ask no such question in his presence. He was a slight built, wiry man, about fifty, with iron-grey hair and beard,—who seemed to have no trouble in life, and to desire but few pleasures. Nothing could be more regular than the course of his days, and nothing more idle. He breakfasted at eleven, smoked and read till the afternoon, when he rode for an hour or two; then he dined, read again, smoked again, and went to bed. In September and October he shot, and twice in the year, as has been before stated, went away to seek a little excitement elsewhere. He seemed to be quite contented with his lot, and was never heard to speak an angry word to any one. Nobody cared for him much; but then he troubled himself with no one's affairs. He never went to church, and had not eaten or drank in any house but his own since he had come to Belton.
"Oh, Clara, you naughty girl," said Mrs. Askerton, "why didn't you come yesterday? I was expecting you all day."
"I was busy. Really, we've grown to be quite industrious people since my cousin came."
"They tell me he's taking the land into his own hands," said the Colonel.
"Yes, indeed; and he is going to build sheds, and buy cattle; and I don't know what he doesn't mean to do; so that we shall be alive again."
"I hope he won't want my shooting."
"He has shooting of his own in Norfolk," said Clara.
"Then he'll hardly care to come here for that purpose. When I heard of his proceedings I began to be afraid."
"I don't think he would do anything to annoy you for the world," said Clara, enthusiastically. "He's the most unselfish person I ever met."
"He'd have a perfect right to take the shooting if he liked it,—that is always supposing that he and your father agreed about it."
"They agree about everything now. He has altogether disarmed papa's prejudices, and it seems to be recognised that he is to have his own way about the place. But I don't think he'll interfere about the shooting."
"He won't, my dear, if you ask him not," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I'll ask him in a moment if Colonel Askerton wishes it."
"Oh dear no," said he. "It would be teaching the ostler to grease the horse's teeth. Perhaps he hasn't thought of it."
"He thinks of everything," said Clara.
"I wonder whether he's thinkingof—"So far Mrs. Askerton spoke, and then she paused. Colonel Askerton looked up at Clara with an ill-natured smile, and Clara felt that she blushed. Was it not cruel that she could not say a word in favour of a friend and a cousin,—a cousin who had promised to be a brother to her, without being treated with such words and such looks as these? But she was determined not to be put down. "I'm quite sure of this," she said, "that my cousin would do nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike."
"There would be nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike in it. I shouldn't take it amiss at all;—but I should simply take up my bed and walk. Pray tell him that I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing him before he goes. I did call yesterday, but he was out."
"He'll be here soon. He's to come here for me." But Colonel Askerton's horse was brought to the door, and he could not therefore wait to make Mr. Belton's acquaintance on that occasion.
"What a phœnix this cousin of yours is," said Mrs. Askerton, as soon as her husband was gone.
"He is a splendid fellow;—he is indeed. There's so much life about him! He's always doing something. He says that doing good will always pay in the long run. Isn't that a fine doctrine?"
"Quite a practical phœnix!"
"It has done papa so much good! At this moment he's out somewhere, thinking of what is going on, instead of moping in the house. He couldn't bear the idea of Will's coming, and now he is already beginning to complain because he's going away."
"Will, indeed!"
"And why not Will? He's my cousin."
"Yes;—ten times removed. But so much the better if he's to be anything more than a cousin."
"He is to be nothing more, Mrs. Askerton."
"You're quite sure of that?"
"I am quite sure of it. And I cannot understand why there should be such a suspicion because he and I are thrown closely together, and are fond of each other. Whether he is a sixth, eighth, or tenth cousin makes no difference. He is the nearest I have on that side; and since my poor brother's death he is papa's heir. It is so natural that he should be my friend;—and such a comfort that he should be such a friend as he is! I own it seems cruel to me that under such circumstances there should be any suspicion."
"Suspicion, my dear;—suspicion of what?"
