"And how long ago is that?"
"I do not know. Some years before his death."
"And how long ago did he die?"
"About three years since. My informant tells me that he believes she has since married. Now you know all that I know." And Belton also knew that Mrs. Askerton of the cottage was the Miss Vigo with whom he had been acquainted in earlier years.
After that they dined comfortably, and nothing passed between them which need be recorded as essential to our story till the time came for them to part. Then, when they were both standing at the club door, the lawyer said a word or two which is essential. "So you're off to-morrow?" said he.
"Yes; I shall go down by the express."
"I wish you a pleasant journey. By-the-by, I ought to tell you that you won't have any trouble in being either father or mother, or uncle or aunt to Miss Amedroz."
"Why not?"
"I suppose it's no secret."
"What's no secret?"
"She's going to be married to Captain Aylmer."
Then Will Belton started so violently, and assumed on a sudden so manifest a look of anger, that his tale was at once told to Mr. Green. "Who says so?" he asked. "I don't believe it."
"I'm afraid it's true all the same, Will."
"Who says it?"
"Captain Aylmer was with me to-day, and he told me. He ought to be good authority on such a subject."
"He told you that he was going to marry Clara Amedroz?"
"Yes, indeed."
"And what made him come to you, to tell you?"
"There was a question about some money which he had paid to her, and which, under existing circumstances, he thought it as well that he should not pay. Matters of that kind are often necessarily told to lawyers. But I should not have told it to you, Will, if I had not thought that it was good news."
"It is not good news," said Belton moodily.
"At any rate, old fellow, my telling it will do no harm. You must have learned it soon." And he put his hand kindly,—almost tenderly, on the other's arm. But Belton moved himself away angrily. The wound had been so lately inflicted that he could not as yet forgive the hand that had seemed to strike him.
"I'm sorry that it should be so bad with you, Will."
"What do you mean by bad? It is not bad with me. It is very well with me. Keep your pity for those who want it." Then he walked off by himself across the broad street before the club door, leaving his friend without a word of farewell, and made his way up into St. James's Square, choosing, as was evident to Mr. Green, the first street that would take him out of sight.
"He's hit, and hit hard," said the lawyer, looking after him. "Poor fellow! I might have guessed it from what he said. I never knew of his caring for any woman before." Then Mr. Green put on his gloves and went away home.
We will now follow Will Belton into St. James's Square, and we shall follow a very unhappy gentleman. Doubtless he had hitherto known and appreciated the fact that Miss Amedroz had refused his offer, and had often declared, both to himself and to his sister, his conviction that that refusal would never be reversed. But, in spite of that expressed conviction, he had lived on hope. Till she belonged to another man she might yet be his. He might win her at last by perseverance. At any rate he had it in his power to work towards the desired end, and might find solace even in that working. And the misery of his loss would not be so great to him,—as he found himself forced to confess to himself before he had completed his wanderings on this night,—in not having her for his own, as it would be in knowing that she had given herself to another man. He had often told himself that of course she would become the wife of some man, but he had never yet realised to himself what it would be to know that she was the wife of any one specified rival. He had been sad enough on that moonlight night in the avenue at Plaistow,—when he had leaned against the tree, striking his hands together as he thought of his great want; but his unhappiness then had been as nothing to his agony now. Now it was all over,—and he knew the man who had supplanted him!
How he hated him! With what an unchristian spirit did he regard that worthy captain as he walked across St. James's Square, across Jermyn Street, across Piccadilly, and up Bond Street, not knowing whither he was going. He thought with an intense regret of the laws of modern society which forbid duelling,—forgetting altogether that even had the old law prevailed, the conduct of the man whom he so hated would have afforded him nocasus belli. But he was too far gone in misery and animosity to be capable of any reason on the matter. Captain Aylmer had interfered with his dearest wishes, and during this now passing hour he would willingly have crucified Captain Aylmer had it been within his power to do so. Till he had gone beyond Oxford Street, and had wandered away into the far distance of Portman Square and Baker Street, he had not begun to think of any interest which Clara Amedroz might have in the matter on which his thoughts were employed. He was sojourning at an hotel in Bond Street, and had gone thitherwards more by habit than by thought; but he had passed the door of his inn, feeling it to be impossible to render himself up to his bed in his present disturbed mood. As he was passing the house in Bond Street he had been intent on the destruction of Captain Aylmer,—and had almost determined that if Captain Aylmer could not be made to vanish into eternity, he must make up his mind to go that road himself.
It was out of the question that he should go down to Belton. As to that he had come to a very decided opinion by the time that he had crossed Oxford Street. Go down to see her, when she had treated him after this fashion! No, indeed. She wanted no brother now. She had chosen to trust herself to this other man, and he, Will Belton, would not interfere further in her affairs. Then he drew upon his imagination for a picture of the future, in which he portrayed Captain Aylmer as a ruined man, who would probably desert his wife, and make himself generally odious to all his acquaintance—a picture as to the realisation of which I am bound to say that Captain Aylmer's antecedents gave no probability. But it was the looking at this self-drawn picture which first softened the artist's heart towards the victim whom he had immolated on his imaginary canvas. When Clara should be ruined by the baseness and villany and general scampishness of this man whom she was going to marry,—to whom she was about to be weak enough and fool enough to trust herself,—then he would interpose and be her brother once again,—a broken-hearted brother no doubt, but a brother efficacious to keep the wolf from the door of this poor woman and her—children. Then, as he thus created Captain Aylmer's embryo family of unprovided orphans,—for after a while he killed the captain, making him to die some death that was very disgraceful, but not very distinct even to his own imagination,—as he thought of those coming pledges of a love which was to him so bitter, he stormed about the streets, performing antics of which no one would have believed him capable, who had known him as the thriving Mr. William Belton, of Plaistow Hall, among the fens of Norfolk.
But the character of a man is not to be judged from the pictures which he may draw or from the antics which he may play in his solitary hours. Those who act generally with the most consummate wisdom in the affairs of the world, often meditate very silly doings before their wiser resolutions form themselves. I beg, therefore, that Mr. Belton may be regarded and criticised in accordance with his conduct on the following morning,—when his midnight rambles, which finally took him even beyond the New Road, had been followed by a few tranquil hours in his Bond Street bedroom:—for at last he did bring himself to return thither and put himself to bed after the usual fashion. He put himself to bed in a spirit somewhat tranquillised by the exercise of the night, and at last—wept himself to sleep like a baby.
