The Belton Estate

  CHAPTER XII.

  MISS AMEDROZ RETURNS HOME.

  Clara was to start by a train leaving Perivale at eight on thefollowing morning, and therefore there was not much time forconversation before she went. During the night she had endeavoured soto school herself as to banish from her breast all feelings of angeragainst her lover, and of regret as regarded herself. Probably, asshe told herself, she had made more of what he had said than he hadintended that she should do; and then, was it not natural that heshould think much of his mother, and feel anxious as to the way inwhich she might receive his wife? As to that feeling of anger on herown part, she did get quit of it;--but the regret was not to be soeasily removed. It was not only what Captain Aylmer had said abouthis mother that clung to her, doing much to quench her joy; but therehad been a coldness in his tone to her throughout the evening whichshe recognised almost unconsciously, and which made her heart heavyin spite of the joy which she repeatedly told herself ought to be herown. And she also felt,--though she was not clearly aware that shedid so,--that his manner towards her had become less affectionate,less like that of a lover, since the honest tale she had told him ofher own early love for him. She should have been less honest, andmore discreet; less bold, and more like in her words to the ordinaryrun of women. She had known this as she was packing last night, andshe told herself that it was so as she was dressing on this her lastmorning at Perivale. That frankness of hers had not been successful,and she regretted that she had not imposed on herself some littlereticence,--or even a little of that coy pretence of indifferencewhich is so often used by ladies when they are wooed. She had beenboldly honest, and had found her honesty to be bad policy. Shethought, at least, that she had found its policy to be bad. Whetherin truth it may not have been very good,--have been the best policyin the world,--tending to give her the first true intimation whichshe had ever yet received of the real character of the man who wasnow so much to her,--that is altogether another question.

  But it was clearly her duty to make the best of her presentcircumstances, and she went down-stairs with a smiling face and withpleasant words on her tongue. When she entered the breakfast-roomCaptain Aylmer was there; but Martha was there also, and her pleasantwords were received indifferently in the presence of the servant.When the old woman was gone, Captain Aylmer assumed a grave face, andbegan a serious little speech which he had prepared. But he brokedown in the utterance of it, and was saying things very differentfrom what he had intended before he had completed it.

  "Clara," he began, "what occurred between us yesterday is a source ofgreat satisfaction to me."

  "I am glad of that, Frederic," said she, trying to be a little lessserious than her lover.

  "Of very great satisfaction," he continued; "and I cannot but thinkthat we were justified by the circumstances of our position inforgetting for a time the sad solemnity of the occasion. When Iremember that it was but the day before yesterday that I followed mydear old aunt to the grave, I am astonished to think that yesterday Ishould have made an offer of marriage."

  What could be the good of his talking in this strain? Clara, too,had had her own misgivings on the same subject,--little qualms ofconscience that had come to her as she remembered her old friendin the silent watches of the night; but such thoughts were for thesilent watches, and not for open expression in the broad daylight.But he had paused, and she must say something.

  "One's excuse to oneself is this,--that she would have wished it so."

  "Exactly. She would have wished it. Indeed she did wish it, andtherefore--" He paused in what he was saying, and felt himself to beon difficult ground. Her eye was full upon him, and she waited for amoment or two as though expecting that he would finish his words. Butas he did not go on, she finished them for him.

  "And therefore you sacrificed your own feelings." Her heart wasbecoming sore, and she was unable to restrain the utterance of hersarcasm.

  "Just so," said he; "or, rather, not exactly that. I don't mean thatI am sacrificed; for, of course, as I have just now said, nothing asregards myself can be more satisfactory. But yesterday should havebeen a solemn day to us; and as it was not--"

  "I thought it very solemn."

  "What I mean is that I find an excuse in remembering that I was doingwhat she asked me to do."

  "What she asked you to do, Fred?"

  "What I had promised, I mean."

  "What you had promised? I did not hear that before." These last wordswere spoken in a very low voice, but they went direct to CaptainAylmer's ears.

  "But you have heard me declare," he said, "that as regards myselfnothing could be more satisfactory."

  "Fred," she said, "listen to me for a moment. You and I engagedourselves to each other yesterday as man and wife."

  "Of course we did."