"Not that I care for it. I am prepared to love him as if he were my brother. I think him one of the finest creatures I ever knew,—perhaps the finest I ever did know. His energy and good-nature together are just the qualities to make the best kind of man. I am proud of him as my friend and my cousin, and now you may suspect what you please."
"But, my dear, why should not he fall in love with you? It would be the most proper, and also the most convenient thing in the world."
"I hate talking of falling in love;—as though a woman has nothing else to think of whenever she sees a man."
"A woman has nothing else to think of."
"I have,—a great deal else. And so has he."
"It's quite out of the question on his part, then?"
"Quite out of the question. I'm sure he likes me. I can see it in his face, and hear it in his voice, and am so happy that it is so. But it isn't in the way that you mean. Heaven knows that I may want a friend some of these days, and I feel that I may trust to him. His feelings to me will be always those of a brother."
"Perhaps so. I have seen that fraternal love before under similar circumstances, and it has always ended in the same way."
"I hope it won't end in any way between us."
"But the joke is that this suspicion, as you call it,—which makes you so indignant,—is simply a suggestion that a thing should happen which, of all things in the world, would be the best for both of you."
"But the thing won't happen, and therefore let there be an end of it. I hate the twaddle talk of love, whether it's about myself or about any one else. It makes me feel ashamed of my sex, when I find that I cannot talk of myself to another woman without being supposed to be either in love or thinking of love,—either looking for it or avoiding it. When it comes, if it comes prosperously, it's a very good thing. But I for one can do without it, and I feel myself injured when such a state of things is presumed to be impossible."
"It is worth any one's while to irritate you, because your indignation is so beautiful."
"It is not beautiful to me; for I always feel ashamed afterwards of my own energy. And now, if you please, we won't say anything more about Mr. Will Belton."
"May I not talk about him, even as the enterprising cousin?"
"Certainly; and in any other light you please. Do you know he seemed to think that he had known you ever so many years ago." Clara, as she said this, did not look direct at her friend's face; but still she could perceive that Mrs. Askerton was disconcerted. There came a shade of paleness over her face, and a look of trouble on her brow, and for a moment or two she made no reply.
"Did he?" she then said. "And when was that?"
"I suppose it was in London. But, after all, I believe it was not you, but somebody whom he remembers to have been like you. He says that the lady was a Miss Vigo." As she pronounced the name, Clara turned her face away, feeling instinctively that it would be kind to do so.
"Miss Vigo!" said Mrs. Askerton at once; and there was that in the tone of her voice which made Clara feel that all was not right with her. "I remember that there were Miss Vigos; two of them, I think. I didn't know that they were like me especially."
"And he says that the one he remembers married a Mr. Berdmore."
"Married a Mr. Berdmore!" The tone of voice was still the same, and there was an evident struggle, as though the woman was making a vehement effort to speak in her natural voice. Then Clara looked at her, feeling that if she abstained from doing so, the very fact of her so abstaining would be remarkable. There was the look of pain on Mrs. Askerton's brow, and her cheeks were still pale, but she smiled as she went on speaking. "I'm sure I'm flattered, for I remember that they were both considered beauties. Did he know anything more of her?"
"No; nothing more."
"There must have been some casual likeness I suppose." Mrs. Askerton was a clever woman, and had by this time almost recovered her self-possession. Then there came a ring at the front door, and in another minute Mr. Belton was in the room. Mrs. Askerton felt that it was imperative on her to make some allusion to the conversation which had just taken place, and dashed at the subject at once. "Clara tells me that I am exactly like some old friend of yours, Mr. Belton."
Then he looked at her closely as he answered her. "I have no right to say that she was my friend, Mrs. Askerton," he said; "indeed there was hardly what might be called an acquaintance between us; but you certainly are extremely like a certain Miss Vigo that I remember."
"I often wonder that one person isn't more often found to be like another," said Mrs. Askerton.