But he was by no means like a baby when he took him early on the following morning to the Paddington Station, and booked himself manfully for Taunton. He had had time to recognise the fact that he had no ground of quarrel with his cousin because she had preferred another man to him. This had happened to him as he was recrossing the New Road about two o'clock, and was beginning to find that his legs were weary under him. And, indeed, he had recognised one or two things before he had gone to sleep with his tears dripping on to his pillow. In the first place, he had ill-treated Joe Green, and had made a fool of himself in his friend's presence. As Joe Green was a sensible, kind-hearted fellow, this did not much signify;—but not on that account did he omit to tell himself of his own fault. Then he discovered that it would ill become him to break his word to Mr. Amedroz and to his daughter, and to do so without a word of excuse, because Clara had exercised a right which was indisputably her own. He had undertaken certain work at Belton which required his presence, and he would go down and do his work as though nothing had occurred to disturb him. To remain away because of this misfortune would be to show the white feather. It would be unmanly. All this he recognised as the pictures he had painted faded away from their canvases. As to Captain Aylmer himself, he hoped that he might never be called upon to meet him. He still hoped that, even as he was resolutely cramming his shirts into his portmanteau before he began his journey. His cousin Clara he thought he could meet, and tender to her some expression of good wishes as to her future life, without giving way under the effort. And to the old squire he could endeavour to make himself pleasant, speaking of the relief from all trouble which this marriage with Captain Aylmer would afford,—for now, in his cooler moments, he could perceive that Captain Aylmer was not a man apt to ruin himself, or his wife and children. But to Captain Aylmer himself, he could not bring himself to say pleasant things or to express pleasant wishes. She who was to be Captain Aylmer's wife, who loved him, would of course have told him what had occurred up among the rocks in Belton Park; and if that was so, any meeting between Will and Captain Aylmer would be death to the former.
Thinking of all this he journeyed down to Taunton, and thinking of all this he made his way from Taunton across to Belton Park.
Clara Amedroz had received her two letters together,—that, namely, from the attorney, and that from Captain Aylmer,—and the result of those letters is already known. She accepted her lover's renewed offer of marriage, acknowledging the force of his logic, and putting faith in the strength of his assurances. This she did without seeking advice from any one. Who was there from whom she could seek advice on such a matter as that?—who, at least, was there at Belton? That her father would, as a matter of course, bid her accept Captain Aylmer, was, she thought, certain; and she knew well that Mrs. Askerton would do the same. She asked no counsel from any one, but taking the two letters up to her own room, sat down to consider them. That which referred to her aunt's money, together with the postscript in Captain Aylmer's letter on the same subject, would be of the least possible moment if she could bring herself to give a favourable answer to the other proposition. But should she not be able to do this,—should she hesitate as to doing so at once,—then she must write to the lawyer in very strong terms, refusing altogether to have anything to do with the money. And in such a case as this, not a word could she say to her father either on one subject or on the other.
But why should she not accept the offer made to her? Captain Aylmer declared that he had determined to ask her to be his wife before he had made any promise to Mrs. Winterfield. If this were in truth so, then the very ground on which she had separated herself from him would be removed. Why should she hesitate in acknowledging to herself that she loved the man and believed him to be true? So she sat herself down and answered both the letters,—writing to the lawyer first. To him she said that nothing need be done about the money or the interest till he should see or hear from Captain Aylmer again. Then to Captain Aylmer she wrote very shortly, but very openly,—with the same ill-judged candour which her spoken words to him had displayed. Of course she would be his; his without hesitation, now that she knew that he expressed his own wishes, and not merely those of his aunt. "As to the money," she said, "it would be simply nonsense now for us to have any talk of money. It is yours in any way, and you had better manage about it as you please. I have written an ambiguous letter to Mr. Green, which will simply plague him, and which you may go and see if you like." Then she added her postscript, in which she said that she should now at once tell her father, as the news would remove from his mind all solicitude as to her future position. That Captain Aylmer did go to Mr. Green we already know, and we know also that he told Mr. Green of his intended marriage.
Nothing was said by Captain Aylmer as to any proposed period for their marriage; but that was only natural. It was not probable that any man would name a day till he knew whether or not he was accepted. Indeed, Clara, on thinking over the whole affair, was now disposed to find fault rather with herself than with her lover, and forgetting his coldness and formality at Perivale, remembered only the fact of his offer to her, and his assurance now received that he had intended to make it before the scene which had taken place between him and his aunt. She did find fault with herself, telling herself that she had quarrelled with him without sufficient cause;—and the eager, loving candour of her letter to him was attributable to those self-accusations.
"Papa," she said, after the postman had gone away from Belton, so that there might be no possibility of any recall of her letter, "I have something to tell you which I hope will give you pleasure."
"It isn't often that I hear anything of that kind," said he.
"But I think that this will give you pleasure. I do indeed. I am going to be married."
"Going to what?"
"Going to be married, papa. That is, if I have your leave. Of course any offer of that kind that I have accepted is subject to your approval."
"And I have been told nothing about it!"
"It began at Perivale, and I could not tell you then. You do not ask me who is to be my husband."
"It is not Will Belton?"
"Poor Will! No; it is not Will. It is Frederic Aylmer. I think you would prefer him as a son-in-law even to my cousin Will."
"No I shouldn't. Why should I prefer a man whom I don't even know, who lives in London, and who will take you away, so that I shall never see you again?"
"Dear papa;—don't speak of it in that way. I thought you would be glad to know that I was to be so—so—so happy!"
"But why is it to be done this way,—of a sudden? Why didn't he come to me? Will came to me the very first thing."
"He couldn't come all the way to Belton very well;—particularly as he does not know you."
"Will came here."
"Oh, papa, don't make difficulties. Of course that was different. He was here when he first thought of it. And even then he didn't think very much about it."
"He did all that he could, I suppose?"
"Well;—yes. I don't know how that might be." And Clara almost laughed as she felt the difficulties into which she was creeping. "Dear Will. He is much better as a cousin than as a husband."
"I don't see that at all. Captain Aylmer will not have the Belton estate or Plaistow Hall."
"Surely he is well enough off to take care of a wife. He will have the whole of the Perivale estate, you know."
"I don't know anything about it. According to my ideas of what is proper he should have spoken to me first. If he could not come he might have written. No doubt my ideas may be old-fashioned, and I'm told that Captain Aylmer is a fashionable young man."
"Indeed he is not, papa. He is a hard-working member of Parliament."
"I don't know that he is any better for that. People seem to think that if a man is a member of Parliament he may do what he pleases. There is Thompson, the member for Minehead, who has bought some sort of place out by the moors. I never saw so vulgar, pig-headed a fellow in my life. Being in Parliament used to be something when I was young, but it won't make a man a gentleman now-a-days. It seems to me that none but brewers, and tallow-chandlers, and lawyers go into Parliament now. Will Belton could go into Parliament if he pleased, but he knows better than that. He won't make himself such a fool."
This was not comfortable to Clara; but she knew her father, and allowed him to go on with his grumbling. He would come round by degrees, and he would appreciate, if he could not be induced to acknowledge, the wisdom of the step she was about to take.
"When is it to be?" he asked.
"Nothing of that kind has ever been mentioned, papa."
"It had better be soon, if I am to have anything to do with it." Now it was certainly the case that the old man was very ill. He had not been out of the house since Clara had returned home; and, though he was always grumbling about his food, he could hardly be induced to eat anything when the morsels for which he expressed a wish were got for him.
"Of course you will be consulted, papa, before anything is settled."
"I don't want to be in anybody's way, my dear."
"And may I tell Frederic that you have given your consent?"
"What's the use of my consenting or not consenting? If you had been anxious to oblige me you would have taken your cousin Will."
"Oh, papa, how could I accept a man I didn't love?"
"You seemed to me to be very fond of him at first; and I must say, I thought he was ill-treated."
"Papa, papa; do not say such things as that to me!"
