CHAPTER XVIII.
MRS. ASKERTON'S STORY.
When Clara received the letter from Captain Aylmer on which so muchis supposed to hang, she made up her mind to say nothing of it to anyone,--not to think of it if she could avoid thinking of it,--till hercousin should have left her. She could not mention it to him; for,though there was no one from whom she would sooner have asked advicethan from him, even on so delicate a matter as this, she could not doso in the present case, as her informant was her cousin's successfulrival. When, therefore, Mrs. Askerton on leaving the church hadspoken some customary word to Clara, begging her to come to thecottage on the following day, Clara had been unable to answer,--nothaving as yet made up her mind whether she would or would not goto the cottage again. Of course the idea of consulting her fatheroccurred to her,--or rather the idea of telling him; but any suchtelling would lead to some advice from him which she would findit difficult to obey, and to which she would be unable to trust.And, moreover, why should she repeat this evil story against herneighbours?
She had a long morning by herself after Will had started, and thenshe endeavoured to arrange her thoughts and lay down for herself aline of conduct. Presuming this story to be true, to what did itamount? It certainly amounted to very much. If, in truth, this womanhad left her own husband and gone away to live with another man, shehad by doing so,--at any rate while she was doing so,--fallen in sucha way as to make herself unfit for the society of an unmarried youngwoman who meant to keep her name unblemished before the world. Clarawould not attempt any further unravelling of the case, even in herown mind;--but on that point she could not allow herself to have adoubt. Without condemning the unhappy victim, she understood wellthat she would owe it to all those who held her dear, if not toherself, to eschew any close intimacy with one in such a position.The rules of the world were too plainly written to allow her to guideherself by any special judgment of her own in such a matter. Butif this friend of hers,--having been thus unfortunate,--had sinceredeemed, 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 aprevious knowledge of such a story she would probably have avoidedany intimacy with Mrs. Askerton. She would then have been justifiedin choosing whether such intimacy should or should not exist, andwould so have chosen out of deference to the world's opinion. Butnow it was too late for that. Mrs. Askerton had for years been herfriend; and Clara had to ask herself _this_ question; was it nowneedful,--did her own feminine purity demand,--that she should throwher friend over because in past years her life had been tainted bymisconduct.
It was clear enough at any rate that this was expected fromher,--nay, imperatively demanded by him who was to be her lord,--byhim to whom her future obedience would be due. Whatever might be herimmediate decision, he would have a right to call upon her to beguided by his judgment as soon as she would become his wife. Andindeed, she felt that he had such right now,--unless she shoulddecide that no such right should be his, now or ever. It was stillwithin her power to say that she could not submit herself to such arule as his,--but having received his commands she must do that orobey them. Then she declared to herself, not following the matter outlogically, but urged to her decision by sudden impulse, that at anyrate she would not obey Lady Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, inany such matter, with Lady Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god toher. That question about the house at Perivale had been very painfulto her. She felt that she could have endured the dreary solitude atPerivale without complaint, if, after her marriage, her husband'scircumstances had made such a mode of living expedient. But to havebeen asked to pledge her consent to such a life before her marriage,to feel that he was bargaining for the privilege of being rid ofher, to know that the Aylmer people were arranging that he, if hewould marry her, should be as little troubled with his wife aspossible;--all this had been very grievous to her. She had triedto console herself by the conviction that Lady Aylmer,--notFrederic,--had been the sinner; but even in that consolation therehad been the terrible flaw that the words had come to her written byFrederic's hand. Could Will Belton have written such a letter to hisfuture wife?
In her present emergency she must be guided by her own judgment orher own instincts,--not by any edicts from Aylmer Park! If in whatshe might do she should encounter the condemnation of Captain Aylmer,she would answer him,--she would be driven to answer him,--bycounter-condemnation of him and his mother. Let it be so. Anythingwould be better than a mean, truckling subservience to the imperiousmistress of Aylmer Park.
But what should she do as regarded Mrs. Askerton? That the story wastrue she was beginning to believe. That there was some such historywas made certain to her by the promise which Mrs. Askerton had givenher.
"If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I willanswer them." Such a promise would not have been volunteered unlessthere was something special to be told. It would be best, perhaps, todemand from Mrs. Askerton the fulfilment of this promise. But thenin doing so she must own from whence her information had come. Mrs.Askerton had told her that the "communication" would be made by hercousin 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 excusefor her not going to the cottage. On the Wednesday her father wasill, 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? ColonelAskerton has been away since yesterday morning, and I am forgettingthe sound of my own voice. I did not trouble you when your divinecousin was here,--for reasons; but unless you come to me now Ishall think that his divinity has prevailed. Colonel Askerton is inIreland, about some property, and will not be back till next week."