"People often are like," said he; "but not like in such a way as to give rise to mistakes as to identity. Now, I should have stopped you in the street and called you Mrs. Berdmore."
"Didn't I once see or hear the name of Berdmore in this house?" asked Clara.
Then that look of pain returned. Mrs. Askerton had succeeded in recovering the usual tone of her countenance, but now she was once more disturbed. "I think I know the name," said she.
"I fancy that I have seen it in this house," said Clara.
"You may more likely have heard it, my dear. My memory is very poor, but if I remember rightly, Colonel Askerton did know a Captain Berdmore,—a long while ago, before he was married; and you may probably have heard him mention the name." This did not quite satisfy Clara, but she said nothing more about it then. If there was a mystery which Mrs. Askerton did not wish to have explored, why should she explore it?
Soon after this Clara got up to go, and Mrs. Askerton, making another attempt to be cheerful, was almost successful. "So you're going back into Norfolk on Saturday, Clara tells me. You are making a very short visit now that you're come among us."
"It is a long time for me to be away from home. Farmers can hardly ever dare to leave their work. But in spite of my farm, I am talking of coming here again about Christmas."
"But you are going to have a farming establishment here too?"
"That will be nothing. Clara will look after that for me; will you not?" Then they went, and Belton had to consider how he would begin the work before him. He had some idea that too much precipitancy might do him an injury, but he hardly knew how to commence without coming to the point at once. When they were out together in the park, he went back at first to the subject of Mrs. Askerton.
"I would almost have sworn they were one and the same woman," he said.
"But you see that they are not."
"It's not only the likeness, but the voice. It so chanced that I once saw that Miss Vigo in some trouble. I happened to meet her in company with a man who was,—who was tipsy, in fact, and I had to relieve her."
"Dear me,—how disagreeable!"
"It's a long time ago, and there can't be any harm in mentioning it now. It was the man she was going to marry, and whom she did marry."
"What;—the Mr. Berdmore?"
"Yes; he was often in that way. And there was a look about Mrs. Askerton just now so like the look of that Miss Vigo then, that I cannot get rid of the idea."
"They can't be the same, as she was certainly a Miss Oliphant. And you hear, too, what she says."
"Yes;—I heard what she said. You have known her long?"
"These two years."
"And intimately?"
"Very intimately. She is our only neighbour; and her being here has certainly been a great comfort to me. It is sad not having some woman near one that one can speak to;—and then, I really do like her very much."
"No doubt it's all right."
"Yes; it's all right," said Clara. After that there was nothing more said about Mrs. Askerton, and Belton began his work. They had gone from the cottage, across the park, away from the house, up to a high rock which stood boldly out of the ground, from whence could be seen the sea on one side, and on the other a far tract of country almost away to the moors. And when they reached this spot they seated themselves. "There," said Clara, "I consider this to be the prettiest spot in England."
"I haven't seen all England," said Belton.
"Don't be so matter-of-fact, Will. I say it's the prettiest in England, and you can't contradict me."
"And I say you're the prettiest girl in England, and you can't contradict me."
This annoyed Clara, and almost made her feel that her paragon of a cousin was not quite so perfect as she had represented him to be. "I see," she said, "that if I talk nonsense I'm to be punished."
"Is it a punishment to you to know that I think you very handsome?" he said, turning round and looking full into her face.
"It is disagreeable to me—very, to have any such subject talked about at all. What would you think if I began to pay you foolish personal compliments?"
"What I say isn't foolish; and there's a great difference. Clara, I love you better than all the world put together."
She now looked at him; but still she did not believe it. It could not be that after all her boastings she should have made so gross a blunder. "I hope you do love me," she said; "indeed, you are bound to do so, for you promised that you would be my brother."
"But that will not satisfy me now, Clara. Clara, I want to be your husband."
"Will!" she exclaimed.
"Now you know it all; and if I have been too sudden, I must beg your pardon."
"Oh, Will, forget that you have said this. Do not go on until everything must be over between us."