"What am I to do? You tell me, and I can't altogether hold my tongue." Then there was a pause. "Well, my dear, as for my consent, of course you may have it,—if it's worth anything. I don't know that I ever heard anything bad about Captain Aylmer."
He had heard nothing bad about Captain Aylmer! Clara, as she left her father, felt that this was very grievous. Whatever cause she might have had for discontent with her lover, she could not but be aware that he was a man whom any father might be proud to welcome as a suitor for his daughter. He was a man as to whom no ill tales had ever been told;—who had never been known to do anything wrong or imprudent; who had always been more than respectable, and as to whose worldly position no exception could be taken. She had been entitled to expect her father's warmest congratulations, and her tidings had been received as though she had proposed to give her hand to one whose character and position only just made it not imperative on the father to withhold his consent! All this was hard, and feeling it to be so, she went up-stairs, all alone, and cried bitterly as she thought of it.
On the next day she went down to the cottage and saw Mrs. Askerton. She went there with the express purpose of telling her friend of her engagement,—desirous of obtaining in that quarter the sympathy which her father declined to give her. Had her communication to him been accepted in a different spirit, she might probably have kept her secret from Mrs. Askerton till something further had been fixed about her marriage; but she was in want of a few kind words, and pined for some of that encouragement which ladies in love usually wish to receive, at any rate from some one chosen friend. But when she found herself alone with Mrs. Askerton she hardly knew how to tell her news; and at first could not tell it at all, as that lady was eager in speaking on another subject.
"When do you expect your cousin?" Mrs. Askerton asked, almost as soon as Clara was seated.
"The day after to-morrow."
"And he is in London now?"
"He may be. I dare say he is. But I don't know anything about it."
"I can tell you then that he is. Colonel Askerton has heard of his being there."
"You seem to speak of it as though there were some offence in it. Is there any reason why he should not be in London if he pleases?"
"None in the least. I would much rather that he should be there than here."
"Why so? Will his coming hurt you?"
"I don't like him. I don't like him at all;—and now you know the truth. You believe in him;—I don't. You think him to be a fine fellow and a gentleman, whereas I don't think him to be either."
"Mrs. Askerton!"
"This is strong language, I know."
"Very strong language."
"Yes, my dear; but the truth is, Clara, that you and I, living together here this sort of hermit's life, each seeing so much of the other and seeing nothing of anybody else, must either be real friends, telling each other what we think, or we must be nothing. We can't go on with the ordinary make-believes of society, saying little civil speeches and not going beyond them. Therefore I have made up my mind to tell you in plain language that I don't like your cousin, and don't believe in him."
"I don't know what you mean by believing in a man."
"I believe in you. Sometimes I have thought that you believe in me, and sometimes I have feared that you do not. I think that you are good, and honest, and true; and therefore I like to see your face and hear your voice,—though it is not often that you say very pleasant things to me."
"Do I say unpleasant things?"
"I am not going to quarrel with you,—not if I can help it. What business has Mr. Belton to go about London making inquiries as to me? What have I done to him, that he should honour me so far?"
"Has he made inquiries?"
"Yes; he has. If you have been contented with me as I am,—if you are satisfied, why should he want to learn more? If you have any question to ask me I will answer it. But what right can he have to be asking questions among strangers?"
Clara had no question to ask, and yet she could not say that she was satisfied. She would have been better satisfied to have known more of Mrs. Askerton, but yet she had never condescended to make inquiries about her friend. But her curiosity was now greatly raised; and, indeed, Mrs. Askerton's manner was so strange, her vehemence so unusual, and her eagerness to rush into dangerous subjects so unlike her usual tranquillity in conversation, that Clara did not know how to answer her.
"I know nothing of any questioning," she said.
"I am sure you don't. Had I thought you did, much as I love you,—valuable as your society is to me down in this desert,—I would never speak to you again. But remember,—if you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me,—of me,—I will answer them, and will not be angry."
"But I don't want to ask any questions."
"You may some day; and then you can remember what I say."
"And am I to understand that you are determined to quarrel with my cousin Will?"
"Quarrel with him! I don't suppose that I shall see him. After what I have said it is not probable that you will bring him here, and the servant will have orders to say that I am not at home if he should call. Luckily he and Colonel Askerton did not meet when he was here before."
"This is the most strange thing I ever heard in my life."
"You will understand it better, my dear, when he makes his communication to you."
"What communication?"
"You'll find that he'll have a communication to make. He has been so diligent and so sharp that he'll have a great deal to tell, I do not doubt. Only, remember, Clara, that if anything that he tells you makes any difference in your feelings towards me, I shall expect you to come to me and say so openly. If he makes his statement, let me make mine. I have a right to ask for that, after what I have promised."
"You may be sure that I will."
"I want nothing more. I have no distrust in you,—none in the least. I tell you that I believe in you. If you will do that, and will keep Mr. William Belton out of my way during his visit to these parts, I shall be satisfied." For some time past Mrs. Askerton had been walking about the room, but, as she now finished speaking, she sat herself down as though the subject was fully discussed and completed. For a minute or two she made an effort to resume her usual tranquillity of manner, and in doing so attempted to smile, as though ridiculing her own energy. "I knew I should make a fool of myself when you came," she said; "and now I have done it."
"I don't think you have been a fool at all, but you may have been mistaken."
"Very well, my dear, we shall see. It's very odd what a dislike I took to that man the first time I saw him."
"And I am so fond of him!"
"Yes; he has cozened you as he has your father. I am only glad that he did not succeed in cozening you further than he did. But I ought to have known you better than to suppose you could give your heart of hearts to one whois—"
"Do not abuse him any more."
"Who is so very unlike the sort of people with whom you have lived. I may, at any rate, say that."
"I don't know that. I haven't lived much with any one yet,—except papa, and my aunt, and you."
"But you know a gentleman when you see him."
"Come, Mrs. Askerton, I will not stand this. I thought you had done with the subject, and now you begin again. I had come here on purpose to tell you something of real importance,—that is, to me; but I must go away without telling you, unless you will give over abusing my cousin."
"I will not say a word more about him,—not at present."
"I feel so sure that you are mistaken, you know."
"Very well;—and I feel sure that you are mistaken. We will leave it so, and go to this matter of importance." But Clara felt it to be very difficult to tell her tidings after such a conversation as that which had just occurred. When she had entered the room her mind had been tuned to the subject, and she could have found fitting words without much difficulty to herself; but now her thoughts had been scattered and her feelings hurt, and she did not know how to bring herself back to the subject of her engagement. She paused, therefore, and sat with a doubtful, hesitating look, meditating some mode of escape. "I am all ears," said Mrs. Askerton; and Clara thought that she discovered something of ridicule or of sarcasm in the tone of her friend's voice.
"I believe I'll put it off till another day," she said.
"Why so? You don't think that anything really important to you will not be important to me also?"
"I'm sure of that, but somehow—"
"You mean to say that I have ruffled you?"
"Well;—perhaps; a little."
"Then be unruffled again, like my own dear, honest Clara. I have been ruffled too, but I'll be as tranquil now as a drawing-room cat." Then Mrs. Askerton got up from her chair, and seated herself by Clara's side on the sofa. "Come; you can't go till you've told me; and if you hesitate, I shall think that you mean to quarrel with me."