  "Listen to me, dear Fred. In doing that there was nothing in my mindunbefitting the sadness of the day. Even in death we must think oflife, and if it were well for you and me that we should be together,it would surely have been but a foolish ceremony between us to haveabstained from telling each other that it would be so because my aunthad died last week. But it may be, and I think it is the case, thatthe feelings arising from her death have made us both tooprecipitate."

  "I don't understand how that can be."

  "You have been anxious to keep a promise made to her, withoutconsidering sufficiently whether in doing so you would secure yourown happiness; and I--"

  "I don't know about you, but as regards myself I must be consideredto be the best judge."

  "And I have been too much in a hurry in believing that which I wishedto believe."

  "What do you mean by all this, Clara?"

  "I mean that our engagement shall be at an end;--not necessarily sofor always. But that as an engagement binding us both, it shall forthe present cease to exist. You shall be again free--"

  "But I don't choose to be free."

  "When you think of it you will find it best that it should be so. Youhave performed your promise honestly, even though at a sacrifice toyourself. Luckily for you,--for both of us, I should say,--the fulltruth has come out; and we can consider quietly what will be best forus to do, independently of that promise. We will part, therefore, asdear friends, but not as engaged to each other as man and wife."

  "But we are engaged, and I will not hear of its being broken."

  "A lady's word, Fred, is always the most potential beforemarriage;--and you must therefore yield to me in this matter. I amsure your judgment will approve of my decision when you think of it.There shall be no engagement between us. I shall consider myselfquite free,--free to do as I please altogether; and you, of course,will be free also."

  "If you please, of course it must be so."

  "I do please, Fred."

  "And yesterday, then, is to go for nothing."

  "Not exactly. It cannot go for nothing with me. I told you too manyof my secrets for that. But nothing that was done or said yesterdayis to be held as binding upon either of us."

  "And you made up your mind to that last night?"

  "It is at any rate made up to that now. Come,--I shall have to gowithout my breakfast if I do not eat it at once. Will you have yourtea now, or wait and take it comfortably when I am gone?"

  Captain Aylmer breakfasted with her, and took her to the station, andsaw her off with all possible courtesy and attention, and then hewalked back by himself to his own great house in Perivale. Not a wordmore had been said between him and Clara as to their engagement, andhe recognised it as a fact that he was no longer bound to her as herfuture husband. Indeed, he had no power of not recognising the fact,so decided had been her language, and so imperious her manner. It hadbeen of no avail that he had said that the engagement should stand.She had told him that her voice was to be the more potential, and hehad felt that it was so. Well;--might it not be best for him that itshould be so? He had kept his promise to his aunt, and had done allthat lay in his power to make Clara Amedroz his wife. If she chose torebel against her own g
ood fortune simply because he spoke to her afew words which seemed to him to be fitting, might it not be well forhim to take her at her word?

  Such were his first thoughts; but as the day wore on with him,something more generous in his nature came to his aid, and somethingalso that was akin to real love. Now that she was no longer his own,he again felt a desire to have her. Now that there would be againsomething to be done in winning her, he was again stirred by a man'sdesire to do that something. He ought not to have told her of thepromise. He was aware that what he had said on that point had beendropped by him accidentally, and that Clara's resolution after thathad not been unnatural. He would, therefore, give her another chance,and resolved before he went to bed that night that he would allow afortnight to pass away, and would then write to her, renewing hisoffer with all the strongest declarations of affection which he wouldbe enabled to make.

  Clara on her way home was not well satisfied with herself or with herposition. She had had great joy, during the few hours of joy whichhad been hers, in thinking of the comfort which her news would giveto her father. He would be released from all further trouble on heraccount by the tidings which she would convey to him,--by the tidingswhich she had intended to convey to him. But now the story which shewould have to tell would by no means be comfortable. She would haveto explain to him that her aunt had left no provision for her, andthat would be the beginning and the end of her story. As for thoseconversations about the fifteen hundred pounds,--of them she wouldsay nothing. When she reflected on what had taken place betweenherself and Captain Aylmer she was more resolved than ever that shewould not touch any portion of that money,--or of any money thatshould come from him. Nor would she tell her father anything of themarriage engagement which had been made on one day and unmade on thenext. Why should she add to his distress by showing him what goodthings might have been hers had she only had the wit to keep them?No;--she would tell her father simply of the will, and then comforthim in his affliction as best she might.

