Miss Aylmer, who was the eldest of the younger generation, and who was now gently descending from her fortieth year, lacked the strength of her mother's character, but admired her mother's ways, and followed Lady Aylmer in all things,—at a distance. She was very good,—as indeed was Lady Aylmer,—entertaining a high idea of duty, and aware that her own life admitted of but little self-indulgence. She had no pleasures, she incurred no expenses; and was quite alive to the fact that as Aylmer Park required a regiment of lazy, gormandizing servants to maintain its position in the county, the Aylmers themselves should not be lazy, and should not gormandize. No one was more careful with her few shillings than Miss Aylmer. She had, indeed, abandoned a life's correspondence with an old friend because she would not pay the postage on letters to Italy. She knew that it was for the honour of the family that one of her brothers should sit in Parliament, and was quite willing to deny herself a new dress because sacrifices must be made to lessen electioneering expenses. She knew that it was her lot to be driven about slowly in a carriage with a livery servant before her and another behind her, and then eat a dinner which the cook-maid would despise. She was aware that it was her duty to be snubbed by her mother, and to encounter her father's ill-temper, and to submit to her brother's indifference, and to have, so to say, the slightest possible modicum of personal individuality. She knew that she had never attracted a man's love, and might hardly hope to make friends for the comfort of her coming age. But still she was contented, and felt that she had consolation for it all in the fact that she was an Aylmer. She read many novels, and it cannot but be supposed that something of regret would steal over her as she remembered that nothing of the romance of life had ever, or could ever, come in her way. She wept over the loves of many women, though she had never been happy or unhappy in her own. She read of gaiety, though she never encountered it, and must have known that the world elsewhere was less dull than it was at Aylmer Park. But she took her life as it came, without a complaint, and prayed that God would make her humble in the high position to which it had pleased Him to call her. She hated Radicals, and thought that Essays and Reviews, and Bishop Colenso, came direct from the Evil One. She taught the little children in the parish, being specially urgent to them always to curtsey when they saw any of the family;—and was as ignorant, meek, and stupid a poor woman as you shall find anywhere in Europe.
It may be imagined that Captain Aylmer, who knew the comforts of his club and was accustomed to life in London, would feel the dulness of the paternal roof to be almost unendurable. In truth, he was not very fond of Aylmer Park, but he was more gifted with patience than most men of his age and position, and was aware that it behoved him to keep the Fifth Commandment if he expected to have his own days prolonged in the land. He therefore made his visits periodically, and contented himself with clipping a few days at both ends from the length prescribed by family tradition, which his mother was desirous of exacting. September was always to be passed at Aylmer Park, because of the shooting. In September, indeed, the eldest son himself was wont to be there,—probably with a friend or two,—and the fat old servants bestirred themselves, and there was something of life about the place. At Christmas, Captain Aylmer was there as the only visitor, and Christmas was supposed to extend from the middle of December to the opening of Parliament. It must, however, be explained, that on the present occasion his visit had been a matter of treaty and compromise. He had not gone to Aylmer Park at all till his mother had in some sort assented to his marriage with Clara Amedroz. To this Lady Aylmer had been very averse, and there had been many serious letters. Belinda Aylmer, the daughter of the house, had had a bad time in pleading her brother's cause,—and some very harsh words had been uttered;—but ultimately the matter had been arranged, and, as is usual in such contests, the mother had yielded to the son. Captain Aylmer had therefore gone down a few days before Christmas, with a righteous feeling that he owed much to his mother for her condescension, and almost prepared to make himself very disagreeable to Clara by way of atoning to his family for his folly in desiring to marry her.
Lady Aylmer was very plain-spoken on the subject of all Clara's shortcomings,—very plain-spoken, and very inquisitive. "She will never have one shilling, I suppose?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am." Captain Aylmer always called his mother ma'am. "She will have that fifteen hundred pounds that I told you of."
"That is to say, you will have back the money which you yourself have given her, Fred. I suppose that is the English of it?" Then Lady Aylmer raised her eyebrows and looked very wise.
"Just so, ma'am."
"You can't call that having anything of her own. In point of fact she is penniless."
"It is no good harping on that," said Captain Aylmer, somewhat sharply.
"Not in the least, my dear; no good at all. Of course you have looked it all in the face. You will be a poor man instead of a rich man, but you will have enough to live on,—that is if she doesn't have a large family;—which of course she will."
"I shall do very well, ma'am."
"You might do pretty well, I dare say, if you could live privately,—at Perivale, keeping up the old family house there, and having no expenses; but you'll find even that close enough with your seat in Parliament, and the necessity there is that you should be half the year in London. Of course she won't go to London. She can't expect it. All that had better be made quite clear at once." Hence had come the letter about the house at Perivale, containing Lady Aylmer's advice on that subject, as to which Clara made no reply.
Lady Aylmer, though she had given in her assent, was still not altogether without hope. It might be possible that the two young people could be brought to see the folly and error of their ways before it would be too late; and that Lady Aylmer, by a judicious course of constant advice, might be instrumental in opening the eyes, if not of the lady, at any rate of the gentleman. She had great reliance on her own powers, and knew well that a falling drop will hollow a stone. Her son manifested no hot eagerness to complete his folly in a hurry, and to cut the throat of his prospects out of hand. Time, therefore, would be allowed to her, and she was a woman who could use time with patience. Having, through her son, despatched her advice about the house at Perivale,—which simply amounted to this, that Clara should expressly state her willingness to live there alone whenever it might suit her husband to be in London or elsewhere,—she went to work on other points connected with the Amedroz family, and eventually succeeded in learning something very much like the truth as to poor Mrs. Askerton and her troubles. At first she was so comfortably horror-stricken by the iniquity she had unravelled,—so delightfully shocked and astounded,—as to believe that the facts as they then stood would suffice to annul the match.
"You don't tell me," she said to Belinda, "that Frederic's wife will have been the friend of such a woman as that!" And Lady Aylmer, sitting up-stairs with her household books before her, put up her great fat hands and her great fat arms, and shook her head,—front and all,—in most satisfactory dismay.
"But I suppose Clara did not know it." Belinda had considered it to be an act of charity to call Miss Amedroz Clara since the family consent had been given.
"Didn't know it! They have been living in that sort of way that they must have been confidantes in everything. Besides, I always hold that a woman is responsible for her female friends."
"I think if she consents to drop her at once,—that is, absolutely to make a promise that she will never speak to her again,—Frederic ought to take that as sufficient. That is, of course, mamma, unless she has had anything to do with it herself."
"After this I don't know how I'm to trust her. I don't indeed. It seems to me that she has been so artful throughout. It has been a regular case of catching."
"I suppose, of course, that she has been anxious to marry Frederic;—but perhaps that was natural."
"Anxious;—look at her going there just when he had to meet his constituents. How young women can do such things passes me! And how it is that men don't see it all, when it's going on just under their noses, I can't understand. And then her getting my poor dear sister to speak to him when she was dying! I didn't think your aunt would have been so weak." It will be thus seen that there was entire confidence on this subject between Lady Aylmer and her daughter.