"I'll come to you to-morrow."
"No, no; you shall tell me to-day. All to-morrow you'll be preparing for your cousin."
"What nonsense!"
"Or else you'll come prepared to vindicate him, and then we shan't get on any further. Tell me what it is to-day. You can't leave me in curiosity after what you have said."
"You've heard of Captain Aylmer, I think."
"Of course I've heard of him."
"But you've never seen him?"
"You know I never have."
"I told you that he was at Perivale when Mrs. Winterfield died."
"And now he has proposed, and you are going to accept him? That will indeed be important. Is it so?—say. But don't I know it is so? Why don't you speak?"
"If you know it, why need I speak?"
"But it is so? Oh, Clara, I am so glad. I congratulate you with all my heart,—with all my heart. My dearest, dearest Clara! What a happy arrangement! What a success! It is just as it should be. Dear, good man! to come forward in that sensible way, and put an end to all the little family difficulties!"
"I don't know so much about success. Who is it that is successful?"
"You, to be sure."
"Then by the same measurement he must be unsuccessful."
"Don't be a fool, Clara."
"Of course I have been successful if I've got a man that I can love as my husband."
"Now, my dear, don't be a fool. Of course all that is between you and him, and I don't in the least doubt that it is all as it should be. If Captain Aylmer had been the elder brother instead of the younger, and had all the Aylmer estates instead of the Perivale property, I know you would not accept him if you did not like him."
"I hope not."
"I am sure you would not. But when a girl with nothing a year has managed to love a man with two or three thousand a year, and has managed to be loved by him in return,—instead of going through the same process with the curate or village doctor,—it is a success, and her friends will always think so. And when a girl marries a gentleman, and a member of Parliament, instead of—; well, I'm not going to say anything personal,—her friends will congratulate her upon his position. It may be very wicked, and mercenary, and all that; but it's the way of the world."
"I hate hearing about the world."
"Yes, my dear; all proper young ladies like you do hate it. But I observe that such girls as you never offend its prejudices. You can't but know that you would have done a wicked as well as a foolish thing to marry a man without an adequate income."
"But I needn't marry at all."
"And what would you live on then? Come Clara, we needn't quarrel about that. I've no doubt he's charming, and beautiful,and—"
"He isn't beautiful at all; and as for charming—"
"He has charmed you at any rate."
"He has made me believe that I can trust him without doubt, and love him without fear."
"An excellent man! And the income will be an additional comfort; you'll allow that?"
"I'll allow nothing."
"And when is it to be?"
"Oh,—perhaps in six or seven years."
"Clara!"
"Perhaps sooner; but there's been no word said about time."
"Is not Mr. Amedroz delighted?"
"Not a bit. He quite scolded me when I told him."
"Why;—what did he want?"
"You know papa."
"I know he scolds at everything, but I shouldn't have thought he would have scolded at that. And when does he come here?"
"Who come here?"
"Captain Aylmer."
"I don't know that he is coming at all."
"He must come to be married."
"All that is in the clouds as yet. I did not like to tell you, but you mustn't suppose that because I've told you, everything is settled. Nothing is settled."
"Nothing except the one thing?"
"Nothing else."
It was more than an hour after that before Clara went away, and when she did so she was surprised to find that she was followed out of the house by Colonel Askerton. It was quite dusk at this time, the days being just at their shortest, and Colonel Askerton, according to his custom, would have been riding, or returning from his ride. Clara had been over two hours at the cottage, and had been aware when she reached it that he had not as yet gone out. It appeared now that he had not ridden at all, and, as she remembered to have seen his horse led before the window, it at once occurred to her that he had remained at home with the view of catching her as she went away. He came up to her just as she was passing through the gate, and offered her his right hand as he raised his hat with his left. It sometimes happens to all of us in life that we become acquainted with persons intimately,—that is, with an assumed intimacy,—whom in truth we do not know at all. We meet such persons frequently, often eating and drinking in their company, being familiar with their appearance, and well-informed generally as to their concerns; but we never find ourselves holding special conversations with them, or in any way fitting the modes of our life to the modes of their life. Accident has brought us together, and in one sense they are our friends. We should probably do any little kindness for them, or expect the same from them; but there is nothing in common between us, and there is generally a mutual though unexpressed agreement that there shall be nothing in common. Miss Amedroz was intimately acquainted with Colonel Askerton after this fashion. She saw him very frequently, and his name was often on her tongue; but she rarely, if ever, conversed with him, and knew of his habits only from his wife's words respecting them. When, therefore, he followed her through the garden gate into the park, she was driven to suppose that he had something special to say to her.
"I'm afraid you'll have a dark walk, Miss Amedroz," he said.
"It's only just across the park, and I know the way so well."
"Yes,—of course. I saw you coming out, and as I want to say a word or two, I have ventured to follow you. When Mr. Belton was down here I did not have the pleasure of meeting him."
"I remember that you missed each other."
"Yes, we did. I understand from my wife that he will be here again in a day or two."
"He will be with us the day after to-morrow."
"I hope you will excuse my saying that it will be very desirable that we should miss each other again." Clara felt that her face became red with anger as she listened to Colonel Askerton's words. He spoke slowly, as was his custom, and without any of that violence of expression which his wife had used; but on that very account there was more, if possible, of meaning in his words than in hers. William Belton was her cousin, and such a speech as that which Colonel Askerton had made, spoken with deliberation and unaccompanied by any previous explanation, seemed to her almost to amount to insult. But as she did not know how to answer him at the spur of the moment, she remained silent. Then he continued, "You may be sure, Miss Amedroz, that I should not make so strange a request to you if I had not good reason for making it."
"I think it a very strange request."
"And nothing but a strong conviction of its propriety on my part would have induced me to make it."
"If you do not want to see my cousin, why cannot you avoid him without saying anything to me on the subject?"
"Because you would not then have understood as thoroughly as I wish you to do why I kept out of his way. For my wife's sake,—and for yours, if you will allow me to say so,—I do not wish to come to any open quarrel with him; but if we met, a quarrel would, I think, be inevitable. Mary has probably explained to you the nature of his offence against us?"
"Mrs. Askerton has told me something as to which I am quite sure that she is mistaken."
"I will say nothing about that, as I have no wish at all to set you against your cousin. I will bid you good-night now as you are close at home." Then he turned round and left her.
Clara, as she thought of all this, could not but call to mind her cousin's remembrances about Miss Vigo and Mr. Berdmore. What if he made some inquiry as to the correctness of his old recollections? Nothing, she thought, could be more natural. And then she reflected that, in the ordinary way of the world, persons feel none of that violent objection to the asking of questions about their antecedents which was now evinced by both Colonel and Mrs. Askerton. But of one thing she felt quite assured,—that her cousin, Will Belton, would make no inquiry which he ought not to make; and would make no improper use of any information which he might obtain.
Clara began to doubt whether any possible arrangement of the circumstances of her life could be regarded as fortunate. She was very fond, in a different degree and after a different fashion, of both Captain Aylmer and Mr. Belton. As regarded both, her position was now exactly what she herself would have wished. The man that she loved was betrothed to her, and the other man, whom she loved indeed also as a brother, was coming to her in that guise,—with the understanding that that was to be his position. And yet everything was going wrong! Her father, though he did not actually say anything against Captain Aylmer, showed by a hundred little signs, of which he was a skilful master, that the Aylmer alliance was distasteful to him, and that he thought himself to be aggrieved in that his daughter would not marry her cousin; whereas, over at the cottage, there was a still more bitter feeling against Mr. Belton—a feeling so bitter, that it almost induced Clara to wish that her cousin was not coming to them.
