But what mattered any such comparison? Even though she should be able to prove to herself beyond the shadow of a doubt that her cousin Will was of the two the fitter to be loved,—the one more worthy of her heart,—no such proof could alter her position. Love does not go by worth. She did not love her cousin as she must love any man to whom she could give her hand,—and, alas! she did love that other man.
On this night I doubt whether Belton did slumber with that solidity of repose which was usual to him. At any rate, before he came down in the morning he had found time for sufficient thought, and had brought himself to a resolution. He would not give up the battle as lost. To his thinking there was something weak and almost mean in abandoning any project which he had set before himself. He had been awkward, and he exaggerated to himself his own awkwardness. He had been hasty, and had gone about his task with inconsiderate precipitancy. It might be that he had thus destroyed all his chance of success. But, as he said to himself, "he would never say die, as long as there was a puff of breath left to him." He would not mope, and hang down his head, and wear the willow. Such a state of things would ill suit either the roughness or the readiness of his life. No! He would bear like a man the disappointment which had on this occasion befallen him, and would return at Christmas and once more try his fortune.
At breakfast, therefore, the cloud had passed from his brow. When he came in he found Clara alone in the room, and he simply shook hands with her after his ordinary fashion. He said nothing of yesterday, and almost succeeded in looking as though yesterday had been in no wise memorable. She was not so much at her ease, but she also received some comfort from his demeanour. Mr. Amedroz came down almost immediately, and Belton soon took an opportunity of saying that he would be back at Christmas if Mr. Amedroz would receive him.
"Certainly," said the squire. "I thought it had been all settled."
"So it was;—till I said a word yesterday which foolishly seemed to unsettle it. But I have thought it over again, and I find that I can manage it."
"We shall be so glad to have you!" said Clara.
"And I shall be equally glad to come. They are already at work, sir, about the sheds."
"Yes; I saw the carts full of bricks go by," said the squire, querulously. "I didn't know there was to be any brickwork. You said you would have it made of deal slabs with oak posts."
"You must have a foundation, sir. I propose to carry the brickwork a foot and a half above the ground."
"I suppose you know best. Only that kind of thing is so very ugly."
"If you find it to be ugly after it is done, it shall be pulled down again."
"No;—it can never come down again."
"It can;—and it shall, if you don't like it. I never think anything of changes like that."
"I think they'll be very pretty!" said Clara.
"I dare say," said the squire; "but at any rate it won't make much difference to me. I shan't be here long to see them."
This was rather melancholy; but Belton bore up even against this, speaking cheery words and expressing bright hopes,—so that it seemed, both to Clara and to her father, that he had in a great measure overcome the disappointment of the preceding day. It was probable that he was a man not prone to be deeply sensitive in such matters for any long period. The period now had certainly not been long, and yet Will Belton was alive again.
Immediately after breakfast there occurred a little incident which was not without its effect upon them all. There came up on the drive, immediately before the front door, under the custody of a boy, a cow. It was an Alderney cow, and any man or woman at all understanding cows, would at once have perceived that this cow was perfect in her kind. Her eyes were mild, and soft, and bright. Her legs were like the legs of a deer; and in her whole gait and demeanour she almost gave the lie to her own name, asserting herself to have sprung from some more noble origin among the woods, than may be supposed to be the origin of the ordinary domestic cow,—a useful animal, but heavy in its appearance, and seen with more pleasure at some little distance than at close quarters. But this cow was graceful in its movements, and almost tempted one to regard her as the far-off descendant of the elk or the antelope.
"What's that?" said Mr. Amedroz, who, having no cows of his own, was not pleased to see one brought up in that way before his hall door. "There's somebody's cow come here."
Clara understood it in a moment; but she was pained, and said nothing. Had the cow come without any such scene as that of yesterday, she would have welcomed the animal with all cordiality, and would have sworn to her cousin that the cow should be cherished for his sake. But after what had passed it was different. How was she to take any present from him now?
But Belton faced the difficulty without any bashfulness or apparent regret. "I told you I would give you a cow," said he, "and here she is."
"What can she want with a cow?" said Mr. Amedroz.
"I am sure she wants one very much. At any rate she won't refuse the present from me; will you, Clara?"
What could she say? "Not if papa will allow me to keep it."
"But we've no place to put it!" said the squire. "We haven't got grass for it!"
"There's plenty of grass," said Belton. "Come, Mr. Amedroz; I've made a point of getting this little creature for Clara, and you mustn't stand in the way of my gratification." Of course he was successful, and of course Clara thanked him with tears in her eyes.
The next two days passed by without anything special to mark them, and then the cousin was to go. During the period of his visit he did not see Colonel Askerton, nor did he again see Mrs. Askerton. He went to the cottage once, with the special object of returning the Colonel's call; but the master was out, and he was not specially invited in to see the mistress. He said nothing more to Clara about her friends, but he thought of the matter more than once, as he was going about the place, and became aware that he would like to ascertain whether there was a mystery, and if so, what was its nature. He knew that he did not like Mrs. Askerton, and he felt also that Mrs. Askerton did not like him. This was, as he thought, unfortunate; for might it not be the case, that in the one matter which was to him of so much importance, Mrs. Askerton might have considerable influence over Clara?
During these days nothing special was said between him and Clara. The last evening passed over without anything to brighten it or to make it memorable. Mr. Amedroz, in his passive, but gently querulous way, was sorry that Belton was going to leave him, as his cousin had been the creation of some new excitement for him, but he said nothing on the subject; and when the time for going to bed had come, he bade his guest farewell with some languid allusion to the pleasure which he would have in seeing him again at Christmas. Belton was to start very early in the morning,—before six, and of course he was prepared to take leave also of Clara. But she told him very gently, so gently that her father did not hear it, that she would be up to give him a cup of coffee before he went.
"Oh no," he said.
"But I shall. I won't have you go without seeing you out of the door."
And on the following morning she was up before him. She hardly understood, herself, why she was doing this. She knew that it should be her object to avoid any further special conversation on that subject which they had discussed up among the rocks. She knew that she could give him no comfort, and that he could give none to her. It would seem that he was willing to let the remembrance of the scene pass away, so that it should be as though it had never been; and surely it was not for her to disturb so salutary an arrangement! But yet she was up to bid him Godspeed as he went. She could not bear,—so she excused the matter to herself,—she could not bear to think that he should regard her as ungrateful. She knew all that he had done for them. She had perceived that the taking of the land, the building of the sheds, the life which he had contrived in so short a time to throw into the old place, had all come from a desire on his part to do good to those in whose way he stood by family arrangements made almost before his birth; and she longed to say to him one word of thanks. And had he not told her,—once in the heat of his disappointment; for then at that moment, as Clara said to herself, she supposed that he must have been in some measure disappointed,—had he not even then told her that when she wanted a brother's care, a brother's care should be given to her by him? Was she not therefore bound to do for him what she would do for a brother?