Clara sent back a promise by the messenger, and on the followingmorning she put on her hat and shawl, and started on her dreadedtask. When she left the house she had not even yet quite made up hermind what she would do. At first she put her lover's letter intoher pocket, so that she might have it for reference; but, on secondthoughts, she replaced it in her desk, dreading lest she might bepersuaded into showing or reading some part of it. There had come asharp frost after the rain, and the ground was hard and dry. In orderthat she might gain some further last moment for thinking, she walkedround, up among the rocks, instead of going straight to the cottage;and for a moment,--though the air was sharp with frost,--she sat uponthe stone where she had been seated when her cousin Will blurted outthe misfortune of his heart. She sat there on purpose that she mightthink of him, and recall his figure, and the tones of his voice, andthe look of his eyes, and the gesture of his face. What a man hewas;--so tender, yet so strong; so thoughtful of others, and yet soself-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 afault;--but now,--with a full knowledge of what she was doing, butwithout any intention of doing it,--she acquitted him of that onefault. Now that she could acquit him, she owned that it would havebeen a fault. To have loved, and so soon to have forgotten it! No; hehad loved her truly, and alas! he was one who could not be made toforget it. Then she went on to the cottage, exercising her thoughtsrather on the contrast between the two men than on the subject towhich she should have applied them.
"So you have come at last!" said Mrs. Askerton. "Till I got yourmessage I thought there was to be some dreadful misfortune."
"What misfortune?"
"Something dreadful! One often anticipates something very bad withoutexactly knowing what. At least, I do. I am always expecting acatastrophe;--when I am alone that is;--and then I am so oftenalone."
"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 Ind
ia we lived close to the powder magazine,and we were always expecting to be blown up. You never lived near apowder magazine."
"No, never;--unless there's one at Belton. But I should have thoughtthat was exciting."
"And then there was the gentleman who always had the sword hangingover 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 theresults at last of your cousin's diligence as a detective officer?"
"Mrs. Askerton, you wrong my cousin greatly. He never once mentionedyour name while he was with us. He did not make a single allusion toyou, 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 makinginquiries."
"But why should you say that there is a powder magazine, or a swordhanging over your head?"
"Ah, why?"
Here was the subject ready opened to her hand, and yet Clara did notknow how to go on with it. It seemed to her now that it would havebeen easier for her to commence it, if Mrs. Askerton had made nocommencement herself. As it was, she knew not how to introduce thesubject of Captain Aylmer's letter, and was almost inclined to wait,thinking that Mrs. Askerton might tell her own story without any suchintroduction. But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. Mrs. Askertonbegan to talk of the frost, and then went on to abuse Ireland,complaining of the hardship her husband endured in being forced to gothither in winter to look after his tenants.
"What did you mean," said Clara, at last, "by the sword hanging overyour head?"
"I think I told you what I meant pretty plainly. If you did notunderstand 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 youtalked 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 anyquestion 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 beinquired into?"
"But you courted such inquiry from me."
"No, Clara, I did not do that. I'll tell you what I did. I gave youto understand that if it was needful that you should hear aboutme and my antecedents,--certain matters as to which Mr. Beltonhad been inquiring into in a manner that I thought to be mostunjustifiable,--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 forquarrelling with you. If I wished to tell you I could do so withoutany 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 asI am,--living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance,except yourself,--should often feel a longing for that comfort whichfull confidence between us would give me."
"Then why not--"
"Stop a moment. Can't you understand that I may feel this, and yetentertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tellour own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a womanburns to make a full confession, who would be as mute as death beforea 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 actingalmost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in factaware of all the circumstances which Mrs. Askerton could tell;--butshe did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. Shesincerely wished that Mrs. Askerton should be made acquainted withthe truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which didnot make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy wasdistressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried,eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longerany doubt between them.
"Mrs. Askerton," she said, "I know it all. There is nothing for youto 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 washere?" As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood beforeClara with flashing eyes.
"Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any onebelonging 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 youhad said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shallbelieve your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from anyother 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 longingto be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced uponme,--partly by yourself?"
"And the other part;--who has forced that upon you? Who is yourinformant? If you mean to be generous, be generous altogether. Is ita man or a woman that has taken the trouble to rip up old sorrowsthat my name may be blackened? But what matters? There;--I wasmarried to Captain Berdmore. I left him, and went away with mypresent husband. For three years I was a man's mistress, and nothis wife. When that poor creature died we were married, and thencame here. Now you know it all;--all;--all,--though doubtless yourinformant has made a better story of it. After that, perhaps, I havebeen 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 onecan ever know how I suffered before I was driven to escape, or howgood to me has been he who--who--who--" Then she turned her back uponClara, and, walking off to the window, stood there, hiding the tearswhich clouded her eyes, and concealing the sobs which choked herutterance.