But the cousin did come, and was driven up to the door in the gig from Taunton, just as had been the case on his previous visit. Then, however, he had come in the full daylight, and the hay-carts had been about, and all the prettiness and warmth of summer had been there; now it was mid-winter, and there had been some slight beginnings of snow, and the wind was moaning about the old tower, and the outside of the house looked very unpleasant from the hall-door. As it had become dusk in the afternoon, the old squire had been very careful in his orders as to preparations for Will's comfort,—as though Clara would have forgotten all those things in the preoccupation of her mind, caused by the constancy of her thoughts towards Will's rival. He even went so far as to creep across the up-stairs landing-place to see that the fire was lighted in Will's room, this being the first time that he had left his chamber for many days,—and had given special orders as to the food which was to be prepared for Will's dinner,—in a very different spirit from that which had dictated some former orders when Will was about to make his first visit, and when his coming had been regarded by the old man as a heartless, indelicate, and almost hostile proceeding.
"I wish I could go down to receive him," said Mr. Amedroz, plaintively. "I hope he won't take it amiss."
"You may be sure he won't do that."
"Perhaps I can to-morrow."
"Dear papa, you had better not think of it till the weather is milder."
"Milder! how is it to get milder at this time of the year?"
"Of course he'll come up to you, papa."
"He's very good. I know he's very good. No one else would do as much."
Clara understood accurately what all this meant. Of course she was glad that her father should feel so kindly towards her cousin, and think so much of his coming; but every word said by the old man in praise of Will Belton implied an equal amount of dispraise as regarded Captain Aylmer, and contained a reproach against his daughter for having refused the former and accepted the latter.
Clara was in the hall when Belton arrived, and received him as he entered, enveloped in his damp great-coats. "It is so good of you to come in such weather," she said.
"Nice seasonable weather, I call it," he said. It was the same comfortable, hearty, satisfactory voice which had done so much towards making his way for him on his first arrival at Belton Castle. The voices to which Clara was most accustomed were querulous,—as though the world had been found by the owners of them to be but a bad place. But Belton's voice seemed to speak of cheery days and happy friends, and a general state of things which made life worth having. Nevertheless, forty-eight hours had not yet passed over his head since he was walking about London in such misery that he had almost cursed the hour in which he was born. His misery still remained with him, as black now as it had been then; and yet his voice was cheery. The sick birds, we are told, creep into holes, that they may die alone and unnoticed; and the wounded beasts hide themselves that their grief may not be seen of their fellows. A man has the same instinct to conceal the weakness of his sufferings; but, if he be a man, he hides it in his own heart, keeping it for solitude and the watches of the night, while to the outer world he carries a face on which his care has made no marks.
"You will be sorry to hear that papa is too ill to come down-stairs."
"Is he, indeed? I am truly sorry. I had heard he was ill; but did not know he was so ill as that."
"Perhaps he fancies himself weaker than he is."
"We must try and cure him of that. I can see him, I hope?"
"Oh dear, yes. He is most anxious for you to go to him. As soon as ever you can come up-stairs I will take you." He had already stripped himself of his wrappings, and declaring himself ready, at once followed Clara to the squire's room.
"I'm sorry, sir, to find you in this way," he said.
"I'm very poorly, Will;—very," said the squire, putting out his hand as though he were barely able to lift it above his knee. Now it certainly was the fact that half an hour before he had been walking across the passage.
"We must see if we can't soon make you better among us," said Will.
The squire shook his head with a slow, melancholy movement, not raising his eyes from the ground. "I don't think you'll ever see me much better, Will," he said. And yet half an hour since he had been talking of being down in the dining-room on the next day. "I shan't trouble you much longer," said the squire. "You'll soon have it all without paying rent for it."
This was very unpleasant, and almost frustrated Belton's attempts to be cheery. But he persevered nevertheless. "It'll be a long time yet before that day comes, sir."
"Ah; that's easily said. But never mind. Why should I want to remain when I shall have once seen her properly settled. I've nothing to live for except that she may have a home."
On this subject it was quite impossible that Belton should say anything. Clara was standing by him, and she, as he knew, was engaged to Captain Aylmer. So circumstanced, what could he say as to Clara's settlement in life? That something should be said between him and the old man, and something also between him and Clara, was a matter of course; but it was quite out of the question that he should discuss Clara's prospects in life in presence of them both together.
"Papa's illness makes him a little melancholy," said Clara.
"Of course,—of course. It always does," said Will.
"I think he will be better when the weather becomes milder," said Clara.
"I suppose I may be allowed to know how I feel myself," said the squire. "But don't keep Will up here when he wants his dinner. There; that'll do. You'd better leave me now." Then Will went out to his old room, and a quarter of an hour afterwards he found himself seated with Clara at the dinner-table; and a quarter of an hour after that the dinner was over, and they had both drawn their chairs to the fire.
Neither of them knew how to begin with the other. Clara was under no obligation to declare her engagement to her cousin, but yet she felt that it would be unhandsome in her not to do so. Had Will never made the mistake of wanting to marry her himself, she would have done so as a matter of course. Had she supposed him to cherish any intention of renewing that mistake she would have felt herself bound to tell him,—so that he might save himself from unnecessary pain. But she gave him credit for no such intention, and yet she could not but remember that scene among the rocks. And then was she, or was she not, to say anything to him about the Askertons? With him also the difficulty was as great. He did not in truth believe that the tidings which he had heard from his friend the lawyer required corroboration; but yet it was necessary that he should know from herself that she had disposed of her hand;—and it was necessary also that he should say some word to her as to their future standing and friendship.
"You must be very anxious to see how your farm goes on," said she.
He had not thought much of his agricultural venture at Belton for the last three or four days, and would hardly have been vexed had he been told that every head of cattle about the place had died of the murrain. Some general idea of the expediency of going on with a thing which he had commenced still actuated him; but it was the principle involved, and not the speculation itself, which interested him. But he could not explain all this, and he therefore was driven to some cold agreement with her. "The farm!—you mean the stock. Yes; I shall go and have a look at them early to-morrow. I suppose they're all alive."
"Pudge says that they are doing uncommonly well." Pudge was a leading man among the Belton labourers, whom Will had hired to look after his concerns.
"That's all right. I dare say Pudge knows quite as much about it as I do."
"But the master's eye is everything."
"Pudge's eye is quite as good as mine; and probably much better, as he knows the country."
"You used to say that it was everything for a man to look after his own interests."
"And I do look after them. Pudge and I will go and have a look at every beast to-morrow, and I shall look very wise and pretend to know more about it than he does. In stock-farming the chief thing is not to have too many beasts. They used to say that half-stocking was whole profit, and whole-stocking was half profit. If the animals have plenty to eat, and the rent isn't too high, they'll take care of their owner."
"But then there is so much illness."
"I always insure."