She, with her own hands, brought the coffee into the little breakfast parlour, and handed the cup into his hands. The gig, which had come overnight from Taunton, was not yet at the door, and there was a minute or two during which they must speak to each other. Who has not seen some such girl when she has come down early, without the full completeness of her morning toilet, and yet nicer, fresher, prettier to the eye of him who is so favoured, than she has ever been in more formal attire? And what man who has been so favoured has not loved her who has so favoured him, even though he may not previously have been enamoured as deeply as poor Will Belton?
"This is so good of you," he said.
"I wish I knew how to be good to you," she answered,—not meaning to trench upon dangerous ground, but feeling, as the words came from her, that she had done so. "You have been so good to us, so very good to papa, that we owe you everything. I am so grateful to you for saying that you will come back at Christmas."
He had resolved that he would refrain from further love-making till the winter; but he found it very hard to refrain when so addressed. To take her in his arms, and kiss her twenty times, and swear that he would never let her go,—to claim her at once savagely as his own, that was the line of conduct to which temptation prompted him. How could she look at him so sweetly, how could she stand before him, ministering to him with all her pretty maidenly charms brought so close to him, without intending that he should love her? But he did refrain. "Blood is thicker than water," said he. "That's the real reason why I first came."
"I understand that quite, and it is that feeling that makes you so good. But I'm afraid you are spending a great deal of money here—and all for our sakes."
"Not at all. I shall get my money back again. And if I didn't, what then? I've plenty of money. It is not money that I want."
She could not ask him what it was that he did want, and she was obliged therefore to begin again. "Papa will look forward so to the winter now."
"And so shall I."
"But you must come for longer then;—you won't go away at the end of a week? Say that you won't."
"I'll see about it. I can't tell quite yet. You'll write me a line to say when the shed is finished, won't you?"
"That I will, and I'll tell you how Bessy goes on." Bessy was the cow. "I will be so very fond of her. She'll come to me for apples already."
Belton thought that he would go to her, wherever she might be, even if he were to get no apples. "It's all cupboard love with them," he said. "I'll tell you what I'll do;—when I come, I'll bring you a dog that will follow you without thinking of apples." Then the gig was heard on the gravel before the door, and Belton was forced to go. For a moment he reflected whether, as her cousin, it was not his duty to kiss her. It was a matter as to which he had doubt,—as is the case with many male cousins; but ultimately he resolved that if he kissed her at all he would not kiss her in that light, and so he again refrained. "Good-bye," he said, putting out his great hand to her.
"Good-bye, Will, and God bless you." I almost think he might have kissed her, asking himself no questions as to the light in which it was done.
As he turned from her he saw the tears in her eyes; and as he sat in the gig, thinking of them, other tears came into his own. By heaven, he would have her yet! He was a man who had not read much of romance. To him all the imagined mysteries of passion had not been made common by the perusal of legions of love stories;—but still he knew enough of the game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were, of their own teeth. He knew that he could not now run away with her, taking her off by force; but still he might conquer her will by his own. As he remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of her voice, and the pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that had become tender in its expression, he could not but think that he would be wise to love her still. Wise or foolish, he did love her still; and it should not be owing to fault of his if she did not become his wife. As he drove along he saw little of the Quantock hills, little of the rich Somersetshire pastures, little of the early beauty of the August morning. He saw nothing but her eyes, moistened with bright tears, and before he reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with many revilings in that he had parted from her and not kissed her.
Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out of sight,—watching it as well as her tears would allow. What a grand cousin he was! Had it not been a pity,—a thousand pities,—that that grievous episode should have come to mar the brotherly love, the sisterly confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfect between them? But perhaps it might all be well yet. Clara knew, or thought that she knew, that men and women differed in their appreciation of love. She, having once loved, could not change. Of that she was sure. Her love might be fortunate or unfortunate. It might be returned, or it might simply be her own, to destroy all hope of happiness for her on earth. But whether it were this or that, whether productive of good or evil, the love itself could not be changed. But with men she thought it might be different. Her cousin, doubtless, had been sincere in the full sincerity of his heart when he made his offer. And had she accepted it,—had she been able to accept it,—she believed that he would have loved her truly and constantly. Such was his nature. But she also believed that love with him, unrequited love, would have no enduring effect, and that he had already resolved, with equal courage and wisdom, to tread this short-lived passion out beneath his feet. One night had sufficed to him for that treading out. As she thought of this the tears ran plentifully down her cheek; and going again to her room she remained there crying till it was time for her to wipe away the marks of her weeping, that she might go to her father.
But she was very glad that Will bore it so well;—very glad! Her cousin was safe against love-making once again.
It had been settled for some time past that Miss Amedroz was to go to Perivale for a few days in November. Indeed it seemed to be a recognised fact in her life that she was to make the journey from Belton to Perivale and back very often, as there prevailed an idea that she owed a divided duty. This was in some degree hard upon her, as she had very little gratification in these visits to her aunt. Had there been any intention on the part of Mrs. Winterfield to provide for her, the thing would have been intelligible according to the usual arrangements which are made in the world on such matters; but Mrs. Winterfield had scarcely a right to call upon her niece for dutiful attendance after having settled it with her own conscience that her property was all to go to her nephew. But Clara entertained no thought of rebelling, and had agreed to make the accustomed journey in November, travelling then, as she did on all such journeys, at her aunt's expense.
Two things only occurred to disturb her tranquillity before she went, and they were not of much violence. Mr. Wright, the clergyman, called at Belton Castle, and in the course of conversation with Mr. Amedroz renewed one of those ill-natured rumours which had before been spread about Mrs. Askerton. Clara did not see him, but she heard an account of it all from her father.
"Does it mean, papa," she said, speaking almost with anger, "that you want me to give up Mrs. Askerton?"
"How can you be so unkind as to ask me such a question?" he replied. "You know how I hate to be bothered. I tell you what I hear, and then you can decide for yourself."
"But that isn't quite fair either, papa. That man comeshere—"
"That man, as you call him, is the rector of the parish, and I've known him for forty years."
"And have never liked him, papa."
"I don't know much about liking anybody, my dear. Nobody likes me, and so why should I trouble myself?"
"But, papa, it all amounts to this—that somebody has said that the Askertons are not Askertons at all, but ought to be called something else. Now we know that he served as Captain and Major Askerton for seven years in India—and in fact it all means nothing. If I know anything, I know that he is Colonel Askerton."
"But do you know that she is his wife? That is what Mr. Wright asks. I don't say anything. I think it's very indelicate talking about such things."
"If I am asked whether I have seen her marriage certificate, certainly I have not; nor probably did you ever do so as to any lady that you ever knew. But I know that she is her husband's wife, as we all of us know things of that sort. I know she was in India with him. I've seen things of hers marked with her name that she has had at least for ten years."
"I don't know anything about it, my dear," said Mr. Amedroz, angrily.
