THE BELTON ESTATE

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in serial form in the _Fortnightly Review_in 1865 and in book form the same year

CHAPTER I

THE REMNANTS OF THE AMEDROZ FAMILY

Mrs Amedroz, the wife of Bernard Amedroz, Esq, of Belton Castle, andmother of Charles and Clara Amedroz, died when those children wereonly eight and six years old, thereby subjecting them to the greatestmisfortune which children born in that sphere of life can be made tosuffer. And, in the case of this boy and girl, the misfortune wasaggravated greatly by the peculiarities of the father's character. MrAmedroz was not a bad man as men are held to be bad in the world'sesteem. He was not vicious was not a gambler or a drunkard was notself-indulgent to a degree that brought upon him any reproach; norwas he regardless of his children. But he was an idle, thriftlessman, who, at the age of sixty-seven, when the reader will first makehis acquaintance, had as yet done no good in the world whatever. Indeed he had done terrible evil; for his son Charles was now deadhad perished by his own hand and the state of things which hadbrought about this woeful event had been chiefly due to the father'sneglect. 

Belton Castle is a pretty country seat, standing in a small butbeautifully wooded park, close under the Quantock hills inSomersetshire; and the little town of Belton clusters round the parkgates. Few Englishmen know the scenery of England well, and theprettinesses of Somersetshire are among those which are the leastknown. But the Quantock hills are very lovely, with their richvalleys lying close among them, and their outlying moorlands runningoff towards Dulverton and the borders of Devonshire moorlands whichare not flat, like Salisbury Plain, but are broken into ravines anddeep watercourses and rugged dells hither and thither; where old oaksare standing, in which life seems to have dwindled down to the lastspark; but the last spark is still there, and the old oaks give forththeir scanty leaves from year to year. 

In among the hills, somewhat off the high road from Minehead toTaunton, and about five miles from the sea, stands the little town, or village, of Belton, and the modern house of Mr Amedroz, which iscalled Belton Castle. The village for it is in truth no more, thoughit still maintains a charter for a market, and there still exists onTuesdays some pretence of an open sale of grain and butcher's meat inthe square before the church-gate contains about two thousandpersons. That and the whole parish of Belton did once and that notlong ago belong to the Amedroz family. They had inherited it from theBeltons of old, an Amedroz having married the heiress of the family. And as the parish is large, stretching away to Exmoor on one side andalmost to the sea on the other, containing the hamlet of Redicote, lying on the Taunton high road Redicote, where the post-office isplaced, a town almost in itself, and one which is now much moreprosperous than Belton as the property when it came to the firstAmedroz had limits such as these, the family had been considerable inthe county. But these limits had been straitened in the days of thegrandfather and the father of Bernard Amedroz; and he, when hemarried a Miss Winterfield of Taunton, was thought to have done verywell, in that mortgages were paid off the property with his wife'smoney to such an extent as to leave him in clear possession of anestate that gave him two thousand a year. As Mr Amedroz had no grandneighbours near him, as the place is remote and the living thereforecheap, and as with this income there was no question of annual visitsto London, Mr and Mrs Amedroz might have done very well with such ofthe good things of the world as had fallen to their lot. And had thewife lived, such would probably have been the case; for theWinterfields were known to be prudent people. But Mrs Amedroz haddied young, and things with Bernard Amedroz had gone badly. 

And yet the evil had not been so much with him as with that terribleboy of his. The father had been nearly forty when he married. He hadthen never done any good; but as neither had he done much harm, thefriends of the family had argued well of his future career. Afterhim, unless he should leave a son behind him, there would be noAmedroz left among the Quantock hills; and by some arrangement inrespect to that Winterfield money which came to him on his marriagethe Winterfields having a long-dated connexion with the Beltons ofold the Amedroz property was, at Bernard's marriage, entailed backupon a distant Belton cousin, one Will Belton, whom no one had seenfor many years, but who was by blood nearer the squire in default ofchildren of his own than any other of his relatives. And now WillBelton was the heir to Belton Castle; for Charles Amedroz, at the ageof twenty-seven, had found the miseries of the world to be too manyfor him, and had put an end to them and to himself. 