"Why should anything be over between us? Why should it be wrong in me to love you?"
"What will papa say?"
"Mr. Amedroz knows all about it already, and has given me his consent. I asked him directly I had made up my own mind, and he told me that I might go to you."
"You have asked papa? Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?"
"Am I so odious to you then?" As he said this he got up from his seat and stood before her. He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and he could assume a look and mien that were almost noble when he was moved as he was moved now.
"Odious! Do you not know that I have loved you as my cousin—that I have already learned to trust you as though you were really my brother? But this breaks it all."
"You cannot love me then as my wife?"
"No." She pronounced the monosyllable alone, and then he walked away from her as though that one little word settled the question for him, now and for ever. He walked away from her, perhaps a distance of two hundred yards, as though the interview was over, and he were leaving her. She, as she saw him go, wished that he would return that she might say some word of comfort to him. Not that she could have said the only word that would have comforted him. At the first blush of the thing, at the first sound of the address which he had made to her, she had been angry with him. He had disappointed her, and she was indignant. But her anger had already melted and turned itself to ruth. She could not but love him better, in that he had loved her so well; but yet she could not love him with the love which he desired.
But he did not leave her. When he had gone from her down the hill the distance that has been named, he turned back, and came up to her slowly. He had a trick of standing and walking with his thumbs fixed into the armholes of his waistcoat, while his large hands rested on his breast. He would always assume this attitude when he was assured that he was right in his views, and was eager to carry some point at issue. Clara already understood that this attitude signified his intention to be autocratic. He now came close up to her, and again stood over her, before he spoke. "My dear," he said, "I have been rough and hasty in what I have said to you, and I have to ask you to pardon my want of manners."
"No, no, no," she exclaimed.
"But in a matter of so much interest to us both you will not let an awkward manner prejudice me."
"It is not that; indeed, it is not."
"Listen to me, dearest. It is true that I promised to be your brother, and I will not break my word unless I break it by your own sanction. I did promise to be your brother, but I did not know then how fondly I should come to love you. Your father, when I told him of this, bade me not to be hasty; but I am hasty, and I haven't known how to wait. Tell me that I may come at Christmas for my answer, and I will not say a word to trouble you till then. I will be your brother, at any rate till Christmas."
"Be my brother always."
A black cloud crossed his brow as this request reached his ears. She was looking anxiously into his face, watching every turn in the expression of his countenance. "Will you not let it wait till Christmas?" he asked.
She thought it would be cruel to refuse this request, and yet she knew that no such waiting could be of service to him. He had been awkward in his love-making, and was aware of it. He should have contrived this period of waiting for himself; giving her no option but to wait and think of it. He should have made no proposal, but have left her certain that such proposal was coming. In such case she must have waited—and if good could have come to him from that, he might have received it. But, as the question was now presented to her, it was impossible that she should consent to wait. To have given such consent would have been tantamount to receiving him as her lover. She was therefore forced to be cruel.
"It will be of no avail to postpone my answer when I know what it must be. Why should there be suspense?"
"You mean that it is impossible that you should love me?"
"Not in that way, Will."
"And why not?" Then there was a pause. "But I am a fool to ask such a question as that, and I should be worse than a fool were I to press it. It must then be considered as settled?"
She got up and clung to his arm. "Oh, Will, do not look at me like that!"
"It must then be considered as settled?" he repeated.
"Yes, Will, yes. Pray consider it as settled." He then sat down on the rock again, and she came and sat by him,—near to him, but not close as she had been before. She turned her eyes upon him, gazing on him, but did not speak to him; and he sat also without speaking for a while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "I suppose we may go back to the house?" he said at last.
"Give me your hand, Will, and tell me that you will still love me—as your sister."
He gave her his hand. "If you ever want a brother's care you shall have it from me," he said.
"But not a brother's love?"