  As regarded her position with Captain Aylmer, the more she thought ofit the more sure she became that everything was over in that quarter.She had, indeed, told him that such need not necessarily be thecase,--but this she had done in her desire at the moment to mitigatethe apparent authoritativeness of her own decision, rather than withany idea of leaving the matter open for further consideration. Shewas sure that Captain Aylmer would be glad of a means of escape,and that he would not again place himself in the jeopardy which thepromise exacted from him by his aunt had made so nearly fatal to him.And for herself, though she still loved the man,--so loved him thatshe lay back in the corner of her carriage weeping behind her veilas she thought of what she had lost,--still she would not take him,though he should again press his suit upon her with all the ardourat his command. No, indeed. No man should ever be made to regard heras a burden imposed upon him by an extorted promise! What;--let aman sacrifice himself to a sense of duty on her behalf! And then sherepeated the odious words to herself, till she came to think that ithad fallen from his lips and not from her own.

  In writing to her father from Perivale, she had merely told him ofMrs. Winterfield's death and of her own intended return. At theTaunton station she met the well-known old fly and the well-knownold driver, and was taken home in the accustomed manner. As shedrew nearer to Belton the sense of her distress became stronger andstronger, till at last she almost feared to meet her father. Whatcould she say to him when he should repeat to her, as he would besure to do, his lamentation as to her future poverty?

  On arriving at the house she learned that he was up-stairs in hisbedroom. He had been ill, the servant said, and though he was not nowin bed, he had not come down-stairs. So she ran up to his room, andfinding him seated in an old arm-chair by the fire-side, knelt downat his feet, as she took his hand and asked him as to his health.

  "What has Mrs. Winterfield done for you in her will?" These were thefirst words he spoke to her.

  "Never mind about wills now, papa. I want you to tell me ofyourself."

  "Nonsense, Clara. Answer my question."

  "Oh, papa, I wish you would not think so much about money for me."

  "Not think about it? Why am I not to think about it? What else have Igot to think of? Tell me at once, Clara, what she has done. You oughtto have written to me directly the will was made known."

  There was no help for her, and the terrible word must be spoken. "Shehas left her property to Captain Aylmer, papa; and I must say that Ithink she is right."

  "You do not mean everything?"

  "She has provided for her servants."

  "And has made no provision for you?"

  "No, papa."

  "Do you mean to tell me that she has left you nothing,--absolutelynothing?" The old man's manner was altogether altered as he askedthis question; and there came over his face so unusual a look ofenergy,--of the energy of anger,--that Clara was frightened, and knewnot how to answer him with that tone of authority which she wasaccustomed to use when she found it necessary to exercise controlover him. "Do you mean to say that there is nothing,--nothing?" Andas he repeated the question he pushed her away from his knees andstood up with an effort, leaning against the back of his chair.

  "Dear papa, do not let this distress you."

  "But is it so? Is there in truth nothing?"

  "Nothing, papa. Remember that she was not really my aunt."

  "Nonsense, child;--nonsense! How can you talk such trash to me asthat? And then you tell me not to distress myself! I am to knowthat you will be a beggar in a year or two,--probably in a fewmonths,--and that is not to distress me! She has been a wickedwoman!"

  "Oh, papa, do not say that."

  "A wicked woman. A very wicked woman. It is always so with those whopretend to be more religious than their neighbours. She has been avery wicked woman, alluring you into her house with false hopes."

  "No, papa;--no; I must contradict you. She had given me no ground forsuch hope."

  "I say she had,--even though she may not have made a promise. I sayshe had. Did not everybody think that you were to have her money?"

  "I don't know what people may have thought. Nobody has had any rightto think about it at all."

  "That is nonsense, Clara. You know that I expected it;--that youexpected it yourself."

  "No;--no, no!"

  "Clara,--how can you tell me that?"

  "Papa, I knew that she intended to leave me nothing. She told me sowhen I was there in the spring."

  "She told you so?"

  "Yes, papa. She told me that Frederic Aylmer was to have all herproperty. She explained to me everything that she meant to do, and Ithought that she was right."

  "And why was not I told when you came home?"

  "Dear papa!"

  "Dear papa, indeed. What is the meaning of dear papa? Why have I beendeceived?"