Charles had been a clever fellow a very clever fellow in the eyes ofhis father. Bernard Amedroz knew that he himself was not a cleverfellow, and admired his son accordingly; and when Charles had beenexpelled from Harrow for some boyish freak in his vengeance against aneighbouring farmer, who had reported to the school authorities thedoings of a few beagles upon his land, Charles had cut off the headsof all the trees in a young fir plantation his father was proud ofthe exploit. When he was rusticated a second time from Trinity, andwhen the father received an intimation that his son's name had betterbe taken from the College books, the squire was not so well pleased;but even then he found some delight in the stories which reached himof his son's vagaries; and when the young man commenced Bohemian lifein London, his father did nothing to restrain him. Then there camethe old story debts, endless debts; and lies, endless lies. Duringthe two years before his death, his father paid for him, or undertookto pay, nearly ten thousand pounds, sacrificing the life assuranceswhich were to have made provision for his daughter; sacrificing, to agreat extent, his own life income sacrificing everything, so that theproperty might not be utterly ruined at his death. That CharlesAmedroz should be a brighter, greater man than any other Amedroz, hadstill been the father's pride. At the last visit which Charles hadpaid to Belton his father had called upon him to pledge himselfsolemnly that his sister should not be made to suffer by what hadbeen done for him. Within a month of that time he had blown hisbrains out in his London lodgings, thus making over the entireproperty to Will Belton at his father's death. At that last pretendedsettlement with his father and his father's lawyer, he had kept backthe mention of debts as heavy nearly as those to which he had owned;and there were debts of honour, too, of which he had not spoken, trusting to the next event at Newmarket to set him right. The nextevent at Newmarket had set him more wrong than ever, and so there hadcome an end to everything with Charles Amedroz. 

This had happened in the spring, and the afflicted father afflictedwith the double sorrow of his son's terrible death and his daughter'sruin had declared that he would turn his face to the wall and die. But the old squire's health, though far from strong, was strongerthan he had deemed it, and his feelings, sharp enough, were lesssharp than he thought them; and when a month had passed by, he haddiscovered that it would be better that he should live, in order thathis daughter might still have bread to eat and a house of her ownover her head. Though he was now an impoverished man, there was stillleft to him the means of keeping up the old home; and he told himselfthat it must, if possible, be so kept that a few pounds annuallymight be put by for Clara. The old carriage-horses were sold, and thepark was let to a farmer, up to the hall door of the castle. So muchthe squire could do; but as to the putting by of the few pounds, anydependence on such exertion as that on his part would, we may say, bevery precarious. 

Belton Castle was not in truth a castle. Immediately before the frontdoor, so near to the house as merely to allow of a broad road runningbetween it and the entrance porch, there stood an old tower, whichgave its name to the residence an old square tower, up which theAmedroz boys for three generations had been able to climb by means ofthe ivy and broken stones in one of the inner corners and this towerwas a remnant of a real castle that had once protected the village ofBelton. The house itself was an ugly residence, three stories high, built in the time of George II, with low rooms and long passages, and an immense number of doors. It was a large unattractivehouse--unattractive that is, as regarded its own attributes but madeinteresting by the beauty of the small park in which it stood. BeltonPark did not, perhaps, contain much above a hundred acres, but theland was so broken into knolls and valleys, in so many places was therock seen to be cropping up through the verdure, there were in it somany stunted old oaks, so many points of vantage for the lover ofscenery, that no one would believe it to be other than a considerabledomain. The farmer who took it, and who would not under anycircumstances undertake to pay more than seventeen shillings an acrefor it, could not be made to think that it was in any wayconsiderable. But Belton Park, since first it was made a park, hadnever before been regarded in this fashion. Farmer Stovey, of theGrange, was the first man of that class who had ever assumed theright to pasture his sheep in Belton chase as the people around werestill accustomed to call the woodlands of the estate. 