"But Mr. Wright ought to know something about it before he says such things. And then this that he's saying now isn't the same that he said before."
"I don't know what he said before."
"He said they were both of them using a feigned name."
"It's nothing to me what name they use. I know I wish they hadn't come here, if I'm to be troubled about them in this way—first by Wright and then by you."
"They have been very good tenants, papa."
"You needn't tell me that, Clara, and remind me about the shooting when you know how unhappy it makes me."
After this Clara said nothing more, and simply determined that Mr. Wright and his gossip should have no effect upon her intimacy with Mrs. Askerton. But not the less did she continue to remember what her cousin had said about Miss Vigo.
And she had been ruffled a second time by certain observations which Mrs. Askerton made to her respecting her cousin—or rather by little words which were dropped on various occasions. It was very clear that Mrs. Askerton did not like Mr. Belton, and that she wished to prejudice Clara against him. "It's a pity he shouldn't be a lover of yours," the lady said, "because it would be such a fine instance of Beauty and the Beast." It will of course be understood that Mrs. Askerton had never been told of the offer that had been made.
"You don't mean to say that he's not a handsome man," said Clara.
"I never observe whether a man is handsome or not; but I can see very well whether he knows what to do with his arms and legs, or whether he has the proper use of his voice before ladies." Clara remembered a word or two spoken by her cousin to herself, in speaking which he had seemed to have a very proper use of his voice. "I know when a man is at ease like a gentleman, and when he is awkward likea—"
"Like a what?" said Clara. "Finish what you've got to say."
"Like a ploughboy, I was going to say," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I declare I think you have a spite against him, because he said you were like some Miss Vigo," replied Clara, sharply. Mrs. Askerton was on that occasion silenced, and she said nothing more about Mr. Belton till after Clara had returned from Perivale.
The journey itself from Belton to Perivale was always a nuisance, and was more so now than usual, as it was made in the disagreeable month of November. There was kept at the little inn at Redicote an old fly—so called—which habitually made the journey to the Taunton railway-station, under the conduct of an old grey horse and an older and greyer driver, whenever any of the old ladies of the neighbourhood were minded to leave their homes. This vehicle usually travelled at the rate of five miles an hour; but the old grey driver was never content to have time allowed to him for the transit calculated upon such a rate of speed. Accidents might happen, and why should he be made, as he would plaintively ask, to drive the poor beast out of its skin? He was consequently always at Belton a full hour before the time, and though Clara was well aware of all this, she could not help herself. Her father was fussy and impatient, the man was fussy and impatient; and there was nothing for her but to go. On the present occasion she was taken off in this way the full sixty minutes too soon, and after four dreary hours spent upon the road, found herself landed at the Taunton station, with a terrible gulf of time to be passed before she could again proceed on her journey.
One little accident had occurred to her. The old horse, while trotting leisurely along the level high road, had contrived to tumble down. Clara did not think very much of this, as the same thing had happened with her before; but, even with an hour or more to spare, there arises a question whether under such circumstances the train can be saved. But the grey old man reassured her. "Now, miss," said he, coming to the window, while he left his horse recumbent and apparently comfortable on the road, "where'd you have been now, zure, if I hadn't a few minutes in hand for you?" Then he walked off to some neighbouring cottage, and having obtained assistance, succeeded in putting his beast again upon his legs. After that he looked once more in at the window. "Who's right now, I wonder?" he said, with an air of triumph. And when he came to her for his guerdon at Taunton, he was evidently cross in not having it increased because of the accident.
That hour at the Taunton station was terrible to her. I know of no hours more terrible than those so passed. The minutes will not go away, and utterly fail in making good their claim to be called winged. A man walks up and down the platform, and in that way obtains something of the advantage of exercise; but a woman finds herself bound to sit still within the dreary dulness of the waiting-room. There are, perhaps, people who under such circumstances can read, but they are few in number. The mind altogether declines to be active, whereas the body is seized by a spirit of restlessness to which delay and tranquillity are loathsome. The advertisements on the walls are examined, the map of some new Eden is studied—some Eden in which an irregular pond and a church are surrounded by a multiplicity of regular villas and shrubs—till the student feels that no consideration of health or economy would induce him to live there. Then the porters come in and out, till each porter has made himself odious to the sight. Everything is hideous, dirty, and disagreeable; and the mind wanders away, to consider why station-masters do not more frequently commit suicide. Clara Amedroz had already got beyond this stage, and was beginning to think of herself rather than of the station-master, when at last there sounded, close to her ears, the bell of promise, and she knew that the train was at hand.
At Taunton there branched away from the main line that line which was to take her to Perivale, and therefore she was able to take her own place quietly in the carriage when she found that the down-train from London was at hand. This she did, and could then watch with equanimity, while the travellers from the other train went through the penance of changing their seats. But she had not been so watching for many seconds when she saw Captain Frederic Aylmer appear upon the platform. Immediately she sank back into her corner and watched no more. Of course he was going to Perivale; but why had not her aunt told her that she was to meet him? Of course she would be staying in the same house with him, and her present small attempt to avoid him would thus be futile. The attempt was made; but nevertheless she was probably pleased when she found that it was made in vain. He came at once to the carriage in which she was sitting, and had packed his coats, and dressing-bag, and desk about the carriage before he had discovered who was his fellow-traveller. "How do you do, Captain Aylmer?" she said, as he was about to take his seat.
"Miss Amedroz! Dear me; how very odd! I had not the slightest expectation of meeting you here. The pleasure is of course the greater."
"Nor I of seeing you. Mrs. Winterfield has not mentioned to me that you were coming to Perivale."
"I didn't know it myself till the day before yesterday. I'm going to give an account of my stewardship to the good-natured Perivalians who send me to Parliament. I'm to dine with the mayor to-morrow, and as some big-wig has come in his way who is going to dine with him also, the thing has been got up in a hurry. But I'm delighted to find that you are to be with us."
"I generally go to my aunt about this time of the year."
"It is very good-natured of you." Then he asked after her father, and she told him of Mr. Belton's visit, telling him nothing—as the reader will hardly require to be told—of Mr. Belton's offer. And so, by degrees, they fell into close and intimate conversation.
"I am so glad, for your father's sake!" said the captain, with sympathetic voice, speaking still of Mr. Belton's visit.
"That's what I feel, of course."
"It is just as it should be, as he stands in that position to the property. And so he is a nice sort of fellow, is he?"
"Nice is no word for him. He is perfect!"
"Dear me! This is terrible! You remember that they hated some old Greek patriot when they could find no fault in him?"
"I'll defy you to hate my cousin Will."
"What sort of looking man is he?"
"Extremely handsome;—at least I should say so."
"Then I certainly must hate him. And clever?"
"Well;—not what you would call clever. He is very clever about fields and cattle."
"Come, there is some relief in that."
"But you must not mistake me. He is clever; and then there's a way about him of doing everything just as he likes it, which is wonderful. You feel quite sure that he'll become master of everything."