Clara perceived that the subject of the cattle didn't suit the present occasion. When he had before been at Belton he had liked nothing so much as talking about the cattle-sheds, and the land, and the kind of animals which would suit the place; but now the novelty of the thing was gone,—and the farmer did not wish to talk of his farm. In her anxiety to find a topic which would not be painful, she went from the cattle to the cow. "You can't think what a pet Bessy has been with us. And she seems to think that she is privileged to go everywhere, and do anything."
"I hope they have taken care that she has had winter food."
"Winter food! Why Pudge, and all the Pudges, and all the family in the house, and all your cattle would have to want, before Bessy would be allowed to miss a meal. Pudge always says, with his sententious shake of the head, that the young squire was very particular about Bessy."
"Those Alderneys want a little care,—that's all."
Bessy was of no better service to Clara in her present difficulty than the less aristocratic herd of common cattle. There was a pause for a moment, and then she began again. "How did you leave your sister, Will?"
"Much the same as usual. I think she has borne the first of the cold weather better than she did last year."
"I do so wish that I knew her."
"Perhaps you will some day. But I don't suppose that you ever will."
"Why not?"
"It's not likely that you'll ever come to Plaistow now;—and Mary never leaves it except to go to my uncle's."
Clara instantly knew that he had heard of her engagement, though she could not imagine from what source he had heard it. There was something in the tone of his voice,—something especially in the expression of that word "now," which told her that it must be so. "I should be so glad to go there if I could," she said, with that special hypocrisy which belongs to women, and is allowed to them; "but, of course, I cannot leave papa in his present state."
"And if you did leave him you would not go to Plaistow."
"Not unless you and Mary asked me."
"And you wouldn't if we did. How could you?"
"What do you mean, Will? It seems as though you were almost savage to me."
"Am I? Well;—I feel savage, but not to you."
"Nor to any one, I hope, belonging to me." She knew that it was all coming; that the whole subject of her future life must now be discussed; and she began to fear that the discussion might not be easy. But she did not know how to give it a direction. She feared that he would become angry, and yet she knew not why. He had accepted his own rejection tranquilly, and could hardly take it as an offence that she should now be engaged to Captain Aylmer.
"Mr. Green has told me," said he, "that you are going to be married."
"How could Mr. Green have known?"
"He did know;—at least I suppose he knew, for he told me."
"How very odd."
"I suppose it is true?" Clara did not make any immediate answer, and then he repeated the question. "I suppose it is true?"
"It is true that I am engaged."
"To Captain Aylmer?"
"Yes; to Captain Aylmer. You know that I had known him very long. I hope that you are not angry with me because I did not write and tell you. Strange as it may seem, seeing that you had heard it already, it is not a week yet since it was settled; and had I written to you, I could only have addressed my letter to you here."
"I wasn't thinking about that. I didn't specially want you to write to me. What difference would it make?"
"But I should have felt that I owed it to your kindness and your—regard for me."
"My regard! What's the use of regard?"
"You are not going to quarrel with me, Will, because—because—because—.If you had really been my brother, as you once said you would be, you could not but have approved of what I have done."
"But I am not your brother."
"Oh, Will; that sounds so cruel!"
"I am not your brother, and I have no right to approve or disapprove."
"I will not say that I could make my engagement with Captain Aylmer dependent on your approval. It would not be fair to him to do so, and it would put me into a false position."
"Have I asked you to make any such absurd sacrifice?"
"Listen to me, Will. I say that I could not do that. But, short of that, there is nothing I would not do to satisfy you. I think so much of your judgment and goodness, and so very much of your affection; I love you so dearly,that—.Oh, Will, say a kind word to me!"
"A kind word; yes, but what sort of kindness?"
"You must know that Captain Aylmer—"
"Don't talk to me of Captain Aylmer. Have I said anything against him? Have I ventured to make any objection? Of course, I know his superiority to myself. I know that he is a man of the world, and that I am not; that he is educated, and that I am ignorant; that he has a position, and that I have none; that he has much to offer, and that I have nothing. Of course, I see the difference; but that does not make me comfortable."
"Will, I had learned to love him before I had ever seen you."
"Why didn't you tell me so, that I might have known there was no hope, and have gone away utterly,—out of the kingdom? If it was all settled then, why didn't you tell me, and save me from breaking my heart with false hopes?"
"Nothing was settled then. I hardly knew my own mind; but yet I loved him. There; cannot you understand it? Have I not told you enough?"
"Yes, I understand it."
"And do you blame me?"
He paused awhile before he answered her. "No; I do not blame you. I suppose I must blame no one but myself. But you should bear with me. I was so happy, and now I am so wretched."
There was nothing that she could say to comfort him. She had altogether mistaken the nature of the man's regard, and had even mistaken the very nature of the man. So much she now learned, and could tell herself that had she known him better she would either have prevented this second visit, or would have been careful that he should have learned the truth from herself before he came. Now she could only wait till he should again have got strength to hide his suffering under the veil of his own manliness.
"I have not a word to say against what you are doing," he said at last; "not a word. But you will understand what I mean when I tell you that it is not likely that you will come to Plaistow."
"Some day, Will, when you have a wife of yourown—"
"Very well; but we won't talk about that at present, if you please. When I have, things will be different. In the meantime your course and mine will be separate. You, I suppose, will be with him in London, while I shall be,—at the devil as likely as not."
"How can you speak to me in that way? Is that like being my brother?"
"I don't feel like being your brother. However, I beg your pardon, and now we will have done with it. Spilt milk can't be helped, and my milk pans have got themselves knocked over. That's all. Don't you think we ought to go up to your father again?"
On the following day Belton and Mr. Amedroz discussed the same subject, but the conversation went off very quietly. Will was determined not to exhibit his weakness before the father as he had done before the daughter. When the squire, with a maundering voice, drawled out some expression of regret that his daughter's choice had not fallen in another place, Will was able to say that bygones must be bygones. He regretted it also, but that was now over. And when the squire endeavoured to say a few ill-natured words about Captain Aylmer, Will stopped him at once by asserting that the Captain was all that he ought to be.
"And it would have made me so happy to think that my daughter's child should come to live in his grandfather's old house," murmured Mr. Amedroz.
"And there's no knowing that he mayn't do so yet," said Will. "But all these things are so doubtful that a man is wrong to fix his happiness upon them." After that he went out to ramble about the place, and before the third day was over Clara was able to perceive that, in spite of what he had said, he was as busy about the cattle as though his bread depended on them.
Nothing had been said as yet about the Askertons, and Clara had resolved that their name should not first be mentioned by her. Mrs. Askerton had prophesied that Will would have some communication to make about herself, and Clara would at any rate see whether her cousin would, of his own accord, introduce the subject. But three days passed by, and he had made no allusion to the cottage or its inhabitants. This in itself was singular, as the Askertons were the only local friends whom Clara knew, and as Belton had become personally acquainted with Mrs. Askerton. But such was the case; and when Mr. Amedroz once said something about Mrs. Askerton in the presence of both Clara and Belton, they both of them shrank from the subject in a manner that made Clara understand that any conversation about the Askertons was to be avoided. On the fourth day Clara saw Mrs. Askerton, but then Will Belton's name was not mentioned. There was therefore, among them all, a sense of some mystery which made them uncomfortable, and which seemed to admit of no solution. Clara was more sure than ever that her cousin had made no inquiries that he should not have made, and that he would put no information that he might have to an improper use. But of such certainty on her part she could say nothing.