It was full summer at Belton, and four months had now passed sincethe dreadful tidings had reached the castle. It was full summer, andthe people of the village were again going about their ordinarybusiness; and the shop-girls with their lovers from Redicote wereagain to be seen walking among the oaks in the park on a Sundayevening; and the world in that district of Somersetshire was gettingitself back into its grooves. The fate of the young heir haddisturbed the grooves greatly, and had taught many in those parts tofeel that the world was coming to an end. They had not loved youngAmedroz, for he had been haughty when among them, and there had beenwrongs committed by the dissolute young squire, and grief had comefrom his misdoings upon more than one household; but to think that heshould have destroyed himself with his own hand! And then, to thinkthat Miss Clara would become a beggar when the old squire should die!All the neighbours around understood the whole history of the entail, and knew that the property was to go to Will Belton. Now Will Beltonwas not a gentleman! So, at least, said the Belton folk, who hadheard that the heir had been brought up as a farmer somewhere inNorfolk. Will Belton had once been at the Castle as a boy, now somefifteen years ago, and then there had sprung up a great quarrelbetween him and his distant cousin Charles and Will, who was roughand large of stature, had thrashed the smaller boy severely; and thething had grown to have dimensions larger than those which generallyattend the quarrels of boys; and Will had said something which hadshown how well he understood his position in reference to the estateand Charles had hated him. So Will had gone, and had been no moreseen among the oaks whose name he bore. And the people, in spite ofhis name, regarded him as an interloper. To them, with their shortmemories and scanty knowledge of the past, Amedroz was morehonourable than Belton, and they looked upon the coming man as anintruder. Why should not Miss Clara have the property? Miss Clara hadnever done harm to any one!

Things got back into their old grooves, and at the end of the thirdmonth the squire was once more seen in the old family pew at church. He was a large man, who had been very handsome, and who now, in hisyellow leaf, was not without a certain beauty of manliness. He worehis hair and his beard long; before his son's death they were grey, but now they were very white. And though he stooped, there was stilla dignity in his slow step a dignity that came to him from naturerather than from any effort. He was a man who, in fact, did little ornothing in the world whose life had been very useless; but he hadbeen gifted with such a presence that he looked as though he were oneof God's nobler creatures. Though always dignified he was everaffable, and the poor liked him better than they might have done hadhe passed his time in searching out their wants and supplying them. They were proud of their squire, though he had done nothing for them. It was something to them to have a man who could so carry himselfsitting in the family pew in their parish church. They knew that hewas poor, but they all declared that he was never mean. He was a realgentleman was this last Amedroz of the family; therefore theycurtsied low, and bowed on his reappearance among them, and made allthose signs of reverential awe which are common to the poor when theyfeel reverence for the presence of a superior. 

Clara was there with him, but she had shown herself in the pew forfour or five weeks before this. She had not been at home when thefearful news had reached Belton, being at that time with a certainlady who lived on the farther side of the county, at Perivale acertain Mrs Winterfield, born a Folliott, a widow, who stood to MissAmedroz in the place of an aunt. Mrs Winterfield was, in truth, thesister of a gentleman who had married Clara's aunt there having beenmarriages and intermarriages between the Winterfields and theFolliotts and the Belton-Amedroz families. With this lady in Perivale, which I maintain to be the dullest little town in England, MissAmedroz was staying when the news reached her father, and when it wasbrought direct from London to herself. Instantly she had hurriedhome, taking the journey with all imaginable speed though her heartwas all but broken within her bosom. She had found her fatherstricken to the ground, and it was the more necessary, therefore, that she should exert herself. It would not do that she also shouldyield to that longing for death which terrible calamities oftenproduce for a season. 

Clara Amedroz, when she first heard the news of her brother's fate, had felt that she was for ever crushed to the ground. She had knowntoo well what had been the nature of her brother's life, but she hadnot expected or feared any such termination to his career as thiswhich had now come upon him to the terrible affliction of allbelonging to him. She felt at first, as did also her father, that sheand he were annihilated as regards this world, not only by anenduring grief, but also by a disgrace which would never allow heragain to hold up her head. And for many a long year much of thisfeeling clung to her clung to her much more strongly than to herfather. But strength was hers to perceive, even before she hadreached her home, that it was her duty to repress both the feeling ofshame and the sorrow, as far as they were capable of repression. Herbrother had been weak, and in his weakness had sought a coward'sescape from the ills of the world around him. She must not also be acoward! Bad as life might be to her henceforth, she must endure itwith such fortitude as she could muster. So resolving she returned toher father, and was able to listen to his railings with a fortitudethat was essentially serviceable both to him and to herself. 