"But I do not feel at all sure that I should like him the better for that!"
"But he doesn't meddle in things that he doesn't understand. And then he is so generous! His spending all that money down there is only done because he thinks it will make the place pleasanter to papa."
"Has he got plenty of money?"
"Oh, plenty! At least, I think so. He says that he has."
"The idea of any man owning that he had got plenty of money! What a happy mortal! And then to be handsome, and omnipotent, and to understand cattle and fields! One would strive to emulate him rather than envy him, had not one learned to acknowledge that it is not given to every one to get to Corinth."
"You may laugh at him, but you'd like him if you knew him."
"One never can be sure of that from a lady's account of a man. When a man talks to me about another man, I can generally tell whether I should like him or not—particularly if I know the man well who is giving the description; but it is quite different when a woman is the describer."
"You mean that you won't take my word?"
"We see with different eyes in such matters. I have no doubt your cousin is a worthy man—and as prosperous a gentleman as the Thane of Cawdor in his prosperous days;—but probably if he and I came together we shouldn't have a word to say to each other."
Clara almost hated Captain Aylmer for speaking as he did, and yet she knew that it was true. Will Belton was not an educated man, and were they two to meet in her presence,—the captain and the farmer,—she felt that she might have to blush for her cousin. But yet he was the better man of the two. She knew that he was the better man of the two, though she knew also that she could not love him as she loved the other.
Then they changed the subject of their conversation, and discussed Mrs. Winterfield, as they had often done before. Captain Aylmer had said that he should return to London on the Saturday, the present day being Tuesday, and Clara accused him of escaping always from the real hard work of his position. "I observe that you never stay a Sunday at Perivale," she said.
"Well;—not often. Why should I? Sunday is just the day that people like to be at home."
"I should have thought it would not have made much difference to a bachelor in that way."
"But Sunday is a day that one specially likes to pass after one's own fashion."
"Exactly;—and therefore you don't stay with my aunt. I understand it all completely."
"Now you mean to be ill-natured!"
"I mean to say that I don't like Sundays at Perivale at all, and that I should do just as you do if I had the power. But women,—women, that is, of my age,—are such slaves! We are forced to give an obedience for which we can see no cause, and for which we can understand no necessity. I couldn't tell my aunt that I meant to go away on Saturday."
"You have no business which makes imperative calls upon your time."
"That means that I can't plead pretended excuses. But the true reason is that we are dependent."
"There is something in that, I suppose."
"Not that I am dependent on her. But my position generally is dependent, and I cannot assist myself."
Captain Aylmer found it difficult to make any answer to this, feeling the subject to be one which could hardly be discussed between him and Miss Amedroz. He not unnaturally looked to be the heir of his aunt's property, and any provision made out of that property for Clara, would so far lessen that which would come to him. For anything that he knew, Mrs. Winterfield might leave everything she possessed to her niece. The old lady had not been open and candid to him whom she meant to favour in her will, as she had been to her to whom no such favour was to be shown. But Captain Aylmer did know, with tolerable accuracy, what was the state of affairs at Belton, and was aware that Miss Amedroz had no prospect of maintenance on which to depend, unless she could depend on her aunt. She was now pleading that she was not dependent on that lady, and Captain Aylmer felt that she was wrong. He was a man of the world, and was by no means inclined to abandon any right that was his own; but it seemed to him that he was almost bound to say some word to show that in his opinion Clara should hold herself bound to comply with her aunt's requirements.
"Dependence is a disagreeable word," he said; "and one never quite knows what it means."
"If you were a woman you'd know. It means that I must stay at Perivale on Sundays, while you can go up to London or down to Yorkshire. That's what it means."
"What you do mean, I think, is this;—that you owe a duty to your aunt, the performance of which is not altogether agreeable. Nevertheless it would be foolish in you to omit it."
"It isn't that;—not that at all. It would not be foolish, not in your sense of the word, but it would be wrong. My aunt has been kind to me, and therefore I am bound to her for this service. But she is kind to you also, and yet you are not bound. That's why I complain. You sail away under false pretences, and yet you think you do your duty. You have to see your lawyer,—which means going to your club; or to attend to your tenants,—which means hunting and shooting."
"I haven't got any tenants."
"You know very well that you could remain over Sunday without doing any harm to anybody;—only you don't like going to church three times, and you don't like hearing my aunt read a sermon afterwards. Why shouldn't you stay, and I go to the club?"
"With all my heart, if you can manage it."
"But I can't; we ain't allowed to have clubs, or shooting, or to have our own way in anything, putting forward little pretences about lawyers."
"Come, I'll stay if you'll ask me."
"I'm sure I won't do that. In the first place you'd go to sleep, and then she would be offended; and I don't know that your sufferings would make mine any lighter. I'm not prepared to alter the ways of the world, but I feel myself entitled to grumble at them sometimes."
Mrs. Winterfield inhabited a large brick house in the centre of the town. It had a long frontage to the street; for there was not only the house itself, with its three square windows on each side of the door, and its seven windows over that, and again its seven windows in the upper story,—but the end of the coach-house also abutted on the street, on which was the family clock, quite as much respected in Perivale as was the town-clock; and between the coach-house and the mansion there was the broad entrance into the yard, and the entrance also to the back door. No Perivalian ever presumed to doubt that Mrs. Winterfield's house was the most important house in the town. Nor did any stranger doubt it on looking at the frontage. But then it was in all respects a town house to the eye,—that is, an English town house, being as ugly and as respectable as unlimited bricks and mortar could make it. Immediately opposite to Mrs. Winterfield lived the leading doctor and a retired builder, so that the lady's eye was not hurt by any sign of a shop. The shops, indeed, came within a very few yards of her on either side; but as the neighbouring shops on each side were her own property, this was not unbearable. To me, had I lived there, the incipient growth of grass through some of the stones which formed the margin of the road would have been altogether unendurable. There is no sign of coming decay which is so melancholy to the eye as any which tells of a decrease in the throng of men. Of men or horses there was never any throng now in that end of Perivale. That street had formed part of the main line of road from Salisbury to Taunton, and coaches, waggons, and posting-carriages had been frequent on it; but now, alas! it was deserted. Even the omnibuses from the railway-station never came there unless they were ordered to call at Mrs. Winterfield's door. For Mrs. Winterfield herself, this desolation had, I think, a certain melancholy attraction. It suited her tone of mind and her religious views that she should be thus daily reminded that things of this world were passing away and going to destruction. She liked to have ocular proof that grass was growing in the highways under mortal feet, and that it was no longer worth man's while to renew human flags in human streets. She was drawing near to the pavements which would ever be trodden by myriads of bright sandals, and which yet would never be worn, and would be carried to those jewelled causeways on which no weed could find a spot for its useless growth.