Three weeks passed by, and it seemed as though Belton's visit were to come to an end without any further open trouble. Now and then something was said about Captain Aylmer; but it was very little, and Belton made no further reference to his own feelings. It had come to be understood that his visit was to be limited to a month; and to both him and Clara the month wore itself away slowly, neither of them having much pleasure in the society of the other. The old squire came down-stairs once for an hour or two, and spent the whole time in bitter complaints. Everything was wrong, and everybody was ill-treating him. Even with Will he quarrelled, or did his best to quarrel, in regard to everything about the place, though at the same time he did not cease to grumble at his visitor for going away and leaving him. Belton bore it all so well that the grumbling and quarrelling did not lead to much; but it required all his good-humour and broad common sense to prevent serious troubles and misunderstanding.
During the period of her cousin's visit at Belton, Clara received two letters from Captain Aylmer, who was spending the Christmas holidays with his father and mother, and on the day previous to that of her cousin's departure there came a third. In neither of these letters was there much said about Sir Anthony, but they were all very full of Lady Aylmer. In the first he wrote with something of the personal enthusiasm of a lover, and therefore Clara hardly felt the little drawbacks to her happiness which were contained in certain innuendoes respecting Lady Aylmer's ideas, and Lady Aylmer's hopes, and Lady Aylmer's fears. Clara was not going to marry Lady Aylmer, and did not fear but that she could hold her own against any mother-in-law in the world when once they should be brought face to face. And as long as Captain Aylmer seemed to take her part rather than that of his mother it was all very well. The second letter was more trying to her temper, as it contained one or two small morsels of advice as to conduct which had evidently originated with her ladyship. Now there is nothing, I take it, so irritating to an engaged young lady as counsel from her intended husband's mamma. An engaged young lady, if she be really in love, will take almost anything from her lover as long as she is sure that it comes altogether from himself. He may take what liberties he pleases with her dress. He may prescribe high church or low church,—if he be not, as is generally the case, in a condition to accept, rather than to give, prescriptions on that subject. He may order almost any course of reading,—providing that he supply the books. And he may even interfere with the style of dancing, and recommend or prohibit partners. But he may not thrust his mother down his future wife's throat. In answer to the second letter, Clara did not say much to show her sense of objection. Indeed she said nothing. But in saying nothing she showed her objection, and Captain Aylmer understood it. Then came the third letter, and as it contained matter touching upon our story, it shall be given entire,—and I hope it may be taken by gentlemen about to marry as a fair specimen of the sort of letter they ought not to write to the girls of theirhearts:—
Aylmer Castle, 19th January, 186—.Dearest Clara,—I got your letter of the 16th yesterday, and was sorry you said nothing in reference to my mother's ideas as to the house at Perivale. Of course she knew that I heard from you, and was disappointed when I was obliged to tell her that you had not alluded to the subject. She is very anxious about you, and, having now given her assent to our marriage, is of course desirous of knowing that her kindly feeling is reciprocated. I assured her that my own Clara was the last person to be remiss in such a matter, and reminded her that young ladies are seldom very careful in their mode of answering letters. Remember, therefore, that I am now your guarantee, and send some message to relieve me from my liability.When I told her of your father's long illness, which she laments greatly, and of your cousin's continued presence at Belton Castle, she seemed to think that Mr. Belton's visit should not be prolonged. When I told her that he was your nearest relative, she remarked that cousins are the same as any other people,—which indeed they are. I know that my Clara will not suppose that I mean more by this than the words convey. Indeed I mean less. But not having the advantage of a mother of your own, you will not be sorry to know what are my mother's opinions on matters which so nearly concern you.And now I come to another subject, as to which what I shall say will surprise you very much. You know, I think, that my aunt Winterfield and I had some conversation about your neighbours, the Askertons; and you will remember that my aunt, whose ideas on such matters were always correct, was a little afraid that your father had not made sufficient inquiry respecting them before he allowed them to settle near him as tenants. It now turns out that she is,—very far, indeed, from what she ought to be. My mother at first thought of writing to you about this; but she is a little fatigued, and at last resolved that under all the circumstances it might be as well that I should tell you. It seems that Mrs. Askerton was married before to a certain Captain Berdmore, and that she left her first husband during his lifetime under the protection of Colonel Askerton. I believe they, the Colonel and Mrs. Askerton, have been since married. Captain Berdmore died about four years ago in India, and it is probable that such a marriage has taken place. But under these circumstances, as Lady Aylmer says, you will at once perceive that all acquaintance between you and the lady should be brought to an end. Indeed, your own sense of what is becoming to you, either as an unmarried girl or as my future wife, or indeed as a woman at all, will at once make you feel that this must be so. I think, if I were you, I would tell the whole to Mr. Amedroz; but this I will leave to your own discretion. I can assure you that Lady Aylmer has full proof as to the truth of what I tell you.I go up to London in February. I suppose I may hardly hope to see you before the recess in July or August; but I trust that before that we shall have fixed the day when you will make me the happiest of men.Yours, with truest affection,F. F. Aylmer.
Aylmer Castle, 19th January, 186—.
Dearest Clara,—I got your letter of the 16th yesterday, and was sorry you said nothing in reference to my mother's ideas as to the house at Perivale. Of course she knew that I heard from you, and was disappointed when I was obliged to tell her that you had not alluded to the subject. She is very anxious about you, and, having now given her assent to our marriage, is of course desirous of knowing that her kindly feeling is reciprocated. I assured her that my own Clara was the last person to be remiss in such a matter, and reminded her that young ladies are seldom very careful in their mode of answering letters. Remember, therefore, that I am now your guarantee, and send some message to relieve me from my liability.
When I told her of your father's long illness, which she laments greatly, and of your cousin's continued presence at Belton Castle, she seemed to think that Mr. Belton's visit should not be prolonged. When I told her that he was your nearest relative, she remarked that cousins are the same as any other people,—which indeed they are. I know that my Clara will not suppose that I mean more by this than the words convey. Indeed I mean less. But not having the advantage of a mother of your own, you will not be sorry to know what are my mother's opinions on matters which so nearly concern you.
And now I come to another subject, as to which what I shall say will surprise you very much. You know, I think, that my aunt Winterfield and I had some conversation about your neighbours, the Askertons; and you will remember that my aunt, whose ideas on such matters were always correct, was a little afraid that your father had not made sufficient inquiry respecting them before he allowed them to settle near him as tenants. It now turns out that she is,—very far, indeed, from what she ought to be. My mother at first thought of writing to you about this; but she is a little fatigued, and at last resolved that under all the circumstances it might be as well that I should tell you. It seems that Mrs. Askerton was married before to a certain Captain Berdmore, and that she left her first husband during his lifetime under the protection of Colonel Askerton. I believe they, the Colonel and Mrs. Askerton, have been since married. Captain Berdmore died about four years ago in India, and it is probable that such a marriage has taken place. But under these circumstances, as Lady Aylmer says, you will at once perceive that all acquaintance between you and the lady should be brought to an end. Indeed, your own sense of what is becoming to you, either as an unmarried girl or as my future wife, or indeed as a woman at all, will at once make you feel that this must be so. I think, if I were you, I would tell the whole to Mr. Amedroz; but this I will leave to your own discretion. I can assure you that Lady Aylmer has full proof as to the truth of what I tell you.