We know what were the steps taken with reference to the discovery, and how the family were waiting for Clara's reply. Lady Aylmer, though in her words she attributed so much mean cunning to Miss Amedroz, still was disposed to believe that that lady would show rather a high spirit on this occasion; and trusted to that high spirit as the means for making the breach which she still hoped to accomplish. It had been intended,—or rather desired,—that Captain Aylmer's letter should have been much sharper and authoritative than he had really made it; but the mother could not write the letter herself, and had felt that to write in her own name would not have served to create anger on Clara's part against her betrothed. But she had quite succeeded in inspiring her son with a feeling of horror against the iniquity of the Askertons. He was prepared to be indignantly moral; and perhaps,—perhaps,—the misguided Clara might be silly enough to say a word for her lost friend! Such being the present position of affairs, there was certainly ground for hope.
And now they were all waiting for Clara's answer. Lady Aylmer had well calculated the course of post, and knew that a letter might reach them by Wednesday morning. "Of course she will not write on Sunday," she had said to her son, "but you have a right to expect that not another day should go by." Captain Aylmer, who felt that they were putting Clara on her trial, shook his head impatiently, and made no immediate answer. Lady Aylmer, triumphantly feeling that she had the culprit on the hip, did not care to notice this. She was doing the best she could for his happiness,—as she had done for his health, when in days gone by she had administered to him his infantine rhubarb and early senna; but as she had never then expected him to like her doses, neither did she now expect that he should be well pleased at the remedial measures to which he was to be subjected.
No letter came on the Wednesday, nor did any come on the Thursday, and then it was thought by the ladies at the Park that the time had come for speaking a word or two. Belinda, at her mother's instance, began the attack,—not in her mother's presence, but when she only was with her brother.
"Isn't it odd, Frederic, that Clara shouldn't write about those people at Belton?"
"Somersetshire is the other side of London, and letters take a long time."
"But if she had written on Monday, her answer would have been here on Wednesday morning;—indeed, you would have had it Tuesday evening, as mamma sent over to Whitby for the day mail letters." Poor Belinda was a bad lieutenant, and displayed too much of her senior officer's tactics in thus showing how much calculation and how much solicitude there had been as to the expected letter.
"If I am contented I suppose you may be," said the brother.
"But it does seem to me to be so very important! If she hasn't got your letter, you know, it would be so necessary that you should write again, so that the—the—the contamination should be stopped as soon as possible." Captain Aylmer shook his head and walked away. He was, no doubt, prepared to be morally indignant,—morally very indignant,—at the Askerton iniquity; but he did not like the word contamination as applied to his future wife.
"Frederic," said his mother, later on the same day,—when the hardly-used groom had returned from his futile afternoon's inquiry at the neighbouring post-town,—"I think you should do something in this affair."
"Do what, ma'am? Go off to Belton myself?"
"No, no. I certainly would not do that. In the first place it would be very inconvenient to you, and in the next place it would not be fair upon us. I did not mean that at all. But I think that something should be done. She should be made to understand."
"You may be sure, ma'am, that she understands as well as anybody."
"I dare say she is clever enough at these kind of things."
"What kind of things?"
"Don't bite my nose off, Frederic, because I am anxious about your wife."
"What is it that you wish me to do? I have written to her, and can only wait for her answer."
"It may be that she feels a delicacy in writing to you on such a subject; though Iown—.However, to make a long story short, if you like, I will write to her myself."
"I don't see that that would do any good. It would only give her offence."
"Give her offence, Frederic, to receive a letter from her future mother-in-law;—from me! Only think, Frederic, what you are saying."
"If she thought she was being bullied about this, she would turn rusty at once."
"Turn rusty! What am I to think of a young lady who is prepared to turn rusty,—at once, too, because she is cautioned by the mother of the man she professes to love against an improper acquaintance,—against an acquaintance so very improper?" Lady Aylmer's eloquence should have been heard to be appreciated. It is but tame to say that she raised her fat arms and fat hands, and wagged her front,—her front that was the more formidable as it was the old one, somewhat rough and dishevelled, which she was wont to wear in the morning. The emphasis of her words should have been heard, and the fitting solemnity of her action should have been seen. "If there were any doubt," she continued to say, "but there is no doubt. There are the damning proofs." There are certain words usually confined to the vocabularies of men, which women such as Lady Aylmer delight to use on special occasions, when strong circumstances demand strong language. As she said this she put her hand below the table, pressing it apparently against her own august person; but she was in truth indicating the position of a certain valuable correspondence, which was locked up in the drawer of her writing-table.
"You can write if you like it, of course; but I think you ought to wait a few more days."
"Very well, Frederic; then I will wait. I will wait till Sunday. I do not wish to take any step of which you do not approve. If you have not heard by Sunday morning, then I will write to her—on Monday."
On the Saturday afternoon life was becoming inexpressibly disagreeable to Captain Aylmer, and he began to meditate an escape from the Park. In spite of the agreement between him and his mother, which he understood to signify that nothing more was to be said as to Clara's wickedness, at any rate till Sunday after post-hour, Lady Aylmer had twice attacked him on the Saturday, and had expressed her opinion that affairs were in a very frightful position. Belinda went about the house in melancholy guise, with her eyes rarely lifted off the ground, as though she were prophetically weeping the utter ruin of her brother's respectability. And even Sir Anthony had raised his eyes and shaken his head, when, on opening the post-bag at the breakfast-table,—an operation which was always performed by Lady Aylmer in person,—her ladyship had exclaimed, "Again no letter!" Then Captain Aylmer thought that he would fly, and resolved that, in the event of such flight, he would give special orders as to the re-direction of his own letters from the post-office at Whitby.
That evening, after dinner, as soon as his mother and sister had left the room, he began the subject with his father. "I think I shall go up to town on Monday, sir," said he.
"So soon as that. I thought you were to stop till the 9th."
"There are things I must see to in London, and I believe I had better go at once."
"Your mother will be greatly disappointed."
"I shall be sorry for that;—but business is business, you know." Then the father filled his glass and passed the bottle. He himself did not at all like the idea of his son's going before the appointed time, but he did not say a word of himself. He looked at the red-hot coals, and a hazy glimmer of a thought passed through his mind, that he too would escape from Aylmer Park,—if it were possible.
"If you'll allow me, I'll take the dog-cart over to Whitby on Monday, for the express train."
"You can do that certainly, but—"
"Sir?"
"Have you spoken to your mother yet?"
"Not yet. I will to-night."
"I think she'll be a little angry, Fred." There was a sudden tone of subdued confidence in the old man's voice as he made this suggestion, which, though it was by no means a customary tone, his son well understood. "Don't you think she will be;—eh, a little?"
"She shouldn't go on as she does with me about Clara," said the Captain.
"Ah,—I supposed there was something of that. Are you drinking port?"
"Of course I know that she means all that is good," said the son, passing back the bottle.
"Oh yes;—she means all that is good."
"She is the best mother in the world."
"You may say that, Fred;—and the best wife."
"But if she can't have her own wayaltogether—"Then the son paused, and the father shook his head.
"Of course she likes to have her own way," said Sir Anthony.
"It's all very well in some things."