Behind the house there was a square prim garden, arranged in parallelograms, tree answering to tree at every corner, round which it was still her delight to creep when the weather permitted. Poor Clara! how much advice she had received during these creepings, and how often had she listened to inquiries as to the schooling of the gardener's children. Mrs. Winterfield was always unhappy about her gardener. Serious footmen are very plentiful, and even coachmen are to be found who, at a certain rate of extra payment, will be punctual at prayer time, and will promise to read good little books; but gardeners, as a class, are a profane people, who think themselves entitled to claim liberty of conscience, and who will not submit to the domestic despotism of a serious Sunday. They live in cottages by themselves, and choose to have an opinion of their own on church matters. Mrs. Winterfield was aware that she ought to bid high for such a gardener as she wanted. A man must be paid well who will submit to daily inquiries as to the spiritual welfare of himself, his wife, and family. But even though she did bid high, and though she paid generously, no gardener would stop with her. One conscientious man attempted to bargain for freedom from religion during the six unimportant days of the week, being strong, and willing therefore to give up his day of rest; but such liberty could not be allowed to him, and he also went. "He couldn't stop," he said, "in justice to the greenhouses, when missus was so constant down upon him about his sprittual backsliding. And, after all, where did he backslide? It was only a pipe of tobacco with the babby in his arms, instead of that darned evening lecture."
Poor Mrs. Winterfield! She had been strong in her youth, and had herself sat through evening lectures with a fortitude which other people cannot attain. And she was strong too in her age, with the strength of a martyr, submitting herself with patience to wearinesses which are insupportable to those who have none of the martyr spirit. The sermons of Perivale were neither bright, nor eloquent, nor encouraging. All the old vicar or the young curate could tell she had heard hundreds of times. She knew it all by heart, and could have preached their sermons to them better than they could preach them to her. It was impossible that she could learn anything from them; and yet she would sit there thrice a day, suffering from cold in winter, from cough in spring, from heat in summer, and from rheumatism in autumn; and now that her doctor had forbidden her to go more than twice, recommending her to go only once, she really thought that she regarded the prohibition as a grievance. Indeed, to such as her, that expectation of the jewelled causeway, and of the perfect pavement that shall never be worn, must be everything. But if she was right,—right as to herself and others,—then why has the world been made so pleasant? Why is the fruit of the earth so sweet; and the trees,—why are they so green; and the mountains so full of glory? Why are women so lovely? and why is it that the activity of man's mind is the only sure forerunner of man's progress? In listening thrice a day to outpourings from the clergymen at Perivale, there certainly was no activity of mind.
Now, in these days, Mrs. Winterfield was near to her reward. That she had ensured that I cannot doubt. She had fed the poor, and filled the young full with religious teachings,—perhaps not wisely, and in her own way only too well, but yet as her judgment had directed her. She had cared little for herself,—forgiving injuries done to her, and not forgiving those only which she thought were done to the Lord. She had lived her life somewhat as the martyr lived, who stood for years on his pillar unmoved, while his nails grew through his flesh. So had she stood, doing, I fear, but little positive good with her large means,—but thinking nothing of her own comfort here, in comparison with the comfort of herself and others in the world to which she was going.
On this occasion her nephew and niece reached her together; the prim boy, with the white cotton gloves and the low four-wheeled carriage, having been sent down to meet Clara. For Mrs. Winterfield was a lady who thought it unbecoming that her niece,—though only an adopted niece,—should come to her door in an omnibus. Captain Aylmer had driven the four-wheeled carriage from the station, dispossessing the boy, and the luggage had been confided to the public conveyance.
"It is very fortunate that you should come together," said Mrs. Winterfield. "I didn't know when to expect you, Fred. Indeed, you never say at what hour you'll come."
"I think it safer to allow myself a little margin, aunt, because one has so many things to do."
"I suppose it is so with a gentleman," said Mrs. Winterfield. After which Clara looked at Captain Aylmer, but did not betray any of her suspicions. "But I knew Clara would come by this train," continued the old lady; "so I sent Tom to meet her. Ladies always can be punctual; they can do that at any rate." Mrs. Winterfield was one of those women who have always believed that their own sex is in every respect inferior to the other.
On the first evening of their visit Captain Aylmer was very attentive to his aunt. He was quite alive to the propriety of such attentions, and to their expediency; and Clara was amused as she watched him while he sat by her side, by the hour together, answering little questions and making little remarks suited to the temperament of the old lady's mind. She, herself, was hardly called upon to join in the conversation on that evening, and as she sat and listened, she could not but think that Will Belton would have been less adroit, but that he would also have been more straightforward. And yet why should not Captain Aylmer talk to his aunt? Will Belton would also have talked to his aunt if he had one, but then he would have talked his own talk, and not his aunt's talk. Clara could hardly make up her mind whether Captain Aylmer was or was not a sincere man. On the following day Aylmer was out all the morning, paying visits among his constituents, and at three o'clock he was to make his speech in the Town-hall. Special places in the gallery were to be kept for Mrs. Winterfield and her niece, and the old woman was quite resolved that she would be there. As the day advanced she became very fidgety, and at length she was quite alive to the perils of having to climb up the Town-hall stairs; but she persevered, and at ten minutes before three she was seated in her place.
"I suppose they will begin with prayer," she said to Clara. Clara, who knew nothing of the manner in which things were done at such meetings, said that she supposed so. A town councillor's wife who sat on the other side of Mrs. Winterfield, here took the liberty of explaining that as the Captain was going to talk politics there would be no prayers. "But they have prayers in the Houses of Parliament," said Mrs. Winterfield, with much anger. To this the town councillor's wife, who was almost silenced by the great lady's wrath, said that indeed she did not know. After this Mrs. Winterfield continued to hope for the best, till the platform was filled and the proceedings had commenced. Then she declared the present men of Perivale to be a godless set, and expressed herself very sorry that her nephew had ever had anything to do with them. "No good can come of it, my dear," she said. Clara from the beginning had feared that no good would come of her aunt's visit to the Town-hall.
The business was put on foot at once, and with some little flourishing at the commencement, Captain Aylmer made his speech;—the same speech which we have all heard and read so often, specially adapted to the meridian of Perivale. He was a Conservative, and of course he told his hearers that a good time was coming; that he and his family were really about to buckle themselves to the work, and that Perivale would hear things that would surprise it. The malt tax was to go, and the farmers were to have free trade in beer,—the arguments from the other side having come beautifully round in their appointed circle,—and old England was to be old England once again. He did the thing tolerably well, as such gentlemen usually do, and Perivale was contented with its member, with the exception of one Perivalian. To Mrs. Winterfield, sitting up there and listening with all her ears, it seemed that he had hitherto omitted all allusion to any subject that was worthy of mention. At last he said some word about the marriage and divorce court, condemning the iniquity of the present law, to which Perivale had opposed itself violently by petition and general meetings; and upon hearing this Mrs. Winterfield had thumped with her umbrella, and faintly cheered him with her weak old voice. But the surrounding Perivalians had heard the cheer, and it was repeated backwards and forwards through the room, till the member's aunt thought that it might be her nephew's mission to annul that godless Act of Parliament, and restore the matrimonial bonds of England to their old rigidity. When Captain Aylmer came out to hand her up to her little carriage, she patted him, and thanked him, and encouraged him; and on her way home she congratulated herself to Clara that she should have such a nephew to leave behind her in her place.