I go up to London in February. I suppose I may hardly hope to see you before the recess in July or August; but I trust that before that we shall have fixed the day when you will make me the happiest of men.
Yours, with truest affection,
F. F. Aylmer.
It was a disagreeable, nasty letter from the first line to the last. There was not a word in it which did not grate against Clara's feelings,—not a thought expressed which did not give rise to fears as to her future happiness. But the information which it contained about the Askertons,—"the communication," as Mrs. Askerton herself would have called it,—made her for the moment almost forget Lady Aylmer and her insolence. Could this story be true? And if true, how far would it be imperative on her to take the hint, or rather obey the order which had been given her? What steps should she take to learn the truth? Then she remembered Mrs. Askerton's promise—"If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will answer them." The communication, as to which Mrs. Askerton had prophesied, had now been made;—but it had been made, not by Will Belton, whom Mrs. Askerton had reviled, but by Captain Aylmer, whose praises Mrs. Askerton had so loudly sung. As Clara thought of this, she could not analyse her own feelings, which were not devoid of a certain triumph. She had known that Belton would not put on his armour to attack a woman. Captain Aylmer had done so, and she was hardly surprised at his doing it. Yet Captain Aylmer was the man she loved! Captain Aylmer was the man she had promised to marry. But, in truth, she hardly knew which was the man she loved!
This letter came on a Sunday morning, and on that day she and Belton went to church together. On the following morning early he was to start for Taunton. At church they saw Mrs. Askerton, whose attendance there was not very frequent. It seemed, indeed, as though she had come with the express purpose of seeing Belton once during his visit. As they left the church she bowed to him, and that was all they saw of each other throughout the month that he remained in Somersetshire.
"Come to me to-morrow, Clara," Mrs. Askerton said as they all passed through the village together. Clara muttered some reply, having not as yet made up her mind as to what her conduct must be. Early on the next morning Will Belton went away, and again Clara got up to give him his breakfast. On this occasion he had no thought of kissing her. He went away without having had a word said to him about Mrs. Askerton, and then Clara settled herself down to the work of deliberation. What should she do with reference to the communication that had been made to her by Captain Aylmer?
Aylmer Park and the great house of the Aylmers together formed an important, and, as regarded in some minds, an imposing country residence. The park was large, including some three or four hundred acres, and was peopled, rather thinly, by aristocratic deer. It was surrounded by an aristocratic paling, and was entered, at three different points, by aristocratic lodges. The sheep were more numerous than the deer, because Sir Anthony, though he had a large income, was not in very easy circumstances. The ground was quite flat; and though there were thin belts of trees, and some ornamental timber here and there, it was not well wooded. It had no special beauty of its own, and depended for its imposing qualities chiefly on its size, on its three sets of double lodges, and on its old-established character as an important family place in the county. The house was of stone, with a portico of Ionic columns which looked as though it hardly belonged of right to the edifice, and stretched itself out grandly, with two pretentious wings, which certainly gave it a just claim to be called a mansion. It required a great many servants to keep it in order, and the numerous servants required an experienced duenna, almost as grand in appearance as Lady Aylmer herself, to keep them in order. There was an open carriage and a close carriage, and a butler, and two footmen, and three gamekeepers, and four gardeners, and there was a coachman, and there were grooms, and sundry inferior men and boys about the place to do the work which the gardeners and gamekeepers and grooms did not choose to do themselves. And they all became fat, and lazy, and stupid, and respectable together; so that, as the reader will at once perceive, Aylmer Park was kept up in the proper English style. Sir Anthony very often discussed with his steward the propriety of lessening the expenditure of his residence, and Lady Aylmer always attended and probably directed these discussions; but it was found that nothing could be done. Any attempt to remove a gamekeeper or a gardener would evidently throw the whole machinery of Aylmer Park out of gear. If retrenchment was necessary Aylmer Park must be abandoned, and the glory of the Aylmers must be allowed to pale. But things were not so bad as that with Sir Anthony. The gardeners, grooms, and gamekeepers were maintained; ten domestic servants sat down to four heavy meals in the servants' hall every day, and Lady Aylmer contented herself with receiving little or no company, and with stingy breakfasts and bad dinners for herself and her husband and daughter. By all this it must be seen that she did her duty as the wife of an English country gentleman, and properly maintained his rank as a baronet.
He was a heavy man, over seventy years of age, much afflicted with gout, and given to no pursuit on earth which was available for his comfort. He had been a hunting man, and he had shot also; but not with that energy which induces a sportsman to carry on those amusements in opposition to the impediments of age. He had been, and still was, a county magistrate; but he had never been very successful in the justice-room, and now seldom troubled the county with his judicial incompetence. He had been fond of good dinners and good wine, and still, on occasions, would make attempts at enjoyment in that line; but the gout and Lady Aylmer together were too many for him, and he had but small opportunity for filling up the blanks of his existence out of the kitchen or cellar. He was a big man, with a broad chest, and a red face, and a quantity of white hair,—and was much given to abusing his servants. He took some pleasure in standing, with two sticks on the top of the steps before his own front door, and railing at any one who came in his way. But he could not do this when Lady Aylmer was by; and his dependents, knowing his habits, had fallen into an ill-natured way of deserting the side of the house which he frequented. With his eldest son, Anthony Aylmer, he was not on very good terms; and though there was no positive quarrel, the heir did not often come to Aylmer Park. Of his son Frederic he was proud,—and the best days of his life were probably those which Captain Aylmer spent at the house. The table was then somewhat more generously spread, and this was an excuse for having up the special port in which he delighted. Altogether his life was not very attractive; and though he had been born to a baronetcy, and eight thousand a-year, and the possession of Aylmer Park, I do not think that he was, or had been, a happy man.
Lady Aylmer was more fortunate. She had occupations of which her husband knew nothing, and for which he was altogether unfit. Though she could not succeed in making retrenchments, she could and did succeed in keeping the household books. Sir Anthony could only blow up the servants when they were thoughtless enough to come in his way, and in doing that was restricted by his wife's presence. But Lady Aylmer could get at them day and night. She had no gout to impede her progress about the house and grounds, and could make her way to places which the master never saw; and then she wrote many letters daily, whereas Sir Anthony hardly ever took a pen in his hand. And she knew the cottages of all the poor about the place, and knew also all their sins of omission and commission. She was driven out, too, every day, summer and winter, wet and dry, and consumed enormous packets of wool and worsted, which were sent to her monthly from York. And she had a companion in her daughter, whereas Sir Anthony had no companion. Wherever Lady Aylmer went Miss Aylmer went with her, and relieved what might otherwise have been the tedium of her life. She had been a beauty on a large scale, and was still aware that she had much in her personal appearance which justified pride. She carried herself uprightly, with a commanding nose and broad forehead; and though the graces of her own hair had given way to a front, there was something even in the front which added to her dignity, if it did not make her a handsome woman.