For some moments,--for a space which seemed long to both ofthem,--Clara kept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak, andthough she longed to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. Atlast she too rose and followed the other to the window. She utteredno words, however, but gently putting her arm around Mrs. Askerton'swaist, stood there close to her, looking out upon the cold wintryflower-beds,--not venturing to turn her eyes upon her companion. Themotion of her arm was at first very gentle, but after a while shepressed it closer, and thus by degrees drew her friend to her with aneager, warm, and enduring pressure. Mrs. Askerton made some littleeffort towards repelling her, some faint motion of resistance; butas 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 tearswhich were blinding their eyes, but gazing out through the moistureon the bleak wintry scene before them. Clara's mind was the moreactive at the moment, for she was resolving that in this episodeof her life she would accept no lesson whatever from Lady Aylmer'steaching;--no, nor any lesson whatever from the teaching of anyAylmer in existence. And as for the world's rules, she would fitherself to them as best she could; but no such fitting should driveher to the unwomanly cruelty of deserting this woman whom she hadknown and loved,--and whom she now loved with a fervour which she hadnever 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 stillclo
ser. "Do you not know yet?" Then, turning herself half round, sheclasped the other woman full in her arms, and kissed her forehead andher 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 familyat Aylmer Park.
"Your husband will tell you so."
"I have no husband,--as yet,--to order me what to think or what notto 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 hetakes me, he must take me as I am, not as he might possibly havewished me to be. Lady Aylmer--"
"And does Lady Aylmer know it?"
"Yes. Lady Aylmer is one of those hard, severe women who neverforgive."
"Ah, I see it all now. I understand it all. Clara, you must forgetme, and come here no more. You shall not be ruined because you aregenerous."
"Ruined! If Lady Aylmer's displeasure can ruin me, I must put up withruin. I will not accept her for my guide. I am too old, and have hadmy own way too long. Do not let that thought trouble you. In thismatter 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 tellhim, 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 thatI 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 thatwhich has made honesty to me impossible. My life has been a lie; andyet how could I help it? I must live somewhere,--and how could I liveanywhere without deceit?"
"And yet that is so sad."
"Sad indeed! But what could I do? Of course I was wrong in thebeginning. Though how am I to regret it, when it has given me such ahusband as I have? Ah!--if you could know it all, I think,--I thinkyou would forgive me."
Then by degrees she told it all, and Clara was there for hourslistening to her story. The reader will not care to hear more ofit than he has heard. Nor would Clara have desired any closerrevelation; 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 foolishengagement, her belief, her half-belief, in the man's reformation, ofthe miseries which resulted from his vices, of her escape and shame,of her welcome widowhood, and of her second marriage. And as she toldit, she paused at every point to insist on the goodness of him whowas now her husband. "I shall tell him this," she said at last, "asI do everything; and then he will know that I have in truth got afriend."
She asked again and again about Mr. Belton, but Clara could only tellher that she knew nothing of her cousin's knowledge. Will might haveheard it all, but if so he had kept his information to himself.
"And now what shall you do?" Mrs. Askerton asked of Clara, at lengthprepared 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 hismother 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 Imust go now. Papa will complain that I am so long away." Then therewas another embrace, and at last Clara found her way out of the houseand was alone again in the park.
She clearly acknowledged to herself that she had a great difficultybefore her. She had committed herself altogether to Mrs. Askerton,and could no longer entertain any thought of obeying the very plainlyexpressed commands which Captain Aylmer had given her. The story astold by Captain Aylmer had been true throughout; but, in the teethof that truth, she intended to maintain her acquaintance with Mrs.Askerton. From that there was now no escape. She had been carriedaway by impulse in what she had done and said at the cottage, butshe could not bring herself to regret it. She could not believe thatit was her duty to throw over and abandon a woman whom she loved,because that woman had once, in her dire extremity, fallen away fromthe path of virtue. But how was she to write the letter?
When she reached her father he complained of her absence, and almostscolded 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 goodfor 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 atPerivale. But you are going soon, altogether, so I suppose I may aswell 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 inwhich neither party is very anxious for an immediate change." Therewas something bitter in Clara's tone as she said this, which the oldman perceived, but could only half understand. Clara remained withhim 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 hedozed. Her winter evenings at Belton Castle were not very bright, butshe was used to them and made no complaint.
When she left her father for the night she got out her desk andprepared herself for her letter to her lover. She was determinedthat it should be finished that night before she went to bed. And itwas so finished; though the writing of it gave her much labour, andoccupied her till the late hours had come upon her. When completed itwas as follows:--
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 ba
dly 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.