"Yes;—it's very well in some things."
"But there are things which a man must decide for himself."
"I suppose there are," said Sir Anthony, not venturing to think what those things might be as regarded himself.
"Now, with reference to marrying—"
"I don't know what you want with marrying at all, Fred. You ought to be very happy as you are. By heavens, I don't know any one who ought to be happier. If I were you, Iknow—"
"But you see, sir, that's all settled."
"If it's all settled, I suppose there's an end of it."
"It's no good my mother nagging at one."
"My dear boy, she's been nagging at me, as you call it, for forty years. That's her way. The best woman in the world, as we were saying;—but that's her way. And it's the way with most of them. They can do anything if they keep it up;—anything. The best thing is to bear it if you've got it to bear. But why on earth you should go and marry, seeing that you're not the eldest son, and that you've got everything on earth that you want as a bachelor, I can't understand. I can't indeed, Fred. By heaven, I can't!" Then Sir Anthony gave a long sigh, and sat musing awhile, thinking of the club in London to which he belonged, but which he never entered;—of the old days in which he had been master of a bedroom near St. James's Street,—of his old friends whom he never saw now, and of whom he never heard, except as one and another, year after year, shuffled away from their wives to that world in which there is no marrying or giving in marriage. "Ah, well," he said, "I suppose we may as well go into the drawing-room. If it is settled, I suppose it is settled. But it really seems to me that your mother is trying to do the best she can for you. It really does."
Captain Aylmer did not say anything to his mother that night as to his going, but as he thought of his prospects in the solitude of his bedroom, he felt really grateful to his father for the solicitude which Sir Anthony had displayed on his behalf. It was not often that he received paternal counsel, but now that it had come he acknowledged its value. That Clara Amedroz was a self-willed woman he thought that he was aware. She was self-reliant, at any rate,—and by no means ready to succumb with that pretty feminine docility which he would like to have seen her evince. He certainly would not wish to be "nagged" by his wife. Indeed he knew himself well enough to assure himself that he would not stand it for a day. In his own house he would be master, and if there came tempests he would rule them. He could at least promise himself that. As his mother had been strong, so had his father been weak. But he had,—as he felt thankful in knowing,—inherited his mother's strength rather than his father's weakness. But, for all that, why have a tempest to rule at all? Even though a man do rule his domestic tempests, he cannot have a very quiet house with them. Then again he remembered how very easily Clara had been won. He wished to be just to all men and women, and to Clara among the number. He desired even to be generous to her,—with a moderate generosity. But above all things he desired not to be duped. What if Clara had in truth instigated her aunt to that deathbed scene, as his mother had more than once suggested! He did not believe it. He was sure that it had not been so. But what if it were so? His desire to be generous and trusting was moderate;—but his desire not to be cheated, not to be deceived, was immoderate. Upon the whole might it not be well for him to wait a little longer, and ascertain how Clara really intended to behave herself in this emergency of the Askertons? Perhaps, after all, his mother might be right.
On the Sunday the expected letter came;—but before its contents are made known, it will be well that we should go back to Belton, and see what was done by Clara in reference to the tidings which her lover had sent her.
When Clara received the letter from Captain Aylmer on which so much is supposed to hang, she made up her mind to say nothing of it to any one,—not to think of it if she could avoid thinking of it,—till her cousin should have left her. She could not mention it to him; for, though there was no one from whom she would sooner have asked advice than from him, even on so delicate a matter as this, she could not do so in the present case, as her informant was her cousin's successful rival. When, therefore, Mrs. Askerton on leaving the church had spoken some customary word to Clara, begging her to come to the cottage on the following day, Clara had been unable to answer,—not having as yet made up her mind whether she would or would not go to the cottage again. Of course the idea of consulting her father occurred to her,—or rather the idea of telling him; but any such telling would lead to some advice from him which she would find it difficult to obey, and to which she would be unable to trust. And, moreover, why should she repeat this evil story against her neighbours?
She had a long morning by herself after Will had started, and then she endeavoured to arrange her thoughts and lay down for herself a line of conduct. Presuming this story to be true, to what did it amount? It certainly amounted to very much. If, in truth, this woman had left her own husband and gone away to live with another man, she had by doing so,—at any rate while she was doing so,—fallen in such a way as to make herself unfit for the society of an unmarried young woman who meant to keep her name unblemished before the world. Clara would not attempt any further unravelling of the case, even in her own mind;—but on that point she could not allow herself to have a doubt. Without condemning the unhappy victim, she understood well that she would owe it to all those who held her dear, if not to herself, to eschew any close intimacy with one in such a position. The rules of the world were too plainly written to allow her to guide herself by any special judgment of her own in such a matter. But if this friend of hers,—having been thus unfortunate,—had since redeemed, or in part redeemed, her position by a second marriage, would it be then imperative upon her to remember the past for ever, and to declare that the stain was indelible? Clara felt that with a previous knowledge of such a story she would probably have avoided any intimacy with Mrs. Askerton. She would then have been justified in choosing whether such intimacy should or should not exist, and would so have chosen out of deference to the world's opinion. But now it was too late for that. Mrs. Askerton had for years been her friend; and Clara had to ask herselfthisquestion; was it now needful,—did her own feminine purity demand,—that she should throw her friend over because in past years her life had been tainted by misconduct.
It was clear enough at any rate that this was expected from her,—nay, imperatively demanded by him who was to be her lord,—by him to whom her future obedience would be due. Whatever might be her immediate decision, he would have a right to call upon her to be guided by his judgment as soon as she would become his wife. And indeed, she felt that he had such right now,—unless she should decide that no such right should be his, now or ever. It was still within her power to say that she could not submit herself to such a rule as his,—but having received his commands she must do that or obey them. Then she declared to herself, not following the matter out logically, but urged to her decision by sudden impulse, that at any rate she would not obey Lady Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, in any such matter, with Lady Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god to her. That question about the house at Perivale had been very painful to her. She felt that she could have endured the dreary solitude at Perivale without complaint, if, after her marriage, her husband's circumstances had made such a mode of living expedient. But to have been asked to pledge her consent to such a life before her marriage, to feel that he was bargaining for the privilege of being rid of her, to know that the Aylmer people were arranging that he, if he would marry her, should be as little troubled with his wife as possible;—all this had been very grievous to her. She had tried to console herself by the conviction that Lady Aylmer,—not Frederic,—had been the sinner; but even in that consolation there had been the terrible flaw that the words had come to her written by Frederic's hand. Could Will Belton have written such a letter to his future wife?
In her present emergency she must be guided by her own judgment or her own instincts,—not by any edicts from Aylmer Park! If in what she might do she should encounter the condemnation of Captain Aylmer, she would answer him,—she would be driven to answer him,—by counter-condemnation of him and his mother. Let it be so. Anything would be better than a mean, truckling subservience to the imperious mistress of Aylmer Park.
But what should she do as regarded Mrs. Askerton? That the story was true she was beginning to believe. That there was some such history was made certain to her by the promise which Mrs. Askerton had given her.