  "What good could I do by telling you? You could not change it."

  "You have been very undutiful; and as for her, her wickedness andcruelty shock me,--shock me. They do, indeed. That she should haveknown your position, and had you with her always,--and then havemade such a will as that! Quite heartless! She must have been quiteheartless."

  Clara now began to find that she must in justice to her aunt's memorytell her father something more. And yet it would be very difficultto tell him anything that would not bring greater affliction uponhim, and would not also lead her into deeper trouble. Should it cometo pass that her aunt's intention with reference to the fifteenhundred pounds was mentioned, she would be subjected to an endlesspersecution as to the duty of accepting that money from CaptainAylmer. But her present feelings would have made her much preferto beg her bread upon the roads than accept her late lover'sgenerosity. And then again, how could she explain to her father Mrs.Winterfield's mistake about her own position without seeming toaccuse her father of having robbed her? But nevertheless she mustsay something, as Mr. Amedroz continued to apply that epithet ofheartless to Mrs. Winterfield, going on with it in a low d
roningtone, that was more injurious to Clara's ears than the first fullenergy of his anger. "Heartless,--quite heartless;--shockinglyheartless,--shockingly heartless!"

  "The truth is, papa," Clara said at last, "that when my aunt toldme about her will, she did not know but what I had some adequateprovision from my own family."

  "Oh, Clara!"

  "That is the truth, papa;--for she explained the whole thing to me.I could not tell her that she was mistaken, and thus ask for hermoney."

  "But she knew everything about that poor wretched boy." And now thefather dropped back into his chair, and buried his face in his hands.

  When he did this Clara again knelt at his feet. She felt that she hadbeen cruel, and that she had defended her aunt at the cost of her ownfather. She had, as it were, thrown in his teeth his own imprudence,and twitted him with the injuries which he had done to her. "Papa,"she said, "dear papa, do not think about it at all. What is the use?After all, money is not everything. I care nothing for money. If youwill only agree to banish the subject altogether, we shall be socomfortable."

  "How is it to be banished?"

  "At any rate we need not speak of it. Why should we talk on a subjectwhich is simply uncomfortable, and which we cannot mend?"

  "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" And now he swayed himself backwards andforwards in his chair, bewailing his own condition and hers, and hispast imprudence, while the tears ran down his cheeks. She still kneltthere at his feet, looking up into his face with loving, beseechingeyes, praying him to be comforted, and declaring that all would stillbe well if he would only forget the subject, or, at any rate, ceaseto speak of it. But still he went on wailing, complaining of his lotas a child complains, and refusing all consolation. "Yes; I know,"said he, "it has all been my fault. But how could I help it? What wasI to do?"

  "Papa, nobody has said that anything was your fault; nobody hasthought so."

  "I never spent anything on myself--never, never; and yet,--andyet,--and yet--!"

  "Look at it with more courage, papa. After all, what harm will it beif I should have to go out and earn my own bread like any other youngwoman? I am not afraid."

  At last he wept himself into an apathetic tranquillity, as though hehad at present no further power for any of the energy of grief; andshe left him while she went about the house and learned how thingshad gone on during her absence. It seemed, from the tidings whichthe servant gave her, that he had been ill almost since she had beengone. He had, at any rate, chosen to take his meals in his own room,and as far as was remembered, had not once left the house since shehad been away. He had on two or three occasions spoken of Mr. Belton,appearing to be anxious for his coming, and asking questions as tothe cattle and the work that was still going on about the place; andClara, when she returned to his room, tried to interest him againabout her cousin. But he had in truth been too much distressed by theill news as to Mrs. Winterfield's will to be able to rally himself,and the evening that was spent up in his room was very comfortlessto both of them. Clara had her own sorrows to bear as well as herfather's, and could take no pleasant look out into the world of herown circumstances. She had gained her lover merely to lose him,--andhad lost him under circumstances that were very painful to herwoman's feeling. Though he had been for one night betrothed to her asher husband, he had never loved her. He had asked her to be his wifesimply in fulfilment of a death-bed promise! The more she thoughtof it the more bitter did the idea of it become to her. And shecould not also but think of her cousin. Poor Will! He, at any rate,had loved her, though his eagerness in love had been, as she toldherself, but short-lived. As she thought of him, it seemed but theother day that he had been with her up on the rock in the park;--butas she thought of Captain Aylmer, to whom she had become engaged onlyyesterday, and from whom she had separated herself only that morning,she felt that an eternity of time had passed since she had partedfrom him.