'Both of you! Both of you!' the unhappy father had said in his woe. 'The wretched boy has destroyed you as much as himself!' 'No, sir, 'she had answered, with a forbearance in her misery, which, terribleas was the effort, she forced herself to accomplish for his sake. 'Itis not so. No thought of that need add to your grief. My poor brotherhas not hurt me not in the way you mean. ' 'He has ruined us all, 'said the father; 'root and branch, man and woman, old and young, house and land. He has brought the family to an end ah me, to such anend!' After that the name of him who had taken himself from amongthem was not mentioned between the father and daughter, and Clarasettled herself to the duties of her new life, striving to live asthough there was no great sorrow around her as though no cloud-stormhad burst over her head. 

The family lawyer, who lived at Taunton, had communicated the fact ofCharles's death to Mr Belton, and Belton had acknowledged the letterwith the ordinary expressions of regret. The lawyer had alluded tothe entail, saying that it was improbable that Mr Amedroz would haveanother son. To this Belton had replied that for his cousin Clara'ssake he hoped that the squire's life might be long spared. The lawyersmiled as he read the wish, thinking to himself that luckily no wishon the part of Will Belton could influence his old client either forgood or evil. What man, let alone what lawyer, will ever believe inthe sincerity of such a wish as that expressed by the heir to aproperty? And yet where is the man who will not declare to himselfthat such, under such circumstances, would be his own wish?

Clara Amedroz at this time was not a very young lady. She had alreadypassed her twenty-fifth birthday, and in manners, appearance, andhabits was, at any rate, as old as her age. She made no pretence toyouth, speaking of herself always as one whom circumstances requiredto take upon herself age in advance of her years. She did not dressyoung, or live much with young people, or correspond with other girlsby means of crossed letters; nor expect that, for her, youngpleasures should be provided. Life had always been serious with her;but now, we may say, since the terrible tragedy lit the family, itmust be solemn as well as serious. The memory of her brother mustalways be upon her; and the memory also of the fact that her fatherwas now an impoverished man, on whose behalf it was her duty to carethat every shilling spent in the house did its full twelve pennies'worth of work. There was a mixture in this of deep tragedy and oflittle cares, which seemed to destroy for her the poetry as well asthe pleasure of life. The poetry and tragedy might have gone hand inhand together; and so might the cares and pleasures of life havedone, had there been no black sorrow of which she must be evermindful. But it was her lot to have to scrutinize the butcher's billas she was thinking of her brother's fate; and to work daily amongsmall household things while the spectre of her brother's corpse wasever before her eyes. 

A word must be said to explain how it had come to pass that the lifeled by Miss Amedroz had been more than commonly serious before thattragedy had befallen the family. The name of the lady who stood toClara in the place of an aunt has been already mentioned. When a girlhas a mother, her aunt may be little or nothing to her. But when themother is gone, if there be an aunt unimpeded with other familyduties, then the family duties of that aunt begin and are assumedsometimes with great vigour. Such had been the case with MrsWinterfield. No woman ever lived, perhaps, with more conscientiousideas of her duty as a woman than Mrs Winterfield of Prospect Place, Perivale. And this, as I say it, is intended to convey no scoffagainst that excellent lady. She was an excellent lady unselfish, given to self-restraint, generous, pious, looking to find in herreligion a safe path through life a path as safe as the facts ofAdam's fall would allow her feet to find. She was a woman fearingmuch for others, but fearing also much for herself, striving tomaintain her house in godliness, hating sin, and struggling with theweakness of her humanity so that she might not allow herself to hatethe sinners. But her hatred for the sin she found herself bound atall times to pronounce to show it by some act at all seasons. Tofight the devil was her work was the appointed work of every livingsoul, if only living souls could be made to acknowledge the necessityof the task. Now an aunt of that kind, when she assumes her dutiestowards a motherless niece, is apt to make life serious. 