Captain Aylmer was dining with the mayor on that evening, and Mrs. Winterfield was therefore able to indulge herself in talking about him. "I don't see much of young men, of course," she said; "but I do not even hear of any that are like him." Again Clara thought of her cousin Will. Will was not at all like Frederic Aylmer; but was he not better? And yet, as she thought thus, she remembered that she had refused her cousin Will because she loved that very Frederic Aylmer whom her mind was thus condemning.
"I'm sure he does his duty as a member of Parliament very well," said Clara.
"That alone would not be much; but when that is joined to so much that is better, it is a great deal. I am told that very few of the men in the House now are believers at all."
"Oh, aunt!"
"It is terrible to think of, my dear."
"But, aunt; they have to take some oath, or something of that sort, to show that they are Christians."
"Not now, my dear. They've done away with all that since we had Jew members. An atheist can go into Parliament now; and I'm told that most of them are that, or nearly as bad. I can remember when no Papist could sit in Parliament. But they seem to me to be doing away with everything. It's a great comfort to me that Frederic is what he is."
"I'm sure it must be, aunt."
Then there was a pause, during which, however, Mrs. Winterfield gave no sign that the conversation was to be considered as being over. Clara knew her aunt's ways so well, that she was sure something more was coming, and therefore waited patiently, without any thought of taking up her book. "I was speaking to him about you yesterday," Mrs. Winterfield said at last.
"That would not interest him very much."
"Why not? Do you suppose he is not interested in those I love? Indeed, it did interest him; and he told me what I did not know before, and what you ought to have told me."
Clara now blushed, she knew not why, and became agitated. "I don't know that I have kept anything from you that I ought to have told," she said.
"He says that the provision made for you by your father has all been squandered."
"If he used that word he has been very unkind," said Clara, angrily.
"I don't know what word he used, but he was not unkind at all; he never is. I think he was very generous."
"I do not want his generosity, aunt."
"That is nonsense, my dear. If he has told me the truth, what have you to depend on?"
"I don't want to depend on anything. I hate hearing about it."
"Clara, I wonder you can talk in that way. If you were only seventeen it would be very foolish; but at your age it is inexcusable. When I am gone, and your father is gone, who is to provide for you? Will your cousin do it—Mr. Belton, who is to have the property?"
"Yes, he would—if I would let him;—of course I would not let him. But, aunt, pray do not go on. I would sooner have to starve than talk about it at all."
There was another pause; but Clara again knew that the conversation was not over; and she knew also that it would be vain for her to endeavour to begin another subject. Nor could she think of anything else to say, so much was she agitated.
"What makes you suppose that Mr. Belton would be so liberal?" asked Mrs. Winterfield.
"I don't know. I can't say. He is the nearest relation I shall have; and of all the people I ever knew he is the best, and the most generous, and the least selfish. When he came to us papa was quite hostile to him—disliking his very name; but when the time came, papa could not bear to think of his going, because he had been so good."
"Clara!"
"Well, aunt."
"I hope you know my affection for you."
"Of course I do, aunt; and I hope you trust mine for you also."
"Is there anything between you and Mr. Belton besides cousinship?"
"Nothing."
"Because if I thought that, my trouble would of course be at an end."
"There is nothing;—but pray do not let me be a trouble to you." Clara, for a moment, almost resolved to tell her aunt the whole truth; but she remembered that she would be treating her cousin badly if she told the story of his rejection.
There was another short period of silence, and then Mrs. Winterfield went on. "Frederic thinks that I should make some provision for you by will. That, of course, is the same as though he offered to do it himself. I told him that it would be so, and I read him my will last night. He said that that made no difference, and recommended me to add a codicil. I asked him how much I ought to give you, and he said fifteen hundred pounds. There will be as much as that after burying me without burden to the estate. You must acknowledge that he has been very generous."
But Clara, in her heart, did not at all thank Captain Aylmer for his generosity. She would have had everything from him, or nothing. It was grievous to her to think that she should owe to him a bare pittance to keep her out of the workhouse,—to him who had twice seemed to be on the point of asking her to share everything with him. She did not love her cousin Will as she loved him; but her cousin Will's assurance to her that he would treat her with a brother's care was sweeter to her by far than Frederic Aylmer's well-balanced counsel to his aunt on her behalf. In her present mood, too, she wanted no one to have forethought for her; she desired no provision; for her, in the discomfiture of heart, there was consolation in the feeling that when she should find herself alone in the world, she would have been ill-treated by her friends all round her. There was a charm in the prospect of her desolation of which she did not wish to be robbed by the assurance of some seventy pounds a year, to be given to her by Captain Frederic Aylmer. To be robbed of one's grievance is the last and foulest wrong,—a wrong under which the most enduring temper will at last yield and become soured,—by which the strongest back will be broken. "Well, my dear," continued Mrs. Winterfield, when Clara made no response to this appeal for praise.
"It is so hard for me to say anything about it, aunt. What can I say but that I don't want to be a burden to any one?"
"That is a position which very few women can attain,—that is, very few single women."
"I think it would be well if all single women were strangled by the time they are thirty," said Clara with a fierce energy which absolutely frightened her aunt.
"Clara! how can you say anything so wicked,—so abominably wicked!"
"Anything would be better than being twitted in this way. How can I help it that I am not a man and able to work for my bread? But I am not above being a housemaid, and so Captain Aylmer shall find. I'd sooner be a housemaid, with nothing but my wages, than take the money which you say he is to give me. It will be of no use, aunt, for I shall not take it."
"It is I that am to leave it to you. It is not to be a present from Frederic."
"It is the same thing, aunt. He says you are to do it; and you told me just now that it was to come out of his pocket."
"I should have done it myself long ago, had you told me all the truth about your father's affairs."
"How was I to tell you? I would sooner have bitten my tongue out. But I will tell you the truth now. If I had known that all this was to be said to me about money, and that our poverty was to be talked over between you and Captain Aylmer, I would not have come to Perivale. I would rather that you should be angry with me and think that I had forgotten you."
"You would not say that, Clara, if you remembered that this will probably be your last visit to me."
"No, no; it will not be the last. But do not talk about these things. And it will be so much better that I should be here when he is not here."
"I had hoped that when I died you might both be with me together,—as husband and wife."
"Such hopes never come to anything."
"I still think that he would wish it."
"That is nonsense, aunt. It is indeed, for neither of us wish it." A lie on such a subject from a woman under such circumstances is hardly to be considered a lie at all. It is spoken with no mean object, and is the only bulwark which the woman has ready at her need to cover her own weakness.