"No. How can the two go together? I shan't cease to love you because my love is in vain. Instead of making me happy it will make me wretched. That will be the only difference."
"I would give my life to make you happy, if that were possible."
"You will not give me your life in the way that I would have it." After that they walked in silence back to the house, and when he had opened the front door for her, he parted from her and stood alone under the porch, thinking of his misfortune.
For a considerable time Belton stood under the porch of the house, thinking of what had happened to him, and endeavouring to steady himself under the blow which he had received. I do not know that he had been sanguine of success. Probably he had made to himself no assurances on the subject. But he was a man to whom failure, of itself, was intolerable. In any other event of life he would have told himself that he would not fail—that he would persevere and conquer. He could imagine no other position as to which he could at once have been assured of failure, in any project on which he had set his heart. But as to this project it was so. He had been told that she could not love him—that she could never love him;—and he had believed her. He had made his attempt and had failed; and, as he thought of this, standing under the porch, he became convinced that life for him was altogether changed, and that he who had been so happy must now be a wretched man.
He was still standing there when Mr. Amedroz came down into the hall, dressed for dinner, and saw his figure through the open doors. "Will," he said, coming up to him, "it only wants five minutes to dinner." Belton started and shook himself, as though he were shaking off a lethargy, and declared that he was quite ready. Then he remembered that he would be expected to dress, and rushed up-stairs, three steps at a time, to his own room. When he came down, Clara and her father were already in the dining-room, and he joined them there.
Mr. Amedroz, though he was not very quick in reading facts from the manners of those with whom he lived, had felt assured that things had gone wrong between Belton and his daughter. He had not as yet had a minute in which to speak to Clara, but he was certain that it was so. Indeed, it was impossible not to read terrible disappointment and deep grief in the young man's manner. He made no attempt to conceal it, though he did not speak of it. Through the whole evening, though he was alone for a while with the squire, and alone also for a time with Clara, he never mentioned or alluded to the subject of his rejection. But he bore himself as though he knew and they knew—as though all the world knew that he had been rejected. And yet he did not remain silent. He talked of his property and of his plans, and explained how things were to be done in his absence. Once only was there something like an allusion made to his sorrow. "But you will be here at Christmas?" said Mr. Amedroz, in answer to something which Belton had said as to work to be done in his absence. "I do not know how that may be now," said Belton. And then they had all been silent.
It was a terrible evening to Clara. She endeavoured to talk, but found it to be impossible. All the brightness of the last few days had disappeared, and the world seemed to her to be more sad and solemn than ever. She had no idea when she was refusing him that he would have taken it to heart as he had done. The question had come before her for decision so suddenly, that she had not, in fact, had time to think of this as she was making her answer. All she had done was to feel that she could not be to him what he wished her to be. And even as yet she had hardly asked herself why she must be so steadfast in her refusal. But she had refused him steadfastly, and she did not for a moment think of reducing the earnestness of her resolution. It seemed to be manifest to her, from his present manner, that he would never ask the question again; but she was sure, let it be asked ever so often, that it could not be answered in any other way.
Mr. Amedroz, not knowing why it was so, became cross and querulous, and scolded his daughter. To Belton, also, he was captious, making little difficulties, and answering him with petulance. This the rejected lover took with most extreme patience, as though such a trifling annoyance had no effect in adding anything to his misery. He still held his purpose of going on the Saturday, and was still intent on work which was to be done before he went; but it seemed that he was satisfied to do everything now as a duty, and that the enjoyment of the thing, which had heretofore been so conspicuous, was over.
At last they separated, and Clara, as was her wont, went up to her father's room. "Papa," she said, "what is all this about Mr. Belton?"
"All what, my dear? what do you mean?"
"He has asked me to be,—to be his wife; and has told me that he came with your consent."
"And why shouldn't he have my consent? What is there amiss with him? Why shouldn't you marry him if he likes you? You seemed, I thought, to be very fond of him."