"If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will answer them." Such a promise would not have been volunteered unless there was something special to be told. It would be best, perhaps, to demand from Mrs. Askerton the fulfilment of this promise. But then in doing so she must own from whence her information had come. Mrs. Askerton had told her that the "communication" would be made by her cousin Will. Her cousin Will had gone away without a word of Mrs. Askerton, and now the "communication" had come from Captain Aylmer!
The Monday and Tuesday were rainy days, and the rain was some excuse for her not going to the cottage. On the Wednesday her father was ill, and his illness made a further excuse for her remaining at home. But on the Wednesday evening there came a note to her from Mrs. Askerton. "You naughty girl, why do you not come to me? Colonel Askerton has been away since yesterday morning, and I am forgetting the sound of my own voice. I did not trouble you when your divine cousin was here,—for reasons; but unless you come to me now I shall think that his divinity has prevailed. Colonel Askerton is in Ireland, about some property, and will not be back till next week."
Clara sent back a promise by the messenger, and on the following morning she put on her hat and shawl, and started on her dreaded task. When she left the house she had not even yet quite made up her mind what she would do. At first she put her lover's letter into her pocket, so that she might have it for reference; but, on second thoughts, she replaced it in her desk, dreading lest she might be persuaded into showing or reading some part of it. There had come a sharp frost after the rain, and the ground was hard and dry. In order that she might gain some further last moment for thinking, she walked round, up among the rocks, instead of going straight to the cottage; and for a moment,—though the air was sharp with frost,—she sat upon the stone where she had been seated when her cousin Will blurted out the misfortune of his heart. She sat there on purpose that she might think of him, and recall his figure, and the tones of his voice, and the look of his eyes, and the gesture of his face. What a man he was;—so tender, yet so strong; so thoughtful of others, and yet so self-sufficient! She had, unconsciously, imputed to him one fault, that he had loved and then forgotten his love;—unconsciously, for she had tried to think that this was a virtue rather than a fault;—but now,—with a full knowledge of what she was doing, but without any intention of doing it,—she acquitted him of that one fault. Now that she could acquit him, she owned that it would have been a fault. To have loved, and so soon to have forgotten it! No; he had loved her truly, and alas! he was one who could not be made to forget it. Then she went on to the cottage, exercising her thoughts rather on the contrast between the two men than on the subject to which she should have applied them.
"So you have come at last!" said Mrs. Askerton. "Till I got your message I thought there was to be some dreadful misfortune."
"What misfortune?"
"Something dreadful! One often anticipates something very bad without exactly knowing what. At least, I do. I am always expecting a catastrophe;—when I am alone that is;—and then I am so often alone."
"That simply means low spirits, I suppose?"
"It's more than that, my dear."
"Not much more, I take it."
"Once when we were in India we lived close to the powder magazine, and we were always expecting to be blown up. You never lived near a powder magazine."
"No, never;—unless there's one at Belton. But I should have thought that was exciting."
"And then there was the gentleman who always had the sword hanging over him by the horse's hair."
"What do you mean, Mrs. Askerton?"
"Don't look so innocent, Clara. You know what I mean. What were the results at last of your cousin's diligence as a detective officer?"
"Mrs. Askerton, you wrong my cousin greatly. He never once mentioned your name while he was with us. He did not make a single allusion to you, or to Colonel Askerton, or to the cottage."
"He did not?"
"Never once."
"Then I beg his pardon. But not the less has he been busy making inquiries."
"But why should you say that there is a powder magazine, or a sword hanging over your head?"
"Ah, why?"
Here was the subject ready opened to her hand, and yet Clara did not know how to go on with it. It seemed to her now that it would have been easier for her to commence it, if Mrs. Askerton had made no commencement herself. As it was, she knew not how to introduce the subject of Captain Aylmer's letter, and was almost inclined to wait, thinking that Mrs. Askerton might tell her own story without any such introduction. But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. Mrs. Askerton began to talk of the frost, and then went on to abuse Ireland, complaining of the hardship her husband endured in being forced to go thither in winter to look after his tenants.
"What did you mean," said Clara, at last, "by the sword hanging over your head?"
"I think I told you what I meant pretty plainly. If you did not understand me I cannot tell you more plainly."
"It is odd that you should say so much, and not wish to say more."
"Ah!—you are making your inquiries now."
"In my place would not you do so too? How can I help it when you talked of a sword? Of course you make me ask what the sword is."
"And am I bound to satisfy your curiosity?"
"You told me, just before my cousin came here, that if I asked any question you would answer me."
"And I am to understand that you are asking such a question now?"
"Yes;—if it will not offend you."
"But what if it will offend me,—offend me greatly? Who likes to be inquired into?"
"But you courted such inquiry from me."
"No, Clara, I did not do that. I'll tell you what I did. I gave you to understand that if it was needful that you should hear about me and my antecedents,—certain matters as to which Mr. Belton had been inquiring into in a manner that I thought to be most unjustifiable,—I would tell you that story."
"And do so without being angry with me for asking."
"I meant, of course, that I would not make it a ground for quarrelling with you. If I wished to tell you I could do so without any inquiry."
"I have sometimes thought that you did wish to tell me."
"Sometimes I have,—almost."
"But you have no such wish now?"
"Can't you understand? It may well be that one so much alone as I am,—living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance, except yourself,—should often feel a longing for that comfort which full confidence between us would give me."
"Then why not—"
"Stop a moment. Can't you understand that I may feel this, and yet entertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tell our own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a woman burns to make a full confession, who would be as mute as death before a policeman."
"I am no policeman."
"But you are determined to ask a policeman's questions?"
To this Clara made no immediate reply. She felt that she was acting almost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in fact aware of all the circumstances which Mrs. Askerton could tell;—but she did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. She sincerely wished that Mrs. Askerton should be made acquainted with the truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did not make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy was distressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried, eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longer any doubt between them.
"Mrs. Askerton," she said, "I know it all. There is nothing for you to tell. I know what the sword is."
"What is it that you know?"
"That you were married long ago to—Mr. Berdmore."
"Then Mr. Belton did do me the honour of talking about me when he was here?" As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood before Clara with flashing eyes.
"Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any one belonging to you. I have heard it from another."
"From what other?"
"I do not know that that signifies,—but I have learned it."
"Well;—and what next?"
"I do not know what next. As so much has been told me, and as you had said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shall believe your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from any other teller."
"And suppose I refuse to answer you?"
"Then I can say nothing further."
"And what will you do?"
"Ah;—that I do not know. But you are harsh to me, while I am longing to be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced upon me,—partly by yourself?"
"And the other part;—who has forced that upon you? Who is your informant? If you mean to be generous, be generous altogether. Is it a man or a woman that has taken the trouble to rip up old sorrows that my name may be blackened? But what matters? There;—I was married to Captain Berdmore. I left him, and went away with my present husband. For three years I was a man's mistress, and not his wife. When that poor creature died we were married, and then came here. Now you know it all;—all;—all,—though doubtless your informant has made a better story of it. After that, perhaps, I have been very wicked to sully the air you breathe by my presence."
"Why do you say that,—to me?"