"From what he said yesterday," continued Mrs. Winterfield, "I think it is your own fault."
"Pray,—pray do not talk in that way. It cannot be matter of any fault that two people do not want to marry each other."
"Of course I asked him no positive question. It would be indelicate even in me to have done that. But he spoke as though he thought very highly of you."
"No doubt he does. And so do I of Mr. Possitt."
"Mr. Possitt is a very excellent young man," said Mrs. Winterfield, gravely. Mr. Possitt was, indeed, her favourite curate at Perivale, and always dined at the house on Sundays between services, when Mrs. Winterfield was very particular in seeing that he took two glasses of her best port wine to support him. "But Mr. Possitt has nothing but his curacy."
"There is no danger, aunt, I can assure you."
"I don't know what you call danger; but Frederic seemed to think that you are always sharp with him. You don't want to quarrel with him, I hope, because I love him better than any one in the world?"
"Oh, aunt, what cruel things you say to me without thinking of them!"
"I do not mean to be cruel, but I will say nothing more about him. As I told you before, that I had not thought it expedient to leave away any portion of my little property from Frederic,—believing as I did then, that the money intended for you by your father was still remaining,—it is best that you should now know that I have at last learnt the truth, and that I will at once see my lawyer about making this change."
"Dear aunt, of course I thank you."
"I want no thanks, Clara. I humbly strive to do what I believe to be my duty. I have never felt myself to be more than a steward of my money. That I have often failed in my stewardship I know well;—for in what duties do we not all fail?" Then she gently laid herself back in her arm-chair, closing her eyes, while she kept fast clasped in her hands the little book of daily devotion which she had been striving to read when the conversation had been commenced. Clara knew then that nothing more was to be said, and that she was not at present to interrupt her aunt. From her posture, and the closing of her eyelids, Mrs. Winterfield might have been judged to be asleep; but Clara could see the gentle motion of her lips, and was aware that her aunt was solacing herself with prayer.
Clara was angry with herself, and angry with all the world. She knew that the old lady who was sitting then before her was very good; and that all this that had now been said had come from pure goodness, and a desire that strict duty might be done; and Clara was angry with herself in that she had not been more ready with her thanks, and more demonstrative with her love and gratitude. Mrs. Winterfield was affectionate as well as good, and her niece's coldness, as the niece well knew, had hurt her sorely. But still what could Clara have done or said? She told herself that it was beyond her power to burst out into loud praises of Captain Aylmer; and of such nature was the gratitude which Mrs. Winterfield had desired. She was not grateful to Captain Aylmer, and wanted nothing that was to come from his generosity. And then her mind went away to that other portion of her aunt's discourse. Could it be possible that this man was in truth attached to her, and was repelled simply by her own manner? She was aware that she had fallen into a habit of fighting with him, of sparring against him with words about indifferent things, and calling his conduct in question in a manner half playful and half serious. Could it be the truth that she was thus robbing herself of that which would be to her,—as to herself she had frankly declared,—the one treasure which she would desire? Twice, as has been said before, words had seemed to tremble on his lips which might have settled the question for her for ever; and on both occasions, as she knew, she herself had helped to laugh off the precious word that had been coming. But had he been thoroughly in earnest,—in earnest as she would have him to be,—no laugh would have deterred him from his purpose. Could she have laughed Will Belton out of his declaration?
At last the lips ceased to move, and she knew that her aunt was in truth asleep. The poor old lady hardly ever slept at night; but nature, claiming something of its due, would give her rest such as this in her arm-chair by the fire-side. They were sitting in a large double drawing-room upstairs, in which there were, as was customary with Mrs. Winterfield in winter, two fires; and the candles were in the back-room, while the two ladies sat in that looking out into the street. This Mrs. Winterfield did to save her eyes from the candles, and yet to be within reach of light if it were wanted. And Clara also sat motionless in the dark, careful not to disturb her aunt, and desirous of being with her when she should awake. Captain Aylmer had declared his purpose of being home early from the Mayor's dinner, and the ladies were to wait for his arrival before tea was brought to them. Clara was herself almost asleep when the door was opened, and Captain Aylmer entered the room.
"H—sh!" she said, rising gently from her chair, and putting up her finger. He saw her by the dull light of the fire, and closed the door without a sound. Clara then crept into the back-room, and he followed her with noiseless step. "She did not sleep at all last night," said Clara; "and now the unusual excitement of the day has fatigued her, and I think it is better not to wake her." The rooms were large, and they were able to place themselves at such a distance from the sleeper that their low words could hardly disturb her.
"Was she very tired when she got home?" he asked.
"Not very. She has been talking much since that."
"Has she spoken about her will to you?"
"Yes;—she has."
"I thought she would." Then he was silent, as though he expected that she would speak again on that matter. But she had no wish to discuss her aunt's will with him, and therefore, to break the silence, asked him some trifling question. "Are you not home earlier than you expected?"
"It was very dull, and there was nothing more to be said. I did come away early, and perhaps have given affront. I hope you will accept the compliment implied."
"Your aunt will, when she wakes. She will be delighted to find you here."
"I am awake," said Mrs. Winterfield. "I heard Frederic come in. It is very good of him to come so soon. Clara, my dear, we will have tea."
During tea, Captain Aylmer was called upon to give an account of the Mayor's feast,—how the rector had said grace before dinner, and Mr. Possitt had done so after dinner, and how the soup had been uneatable. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Winterfield. "And yet his wife was housekeeper formerly in a family that lived very well!" The Mrs. Winterfields of this world allow themselves little spiteful pleasures of this kind, repenting of them, no doubt, in those frequent moments in which they talk to their friends of their own terrible vilenesses. Captain Aylmer then explained that his own health had been drunk, and his aunt desired to know whether, in returning thanks, he had been able to say anything further against that wicked Divorce Act of Parliament. This her nephew was constrained to answer with a negative, and so the conversation was carried on till tea was over. She was very anxious to hear every word that he could be made to utter as to his own doings in Parliament, and as to his doings in Perivale, and hung upon him with that wondrous affection which old people with warm hearts feel for those whom they have selected as their favourites. Clara saw it all, and knew that her aunt was almost doting.
"I think I'll go up to bed now, my dears," said Mrs. Winterfield, when she had taken her cup of tea. "I am tired with those weary stairs in the Town-hall, and I shall be better in my own room." Clara offered to go with her, but this attendance her aunt declined,—as she did always. So the bell was rung, and the old maid-servant walked off with her mistress, and Miss Amedroz and Captain Aylmer were left together.
"I don't think she will last long," said Captain Aylmer, soon after the door was closed.
"I should be sorry to believe that; but she is certainly much altered."
"She has great courage to keep her up,—and a feeling that she should not give way, but do her duty to the last. In spite of all that, however, I can see how changed she is since the summer. Have you ever thought how sad it will be if she should be alone when the day comes?"