This surprised Clara more than anything. She could hardly have told herself why, but she would have thought that such a proposition from her cousin would have made her father angry,—unreasonably angry;—angry with him for presuming to have such an idea; but now it seemed that he was going to be angry with her for not accepting her cousin out of hand.
"Yes, papa; I am fond of him; but not like that. I did not expect that he would think of me in that way."
"But why shouldn't he think of you? It would be a very good marriage for you, as far as money is concerned."
"You would not have me marry any one for that reason;—would you, papa?"
"But you seemed to like him. Well; of course I can't make you like him. I meant to do for the best; and when he came to me as he did, I thought he was behaving very handsomely, and very much like a gentleman."
"I am sure he would do that."
"And if I could have thought that this place would be your home when I am gone, it would have made me very happy;—very happy."
She now came and stood close to him and took his hand. "I hope, papa, you do not make yourself uneasy about me. I shall do very well. I'm sure you can't want me to go away and leave you."
"How will you do very well? I'm sure I don't know. And if your aunt Winterfield means to provide for you, it would only be kind in her to let me know it, so that I might not have the anxiety always on my mind."
Clara knew well enough what was to be the disposition of her aunt's property, but she could not tell her father of that now. She almost felt that it was her duty to do so, but she could not bring herself to do it. She could only beg him not to be anxious on her behalf, making vague assurances that she would do very well. "And you are determined not to change your mind about Will?" he said at last.
"I shall not change my mind about that, papa, certainly," she answered. Then he turned away from her, and she saw that he was displeased.
When alone, she was forced to ask herself why it was that she was so certain. Alas! there could in truth be no doubt on that subject in her own mind. When she sat down, resolved to give herself an answer, there was no doubt. She could not love her cousin, Will Belton, because her heart belonged to Captain Aylmer.
But she knew that she had received nothing in exchange for her heart. He had been kind to her on that journey to Taunton, when the agony arising from her brother's death had almost crushed her. He had often been kind to her on days before that,—so kind, so soft in his manners, approaching so nearly to the little tendernesses of incipient love-making, that the idea of regarding him as her lover had of necessity forced itself upon her. But in nothing had he gone beyond those tendernesses, which need not imperatively be made to mean anything, though they do often mean so much. It was now two years since she had first thought that Captain Aylmer was the most perfect gentleman she knew, and nearly two years since Mrs. Winterfield had expressed to her a hope that Captain Aylmer might become her husband. She had replied that such a thing was impossible,—as any girl would have replied; and had in consequence treated Captain Aylmer with all the coolness which she had been able to assume whenever she was in company with him in her aunt's presence. Nor was it natural to her to be specially gracious to a man under such trying circumstances, even when no Mrs. Winterfield was there to behold. And so things had gone on. Captain Aylmer had now and again made himself very pleasant to her,—at certain trying periods of joy or trouble almost more than pleasant. But nothing had come of it, and Clara had told herself that Captain Aylmer had no special feeling in her favour. She had told herself this, ever since that journey together from Perivale to Taunton; but never till now had she also confessed to herself what was her own case.
She made a comparison between the two men. Her cousin Will was, she thought, the more generous, the more energetic,—perhaps, by nature, the man of the higher gifts. In person he was undoubtedly the superior. He was full of noble qualities;—forgetful of self, industrious, full of resources, a very man of men, able to command, eager in doing work for others' good and his own,—a man altogether uncontaminated by the coldness and selfishness of the outer world. But he was rough, awkward, but indifferently educated, and with few of those tastes which to Clara Amedroz were delightful. He could not read poetry to her, he could not tell her of what the world of literature was doing now or of what it had done in times past. He knew nothing of the inner world of worlds which governs the world. She doubted whether he could have told her who composed the existing cabinet, or have given the name of a single bishop beyond the see in which his own parish was situated. But Captain Aylmer knew everybody, and had read everything, and understood, as though by instinct, all the movements of the world in which he lived.