"But no;—you do not know it all. No one can ever know it all. No one can ever know how I suffered before I was driven to escape, or how good to me has been he who—who—who—"Then she turned her back upon Clara, and, walking off to the window, stood there, hiding the tears which clouded her eyes, and concealing the sobs which choked her utterance.
For some moments,—for a space which seemed long to both of them,—Clara kept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak, and though she longed to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. At last she too rose and followed the other to the window. She uttered no words, however, but gently putting her arm around Mrs. Askerton's waist, stood there close to her, looking out upon the cold wintry flower-beds,—not venturing to turn her eyes upon her companion. The motion of her arm was at first very gentle, but after a while she pressed it closer, and thus by degrees drew her friend to her with an eager, warm, and enduring pressure. Mrs. Askerton made some little effort towards repelling her, some faint motion of resistance; but as the embrace became warmer the poor woman yielded herself to it, and allowed her face to fall upon Clara's shoulder. So they stood, speaking no word, making no attempt to rid themselves of the tears which were blinding their eyes, but gazing out through the moisture on the bleak wintry scene before them. Clara's mind was the more active at the moment, for she was resolving that in this episode of her life she would accept no lesson whatever from Lady Aylmer's teaching;—no, nor any lesson whatever from the teaching of any Aylmer in existence. And as for the world's rules, she would fit herself to them as best she could; but no such fitting should drive her to the unwomanly cruelty of deserting this woman whom she had known and loved,—and whom she now loved with a fervour which she had never before felt towards her.
"You have heard it all now," said Mrs. Askerton at last.
"And is it not better so?"
"Ah;—I do not know. How should I know?"
"Do you not know?" And as she spoke Clara pressed her arm still closer. "Do you not know yet?" Then, turning herself half round, she clasped the other woman full in her arms, and kissed her forehead and her lips.
"Do you not know yet?"
"But you will go away, and people will tell you that you are wrong."
"What people?" said Clara, thinking as she spoke of the whole family at Aylmer Park.
"Your husband will tell you so."
"I have no husband,—as yet,—to order me what to think or what not to think."
"No;—not quite as yet. But you will tell him all this."
"He knows it. It was he who told me."
"What!—Captain Aylmer?"
"Yes; Captain Aylmer."
"And what did he say?"
"Never mind. Captain Aylmer is not my husband,—not as yet. If he takes me, he must take me as I am, not as he might possibly have wished me to be. LadyAylmer—"
"And does Lady Aylmer know it?"
"Yes. Lady Aylmer is one of those hard, severe women who never forgive."
"Ah, I see it all now. I understand it all. Clara, you must forget me, and come here no more. You shall not be ruined because you are generous."
"Ruined! If Lady Aylmer's displeasure can ruin me, I must put up with ruin. I will not accept her for my guide. I am too old, and have had my own way too long. Do not let that thought trouble you. In this matter I shall judge for myself. I have judged for myself already."
"And your father?"
"Papa knows nothing of it."
"But you will tell him?"
"I do not know. Poor papa is very ill. If he were well I would tell him, and he would think as I do."
"And your cousin?"
"You say that he has heard it all."
"I think so. Do you know that I remembered him the first moment that I saw him. But what could I do? When you mentioned to me my old name, my real name, how could I be honest? I have been driven to do that which has made honesty to me impossible. My life has been a lie; and yet how could I help it? I must live somewhere,—and how could I live anywhere without deceit?"
"And yet that is so sad."
"Sad indeed! But what could I do? Of course I was wrong in the beginning. Though how am I to regret it, when it has given me such a husband as I have? Ah!—if you could know it all, I think,—I think you would forgive me."
Then by degrees she told it all, and Clara was there for hours listening to her story. The reader will not care to hear more of it than he has heard. Nor would Clara have desired any closer revelation; but as it is often difficult to obtain a confidence, so is it impossible to stop it in the midst of its effusion. Mrs. Askerton told the history of her life,—of her first foolish engagement, her belief, her half-belief, in the man's reformation, of the miseries which resulted from his vices, of her escape and shame, of her welcome widowhood, and of her second marriage. And as she told it, she paused at every point to insist on the goodness of him who was now her husband. "I shall tell him this," she said at last, "as I do everything; and then he will know that I have in truth got a friend."
She asked again and again about Mr. Belton, but Clara could only tell her that she knew nothing of her cousin's knowledge. Will might have heard it all, but if so he had kept his information to himself.
"And now what shall you do?" Mrs. Askerton asked of Clara, at length prepared to go.
"Do? in what way? I shall do nothing."
"But you will write to Captain Aylmer?"
"Yes;—I shall write to him."
"And about this?"
"Yes;—I suppose I must write to him."
"And what will you say?"
"That I cannot tell. I wish I knew what to say. If it were to his mother I could write my letter easily enough."
"And what would you say to her?"
"I would tell her that I was responsible for my own friends. But I must go now. Papa will complain that I am so long away." Then there was another embrace, and at last Clara found her way out of the house and was alone again in the park.
She clearly acknowledged to herself that she had a great difficulty before her. She had committed herself altogether to Mrs. Askerton, and could no longer entertain any thought of obeying the very plainly expressed commands which Captain Aylmer had given her. The story as told by Captain Aylmer had been true throughout; but, in the teeth of that truth, she intended to maintain her acquaintance with Mrs. Askerton. From that there was now no escape. She had been carried away by impulse in what she had done and said at the cottage, but she could not bring herself to regret it. She could not believe that it was her duty to throw over and abandon a woman whom she loved, because that woman had once, in her dire extremity, fallen away from the path of virtue. But how was she to write the letter?
When she reached her father he complained of her absence, and almost scolded her for having been so long at the cottage. "I cannot see," said he, "what you find in that woman to make so much of her."
"She is the only neighbour I have, papa."
"And better none than her, if all that people say of her is true."
"All that people say is never true, papa."
"There is no smoke without fire. I am not at all sure that it's good for you to be so much with her."
"Oh, papa,—don't treat me like a child."
"And I'm sure it's not good for me that you should be so much away. For anything I have seen of you all day you might have been at Perivale. But you are going soon, altogether, so I suppose I may as well make up my mind to it."
"I'm not going for a long time yet, papa."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that there's nothing to take me away from here at present."
"You are engaged to be married."
"But it will be a long engagement. It is one of those engagements in which neither party is very anxious for an immediate change." There was something bitter in Clara's tone as she said this, which the old man perceived, but could only half understand. Clara remained with him then for the rest of the day, going down-stairs for five minutes, to her dinner, and then returning to him and reading aloud while he dozed. Her winter evenings at Belton Castle were not very bright, but she was used to them and made no complaint.