"She has Martha, who is more to her now than any one else,—unless it is you."
"You could not remain with her over Christmas, I suppose?"
"Who, I? What would my father do? Papa is as old, or nearly as old, as my aunt."
"But he is strong."
"He is very lonely. He would be more lonely than she is, for he has no such servant as Martha to be with him. Women can do better than men, I think, when they come to my aunt's age."
From this they got into a conversation as to the character of the lady with whom they were both so nearly connected, and, in spite of all that Clara could do to prevent it, continual references were made by Captain Aylmer to her money and her will, and the need of an addition to that will on Clara's behalf. At last she was driven to speak out. "Captain Aylmer," she said, "the subject is so distasteful to me, that I must ask you not to speak about it."
"In my position I am driven to think about it."
"I cannot, of course, help your thoughts; but I can assure you that they are unnecessary."
"It seems to me so hard that there should be such a gulf between you and me." This he said after he had been silent for a while; and as he spoke he looked away from her at the fire.
"I don't know that there is any particular gulf," she replied.
"Yes, there is. And it is you that make it. Whenever I attempt to speak to you as a friend you draw yourself off from me, and shut yourself up. I know that it is not jealousy."
"Jealousy, Captain Aylmer!"
"Jealousy with my aunt, I mean."
"No, indeed."
"You are infinitely too proud for that; but I am sure that a stranger seeing it all would think that it was so."
"I don't know what it is that I do or that I ought not to do. But all my life everything that I have done at Perivale has always been wrong."
"It would have been so natural that you and I should be friends."
"If we are enemies, Captain Aylmer, I don't know it."
"But if ever I venture to speak of your future life you always repel me;—as though you were determined to let me know that it should not be a matter of care to me."
"That is exactly what I am determined to let you know. You are, or will be, a rich man, and you have everything the world can give you. I am, or shall be, a very poor woman."
"Is that a reason why I should not be interested in your welfare?"
"Yes;—the best reason in the world. We are not related to each other, though we have a common connection in dear Mrs. Winterfield. And nothing, to my idea, can be more objectionable than any sort of dependence from a woman of my age on a man of yours,—there being no real tie of blood between them. I have spoken very plainly, Captain Aylmer, for you have made me do it."
"Very plainly," he said.
"If I have said anything to offend you, I beg your pardon; but I was driven to explain myself." Then she got up and took her bed-candle in her hand.
"You have not offended me," he said, as he also rose.
"Good-night, Captain Aylmer."
He took her hand and kept it. "Say that we are friends."
"Why should we not be friends?"
"There is no reason on my part why we should not be the dearest friends," he said. "Were it not that I am so utterly without encouragement, I should say the very dearest." He still held her hand, and was looking into her face as he spoke. For a moment she stood there, bearing his gaze, as though she expected some further words to be spoken. Then she withdrew her hand, and again saying, in a clear voice, "Good-night, Captain Aylmer," she left the room.
What had Captain Aylmer meant by telling her that they might be the dearest friends—by saying so much as that, and then saying no more? Of course Clara asked herself that question as soon as she was alone in her bedroom, after leaving Captain Aylmer below. And she made two answers to herself—two answers which were altogether distinct and contradictory one of the other. At first she decided that he had said so much and no more because he was deceitful—because it suited his vanity to raise hopes which he had no intention of fulfilling—because he was fond of saying soft things which were intended to have no meaning. This was her first answer to herself. But in her second she accused herself as much as she had before accused him. She had been cold to him, unfriendly, and harsh. As her aunt had told her, she spoke sharp words to him, and repulsed the kindness which he offered her. What right had she to expect from him a declaration of love when she was studious to stop him at every avenue by which he might approach it? A little management on her side would, she almost knew, make things right. But then the idea of any such management distressed her;—nay, more, disgusted her. The management, if any were necessary, must come from him. And it was manifest enough that if he had any strong wishes in this matter he was not a good manager. Her cousin, Will Belton, knew how to manage much better.
On the next morning, however, all her thoughts respecting Captain Aylmer were dissipated by tidings which Martha brought to her bedside. Her aunt was ill. Martha was afraid that her mistress was very ill. She did not dare to send specially for the doctor on her own responsibility, as Mrs. Winterfield had strong and peculiar feelings about doctors' visits, and had on this very morning declined to be so visited. On the next day the doctor would come in the usual course of things, for she had submitted for some years back to such periodical visitings; but she had desired that nothing might be done out of the common way. Martha, however, declared that if she were alone with her mistress the doctor would be sent for; and she now petitioned for aid from Clara. Clara was, of course, by her aunt's bedside in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more the doctor from the other side of the way was there also.
It was ten o'clock before Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz met at breakfast, and they had before that been together in Mrs. Winterfield's room. The doctor had told Captain Aylmer that his aunt was very ill—very ill, dangerously ill. She had been wrong to go into such a place as the cold, unaired Town-hall, and that, too, in the month of November; and the fatigue had also been too much for her. Mrs. Winterfield, too, had admitted to Clara that she knew herself to be very ill. "I felt it coming on me last night," she said, "when I was talking to you; and I felt it still more strongly when I left you after tea. I have lived long enough. God's will be done." At that moment, when she said she had lived long enough, she forgot her intention with reference to her will. But she remembered it before Clara had left the room. "Tell Frederic," she said, "to send at once for Mr. Palmer." Now Clara knew that Mr. Palmer was the attorney, and resolved that she would give no such message to Captain Aylmer. But Mrs. Winterfield sent for her nephew, who had just left her, and herself gave her orders to him. In the course of the morning there came tidings from the attorney's office that Mr. Palmer was away from Perivale, that he would be back on the morrow, and that he would of course wait on Mrs. Winterfield immediately on his return.
Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz discussed nothing but their aunt's state of health that morning over the breakfast-table. Of course, under such circumstances in the house, there was no further immediate reference made to that offer of dearest friendship. It was clear to them both that the doctor did not expect that Mrs. Winterfield would again leave her bed; and it was clear to Clara also that her aunt was of the same opinion.
"I shall hardly be able to go home now," she said.
"It will be kind of you if you can remain."
"And you?"
"I shall remain over the Sunday. If by that time she is at all better, I will run up to town and come down again before the end of the week. I know you don't believe it, but a man really has some things which he must do."
"I don't disbelieve you, Captain Aylmer."
"But you must write to me daily if I do go."
To this Clara made no objection;—and she must write also to some one else. She must let her cousin know how little chance there was that she would be at home at Christmas, explaining to him at the same time that his visit to her father would on that account be all the more welcome.
"Are you going to her now?" he asked, as Clara got up immediately after breakfast. "I shall be in the house all the morning, and if you want me you will of course send for me."
"She may perhaps like to see you."
"I will come up every now and again. I would remain there altogether, only I should be in the way." Then he got a newspaper and made himself comfortable over the fire, while she went up to her weary task in her aunt's room.