  On the following day, a dull, dark, melancholy day, towards the endof November, she went out to saunter about the park, leaving herfather still in his bedroom, and after a while made her way down tothe cottage. She found Mrs. Askerton as usual alone in the littledrawing-room, sitting near the window with a book in her hand; butClara knew at once that her friend had not been reading,--that shehad been sitting there looking out upon the clouds, with her mindfixed upon things far away. The general cheerfulness of this womanhad often been cause of wonder to Clara, who knew how many of herhours were passed in solitude; but there did occasionally come uponher periods of melancholy in which she was unable to act up to thesettled rule of her life, and in which she would confess that thedays and weeks and months were too long for her.

  "So you are back," said Mrs. Askerton, as soon as the first greetingwas over.

  "Yes; I am back."

  "I supposed you would not stay there long after the funeral."

  "No; what good could I do?"

  "And Captain Aylmer is still there, I suppose?"

  "I left him at Perivale."

  There was a slight pause, as Mrs. Askerton hesitated before she askedher next question. "May I be told anything about the will?" she said.

  "The weary will! If you knew how I hated the subject you would notask me. But you must not think I hate it because it has given menothing."

  "Given you nothing?"

  "Nothing! But that does not make me hate it. It is the nature of thesubject that is so odious. I have now told you all,--everything thatthere is to be told, though we were to talk for a week. If you aregenerous you will not say another word about it."

  "But I am so sorry."

  "There,--that's it. You won't perceive that the expression of suchsorrow is a personal injury to me. I don't want you to be sorry."

  "How am I to help it?"

  "You need not express it. I don't come pitying you for supposedtroubles. You have plenty of money; but if you were so poor that youcould eat nothing but cold mutton, I shouldn't condole with you as tothe state of your larder. I should pretend to think that poultry andpiecrust were plentiful with you."

  "No, you wouldn't, dear;--not if I were as dear to you as you are tome."

  "Well, then, be sorry; and let there be an end of it. Remember howmuch of all this I must of necessity have to go through with poorpapa."

  "Ah, yes; I can believe that."

  "And he is so far from well. Of course you have not seen him sinceI have been gone."

  "No; we never see him unless he comes up to the gate there." Thenthere was another pause for a moment. "And what about CaptainAylmer?" asked Mrs. Askerton.

  "Well;--what about him?"

  "He is the heir now?"

  "Yes;--he is the heir."

  "And that is all?"

  "Yes; that is all. What more should there be? The poor old house atPerivale will be shut up, I suppose."

  "I don't care about the old house much, as it is not to be yourhouse."

  "No;--it is not to be my house certainly."

  "There were two ways in which it might have become yours."

  "Though there were ten ways, none of those ways have come my way,"said Clara.

  "Of course I know that you are so close that though there wereanything to tell you would not tell it."

  "I think I would tell you anything that was proper to be told; butnow there is nothing proper,--or improper."

  "Was it proper or improper when Mr. Belton made an offer to you,--asI knew he would do, of course; as I told you that he would? Was thatso improper that it could not be told?"

  Clara was aware that the tell-tale colour in her face at once tookfrom her the possibility of even pretending that the allegation wasuntrue, and that in any answer she might give she must acknowledgethe fact. "I do not think," she said, "that it is considered fair togentlemen to tell such stories as that."

  "Then I can only say that the young ladies I have known are generallyvery unfair."

  "But who told you?"

  "Who told me? My maid. Of course she got it from yours. Those thingsare always known." br />
  "Poor Will!"

  "Poor Will, indeed. He is coming here again, I hear, almostimmediately, and it needn't be 'poor Will' unless you like it. But asfor me, I am not going to be an advocate in his favour. I tell youfairly that I did not like what little I saw of poor Will."

  "I like him of all things."

  "You should teach him to be a little more courteous in his demeanourto ladies; that is all. I will tell you something else, too, aboutpoor Will--but not now. Some other day I will tell you something ofyour cousin Will."

  Clara did not care to ask any questions as to this something that wasto be told, and therefore took her leave and went away.