When she left her father for the night she got out her desk and prepared herself for her letter to her lover. She was determined that it should be finished that night before she went to bed. And it was so finished; though the writing of it gave her much labour, and occupied her till the late hours had come upon her. When completed it was asfollows:—
Belton Castle, Thursday Night.Dear Frederic,—I received your letter last Sunday, but I could not answer it sooner, as it required much consideration, and also some information which I have only obtained to-day. About the plan of living at Perivale I will not say much now, as my mind is so full of other things. I think, however, I may promise that I will never make any needless difficulty as to your plans. My cousin Will left us on Monday, so your mother need not have any further anxiety on that head. It does papa good to have him here, and for that reason I am sorry that he has gone. I can assure you that I don't think what you said about him meant anything at all particular. Will is my nearest cousin, and of course you would be glad that I should like him,—which I do, very much.And now about the other subject, which I own has distressed me, as you supposed it would;—I mean about Mrs. Askerton. I find it very difficult in your letter to divide what comes from your mother and what from yourself. Of course I want to make the division, as every word from you has great weight with me. At present I don't know Lady Aylmer personally, and I cannot think of her as I do of you. Indeed, were I to know her ever so well, I could not have the same deference for her that I have for the man who is to be my husband. I only say this, as I fear that Lady Aylmer and I may not perhaps agree about Mrs. Askerton.I find that your story about Mrs. Askerton is in the main true. But the person who told it you does not seem to have known any of the provocations which she received. She was very badly treated by Captain Berdmore, who, I am afraid, was a terrible drunkard; and at last she found it impossible to stay with him. So she went away. I cannot tell you how horrid it all was, but I am sure that if I could make you understand it, it would go a long way in inducing you to excuse her. She was married to Colonel Askerton as soon as Captain Berdmore died, and this took place before she came to Belton. I hope you will remember that. It all occurred out in India, and I really hardly know what business we have to inquire about it now.At any rate, as I have been acquainted with her a long time, and very intimately, and as I am sure that she has repented of anything that has been wrong, I do not think that I ought to quarrel with her now. Indeed I have promised her that I will not. I think I owe it you to tell you the whole truth, and that is the truth.Pray give my regards to your mother, and tell her that I am sure she would judge differently if she were in my place. This poor woman has no other friend here; and who am I, that I should take upon myself to condemn her? I cannot do it. Dear Frederic, pray do not be angry with me for asserting my own will in this matter. I think you would wish me to have an opinion of my own. In my present position I am bound to have one, as I am, as yet, responsible for what I do myself. I shall be very, very sorry, if I find that you differ from me; but still I cannot be made to think that I am wrong. I wish you were here, that we might talk it over together, as I think that in that case you would agree with me.If you can manage to come to us at Easter, or any other time when Parliament does not keep you in London, we shall be so delighted to see you.Dear Frederic,Yours very affectionately,Clara Amedroz.
Belton Castle, Thursday Night.
Dear Frederic,—I received your letter last Sunday, but I could not answer it sooner, as it required much consideration, and also some information which I have only obtained to-day. About the plan of living at Perivale I will not say much now, as my mind is so full of other things. I think, however, I may promise that I will never make any needless difficulty as to your plans. My cousin Will left us on Monday, so your mother need not have any further anxiety on that head. It does papa good to have him here, and for that reason I am sorry that he has gone. I can assure you that I don't think what you said about him meant anything at all particular. Will is my nearest cousin, and of course you would be glad that I should like him,—which I do, very much.
And now about the other subject, which I own has distressed me, as you supposed it would;—I mean about Mrs. Askerton. I find it very difficult in your letter to divide what comes from your mother and what from yourself. Of course I want to make the division, as every word from you has great weight with me. At present I don't know Lady Aylmer personally, and I cannot think of her as I do of you. Indeed, were I to know her ever so well, I could not have the same deference for her that I have for the man who is to be my husband. I only say this, as I fear that Lady Aylmer and I may not perhaps agree about Mrs. Askerton.
I find that your story about Mrs. Askerton is in the main true. But the person who told it you does not seem to have known any of the provocations which she received. She was very badly treated by Captain Berdmore, who, I am afraid, was a terrible drunkard; and at last she found it impossible to stay with him. So she went away. I cannot tell you how horrid it all was, but I am sure that if I could make you understand it, it would go a long way in inducing you to excuse her. She was married to Colonel Askerton as soon as Captain Berdmore died, and this took place before she came to Belton. I hope you will remember that. It all occurred out in India, and I really hardly know what business we have to inquire about it now.
At any rate, as I have been acquainted with her a long time, and very intimately, and as I am sure that she has repented of anything that has been wrong, I do not think that I ought to quarrel with her now. Indeed I have promised her that I will not. I think I owe it you to tell you the whole truth, and that is the truth.
Pray give my regards to your mother, and tell her that I am sure she would judge differently if she were in my place. This poor woman has no other friend here; and who am I, that I should take upon myself to condemn her? I cannot do it. Dear Frederic, pray do not be angry with me for asserting my own will in this matter. I think you would wish me to have an opinion of my own. In my present position I am bound to have one, as I am, as yet, responsible for what I do myself. I shall be very, very sorry, if I find that you differ from me; but still I cannot be made to think that I am wrong. I wish you were here, that we might talk it over together, as I think that in that case you would agree with me.
If you can manage to come to us at Easter, or any other time when Parliament does not keep you in London, we shall be so delighted to see you.
Dear Frederic,Yours very affectionately,
Clara Amedroz.
It was on a Sunday morning that Clara's letter reached Aylmer Park, and Frederic Aylmer found it on his plate as he took his place at the breakfast-table. Domestic habits at Aylmer Park had grown with the growth of years till they had become adamantine, and domestic habits required prayers every morning at a quarter before nine o'clock. At twenty minutes before nine Lady Aylmer would always be in the dining-room to make the tea and open the post-bag, and as she was always there alone, she knew more about other people's letters than other people ever knew about hers. When these operations were over she rang the bell, and the servants of the family, who by that time had already formed themselves into line in the hall, would march in, and settle themselves on benches prepared for them near the side-board,—which benches were afterwards carried away by the retiring procession. Lady Aylmer herself always read prayers, as Sir Anthony never appeared till the middle of breakfast. Belinda would usually come down in a scurry as she heard her mother's bell, in such a way as to put the army in the hall to some confusion; but Frederic Aylmer, when he was at home, rarely entered the room till after the service was over. At Perivale no doubt he was more strict in his conduct; but then at Perivale he had special interests and influences which were wanting to him at Aylmer Park. During those five minutes Lady Aylmer would deal round the letters to the several plates of the inmates of her house,—not without looking at the post-office marks upon them; and on this occasion she had dealt a letter from Clara to her son.
The arrival of the letter was announced to Frederic Aylmer before he took his seat.
"Frederic," said her ladyship, in her most portentous voice, "I am glad to say that at last there is a letter from Belton."
He made no immediate reply, but making his way slowly to his place, took up the little packet, turned it over in his hand, and then put it into his pocket. Having done this, he began very slowly with his tea and egg. For three minutes his mother was contented to make, or to pretend to make, some effort in the same direction. Then her impatience became too much for her, and she began to question him.
"Will you not read it, Frederic?"
"Of course I shall, ma'am."
"But why not do so now, when you know how anxious we are?"
"There are letters which one would sooner read in private."
"But when a matter is of so muchimportance—"said Belinda.
"The importance, Bel, is to me, and not to you," said her brother.
"All we want to know is," continued the sister, "that she promises to be guided by you in this matter; and of course we feel quite sure that she will."
"If you are quite sure that must be sufficient for you."
"I really think you need not quarrel with your sister," said Lady Aylmer, "because she is anxious as to the—the respectability, I must say, for there is no other word, of a young lady whom you propose to make your wife. I can assure you that I am very anxious myself,—very anxious indeed."
Captain Aylmer made no answer to this, but he did not take the letter from his pocket. He drank his tea in silence, and in silence sent up his cup to be refilled. In silence also was it returned to him. He ate his two eggs and his three bits of toast, according to his custom, and when he had finished, sat out his three or four minutes as was usual. Then he got up to retire to his room, with the envelope still unbroken in his pocket.
"You will go to church with us, I suppose?" said Lady Aylmer.
"I won't promise, ma'am; but if I do, I'll walk across the park,—so that you need not wait for me."
Then both the mother and sister knew that the member for Perivale did not intend to go to church on that occasion. To morning service Sir Anthony always went, the habits of Aylmer Park having in them more of adamant in reference to him than they had as regarded his son.
When the father, mother, and daughter returned, Captain Aylmer had read his letter, and had, after doing so, received further tidings from Belton Castle,—further tidings which for the moment prevented the necessity of any reference to the letter, and almost drove it from his own thoughts. When his mother entered the library he was standing before the fire with a scrap of paper in his hand.
"Since you have been at church there has come a telegraphic message," he said.
"What is it, Frederic? Do not frighten me,—if you can avoid it!"
"You need not be frightened, ma'am, for you did not know him. Mr. Amedroz is dead."
"No!" said Lady Aylmer, seating herself.
"Dead!" said Belinda, holding up her hands.
"God bless my soul!" said the baronet, who had now followed the ladies into the room. "Dead! Why, Fred, he was five years younger than I am!"
Then Captain Aylmer read the words of the message:—"Mr. Amedroz died this morning at five o'clock. I have sent word to the lawyer and to Mr. Belton."
"Who does it come from?" asked Lady Aylmer.
"From Colonel Askerton."
Lady Aylmer paused, and shook her head, and moved her foot uneasily upon the carpet. The tidings, as far as they went, might be unexceptionable, but the source from whence they had come had evidently polluted them in her ladyship's judgment. Then she uttered a series of inter-ejaculations, expressions of mingled sorrow and anger.
"There was no one else near her," said Captain Aylmer, apologetically.
"Is there no clergyman in the parish?"
"He lives a long way off. The message had to be sent at once."
"Are there no servants in the house? It looks,—itlooks—.But I am the last person in the world to form a harsh judgment of a young woman at such a moment as this. What did she say in her letter, Fred?"
Captain Aylmer had devoted two hours of consideration to the letter before the telegram had come to relieve his mind by a fresh subject, and in those two hours he had not been able to extract much of comfort out of the document. It was, as he felt, a stubborn, stiff-necked, disobedient, almost rebellious letter. It contained a manifest defiance of his mother, and exhibited doctrines of most questionable morality. It had become to him a matter of doubt whether he could possibly marry a woman who could entertain such ideas and write such a letter. If the doubt was to be decided in his own mind against Clara, he had better show the letter at once to his mother, and allow her ladyship to fight the battle for him;—a task which, as he well knew, her ladyship would not be slow to undertake. But he had not succeeded in answering the question satisfactorily to himself when the telegram arrived and diverted all his thoughts. Now that Mr. Amedroz was dead, the whole thing might be different. Clara would come away from Belton and Mrs. Askerton, and begin life, as it were, afresh. It seemed as though in such an emergency she ought to have another chance; and therefore he did not hasten to pronounce his judgment. Lady Aylmer also felt something of this, and forbore to press her question when it was not answered.
"She will have to leave Belton now, I suppose?" said Sir Anthony.
"The property will belong to a distant cousin,—a Mr. William Belton."
"And where will she go?" said Lady Aylmer. "I suppose she has no place that she can call her home?"
"Would it not be a good thing to ask her here?" said Belinda. Such a question as that was very rash on the part of Miss Aylmer. In the first place, the selection of guests for Aylmer Park was rarely left to her; and in this special case she should have understood that such a proposal should have been fully considered by Lady Aylmer before it reached Frederic's ears.
"I think it would be a very good plan," said Captain Aylmer, generously.
Lady Aylmer shook her head. "I should like much to know what she has said about that unfortunate connection before I offer to take her by the hand myself. I'm sure Fred will feel that I ought to do so."
But Fred retreated from the room without showing the letter. He retreated from the room and betook himself to solitude, that he might again endeavour to make up his mind as to what he would do. He put on his hat and his great-coat and gloves, and went off,—without his luncheon,—that he might consider it all. Clara Amedroz had now no home,—and, indeed, very little means of providing one. If he intended that she should be his wife, he must furnish her with a home at once. It seemed to him that three houses might possibly be open to her,—of which one, the only one which under such circumstances would be proper, was Aylmer Park. The other two were Plaistow Hall and Mrs. Askerton's cottage at Belton. As to the latter,—should she ever take shelter there, everything must be over between him and her. On that point there could be no doubt. He could not bring himself to marry a wife out of Mrs. Askerton's drawing-room, nor could he expect his mother to receive a young woman brought into the family under such circumstances. And Plaistow Hall was almost as bad. It was as bad to him, though it would, perhaps, be less objectionable in the eyes of Lady Aylmer. Should Clara go to Plaistow Hall there must be an end to everything. Of that also he taught himself to be quite certain. Then he took out Clara's letter and read it again. She acknowledged the story about the woman to be true,—such a story as it was too,—and yet refused to quarrel with the woman;—had absolutely promised the woman not to quarrel with her! Then he read and re-read the passage in which Clara claimed the right of forming her own opinion in such matters. Nothing could be more indelicate;—nothing more unfit for his wife. He began to think that he had better show the letter to his mother, and acknowledge that the match must be broken off. That softening of his heart which had followed upon the receipt of the telegraphic message departed from him as he dwelt upon the stubborn, stiff-necked, unfeminine obstinacy of the letter. Then he remembered that nothing had as yet been done towards putting his aunt's fifteen hundred pounds absolutely into Clara's hands; and he remembered also that she might at the present moment be in great want. William Belton might, not improbably, assist her in her want, and this idea was wormwood to him in spite of his almost formed resolution to give up his own claims. He calculated that the income arising from fifteen hundred pounds would be very small, and he wished that he had counselled his aunt to double the legacy. He thought very much about the amount of the money and the way in which it might be best expended, and was, after his cold fashion, really solicitous as to Clara's welfare. If he could have fashioned her future life, and his own too, in accordance with his own now existing wishes, I think he would have arranged that neither of them should marry at all, and that to him should be assigned the duty and care of being Clara's protector,—with full permission to tell her his mind as often as he pleased on the subject of Mrs. Askerton. Then he went in and wrote a note to Mr. Green, the lawyer, desiring that the interest of the fifteen hundred pounds for one year might be at once remitted to Miss Amedroz. He knew that he ought to write to her himself immediately, without loss of a post; but how was he to write while things were in their present position? Were he now to condole with her on her father's death, without any reference to the great Askerton iniquity, he would thereby be condoning all that was past, and acknowledging the truth and propriety of her arguments. And he would be doing even worse than that. He would be cutting the ground absolutely from beneath his own feet as regarded that escape from his engagement which he was contemplating.
What a cold-hearted, ungenerous wretch he must have been! That will be the verdict against him. But the verdict will be untrue. Cold-hearted and ungenerous he was; but he was no wretch,—as men and women are now-a-days called wretches. He was chilly hearted, but yet quite capable of enough love to make him a good son, a good husband, and a good father too. And though he was ungenerous from the nature of his temperament, he was not close-fisted or over covetous. And he was a just man, desirous of obtaining nothing that was not fairly his own. But, in truth, the artists have been so much in the habit of painting for us our friends' faces without any of those flaws and blotches with which work and high living are apt to disfigure us, that we turn in disgust from a portrait in which the roughnesses and pimples are made apparent.
But it was essential that he should now do something, and before he sat down to dinner he did show Clara's letter to his mother. "Mother," he said, as he sat himself down in her little room up-stairs;—and she knew well by the tone of his voice, and by the mode of his address, that there was to be a solemn occasion, and a serious deliberative council on the present existing family difficulty,—"mother, of course I have intended to let you know what is the nature of Clara's answer to my letter."
"I am glad there is to be no secret between us, Frederic. You know how I dislike secrets in families." As she said this she took the letter out of her son's hands with an eagerness that was almost greedy. As she read it, he stood over her, watching her eyes, as they made their way down the first page and on to the second, and across to the third, and so, gradually on, till the whole reading was accomplished. What Clara had written about her cousin Will, Lady Aylmer did not quite understand; and on this point now she was so little anxious that she passed over that portion of the letter readily. But when she came to Mrs. Askerton and the allusions to herself, she took care to comprehend the meaning and weight of every word. "Divide your words and mine! Why should we want to divide them? Not agree with me about Mrs. Askerton! How is it possible that any decent young woman should not agree with me! It is a matter in which there is no room for a doubt. True;—the story true! Of course it is true. Does she not know that it would not have reached her from Aylmer Park if it were not true? Provocation! Badly treated! Went away! Married to Colonel Askerton as soon as Captain Berdmore died! Why, Frederic, she cannot have been taught to understand the first principle of morals in life! And she that was so much with my poor sister! Well, well!" The reader should understand that the late Mrs. Winterfield and Lady Aylmer had never been able to agree with each other on religious subjects. "Remember that they are married. Why should we remember anything of the kind? It does not make an atom of difference to the woman's character. Repented! How can Clara say whether she has repented or not? But that has nothing to do with it. Not quarrel with her,—as she calls it! Not give her up! Then, Frederic, of course it must be all over, as far as you are concerned." When she had finished her reading, she returned the letter, still open, to her son, shaking her head almost triumphantly. "As far as I am a judge of a young woman's character, I can only give you one counsel," said Lady Aylmer solemnly.
"I think that she should have another chance," said Captain Aylmer.
"What other chance can you give her? It seems to me that she is obstinately bent on her own destruction."
"You might ask her to come here, as Belinda suggested."
"Belinda was very foolish to suggest anything of the kind without more consideration."
"I suppose that my future wife would be made welcome here?"
"Yes, Frederic, certainly. I do not know who could be more welcome. But is she to be your wife?"
"We are engaged."
"But does not that letter break any engagement? Is there not enough in that to make such a marriage quite out of the question? What do you think about it yourself, Frederic?"
"I think that she should have another chance."
What would Clara have thought of all this herself, if she could have heard the conversation between Lady Aylmer and her betrothed husband, and have known that her lover was proposing to give her "another chance?" But it is lucky for us that we seldom know what our best friends say on our behalf, when they discuss us and our faults behind our backs.
"What chance, Frederic, can she have? She knows all about this horrid woman, and yet refuses to give her up! What chance can she have after that?"
"I think that you might have her here,—and talk to her." Lady Aylmer, in answer to this, simply shook her head. And I think she was right in supposing that such shaking of her head was a sufficient reply to her son's proposition. What talking could possibly be of service to such a one as this Miss Amedroz? Why should she throw her pearls before swine? "We must either ask her to come here, or else I must go to her," said Captain Aylmer.
"I don't see that at all, Frederic."
"I think it must be so. As she is situated at present she has got no home; and I think it would be very horrid that she should be driven into that woman's house, simply because she has no other shelter for her head."
"I suppose she can remain where she is for the present?"
"She is all alone, you know; and it must be very gloomy;—and her cousin can turn her out at a moment's notice."
"But all that would not entitle her to come here,unless—"
"No;—I quite understand that. But you cannot wonder that I should feel the hardship of her position."
"Who is to be blamed if it be hard? You see, Frederic, I take my standing upon that letter;—her own letter. How am I to ask a young woman into my house who declares openly that my opinion on such a matter goes for nothing with her? How am I to do it? That's what I ask you. How am I to do it? It's all very well for Belinda to suggest this and that. But how am I to do it? That's what I want to know."
But at last Lady Aylmer managed to answer the question for herself, and did do it. But this was not done on that Sunday afternoon, nor on the Monday, nor on the Tuesday. The question was closely debated, and at last the anxious mother perceived that the giving of the invitation would be more safe than withholding it. Captain Aylmer at last expressed his determination to go to Belton unless the invitation were given; and then, should he do that, there might be danger that he would never be again seen at Aylmer Park till he brought Clara Amedroz with him as his wife. The position was one of great difficulty, but the interests at stake were so immense that something must be risked. It might be that Clara would not come when invited, and in that case her obstinacy would be a great point gained. And if she didcome—!Well; Lady Aylmer admitted to herself that the game would be difficult,—difficult and very troublesome; but yet it might be played, and perhaps won. Lady Aylmer was a woman who had great confidence in herself. Not so utterly had victory in such contests deserted her hands, that she need fear to break a lance with Miss Amedroz beneath her own roof, when the occasion was so pressing.
The invitation was therefore sent in a note written by herself, and was enclosed in a letter from her son. After much consultation and many doubts on the subject, it was at last agreed that nothing further should now be urged about Mrs. Askerton. "She shall have her chance," said Lady Aylmer over and over again, repeating her son's words. "She shall have her chance." Lady Aylmer, therefore, in her note, confined herself strictly to the giving of the invitation, and to a suggestion that, as Clara had now no settled home of her own, a temporary sojourn at Aylmer Park might be expedient. And Captain Aylmer in his letter hardly said much more. He knew, as he wrote the words, that they were cold and comfortless, and that he ought on such an occasion to have written words that should have been warm at any rate, even though they might not have contained comfort. But, to have written with affection, he should have written at once, and he had postponed his letter from the Sunday till the Wednesday. It had been absolutely necessary that that important question as to the invitation should be answered before he could write at all.
When all this was settled he went up to London; and there was an understanding between him and his mother that he should return to Aylmer Park with Clara, in the event of her acceptance of the invitation.
"You won't go down to Belton for her?" said the mother.
"No;—I do not think that will be necessary," said the son.
"I should think not," said the mother.