But, it will be said, Clara Amedroz could have rebelled; and Clara'sfather was hardly made of such stuff that obedience to the aunt wouldbe enforced on her by parental authority. Doubtless Clara could haverebelled against her aunt. Indeed, I do not know that she hadhitherto been very obedient. But there were family facts about theseWinterfield connexions which would have made it difficult for her toignore her so-called aunt, even had she wished to do so. MrsWinterfield had twelve hundred a year at her own disposal, and shewas the only person related to the Amedroz family from whom MrAmedroz had a right to have expectations on his daughter's behalf. Clara had, in a measure, been claimed by the lady, and the father hadmade good the lady's claim, and Clara had acknowledged that a portionof her life was due to the demands of Perivale. These demands hadundoubtedly made her life serious. 

Life at Perivale was a very serious thing. As regards amusement, ordinarily so called, the need of any such institution was notacknowledged at Prospect House. Food, drink, and raiment wereacknowledged to be necessary to humanity, and, in accordance with therules of that house, they were supplied in plenty, and good of theirkind. Such ladies as Mrs Winterfield generally keep good tables, thinking no doubt that the eatables should do honour to the gracethat is said for them. And Mrs Winterfield herself always wore athick black silk dress not rusty or dowdy with age but with somegloss of the silk on it; giving away, with secret, underhand, undiscovered charity, her old dresses to another lady of her ownsort, on whom fortune had not bestowed twelve hundred a year. And MrsWinterfield kept a low, four-wheeled, one-horsed phaeton, in whichshe made her pilgrimages among the poor of Perivale, driven by themost solemn of stable-boys, dressed up in a great white coat, themost priggish of hats, and white cotton gloves. At the rate of fivemiles an hour was she driven about, and this driving was to her theamusement of life. But such an occupation to Clara Amedroz assistedto make life serious. 

In person Mrs Winterfield was tall and thin, wearing on her brow thinbraids of false hair. She had suffered much from acute ill health, and her jaws were sunken, and her eyes were hollow, and there was alook of woe about her which seemed ever to be telling of her ownsorrows in this world and of the sorrows of others in the world tocome. Ill-nature was written on her face, but in this her face was afalse face. She had the manners of a cross, peevish woman; but hermanners also were false, and gave no proper idea of her character. But still, such as she was, she made life very serious to those whowere called upon to dwell with her. 

I need, I hope, hardly say that a young lady such as Miss Amedroz, even though she had reached the age of twenty-five for at the time towhich I am now alluding she had nearly done so and was not young ofher age, had formed for herself no plan of life in which her aunt'smoney figured as a motive power. She had gone to Perivale when shewas very young, because she had been told to do so, and had continuedto go, partly from obedience, partly from habit, and partly fromaffection. An aunt's dominion, when once well established in earlyyears, cannot easily be thrown altogether aside even though a younglady have a will of her own. Now Clara Amedroz had a strong will ofher own, and did not at all at any rate in these latter days belongto that school of divinity in which her aunt shone almost as aprofessor. And this circumstance, also, added to the seriousness ofher life. But in regard to her aunt's money she had entertained noestablished hopes; and when her aunt opened her mind to her, on thatsubject, a few days before the arrival of the fatal news at Perivale, Clara, though she was somewhat surprised, was by no meansdisappointed. Now there was a certain Captain Aylmer in the question, of whom in this opening chapter it will be necessary to say a fewwords. 

Captain Frederic Folliott Aylmer was, in truth, the nephew of MrsWinterfield, whereas Clara Amedroz was not, in truth, her niece. AndCaptain Aylmer was also Member of Parliament for the little boroughof Perivale, returned altogether on the Low Church interest for adevotion to which, and for that alone, Perivale was noted amongboroughs. These facts together added not a little to MrsWinterfield's influence and professorial power in the place, and gavea dignity to the one-horse chaise which it might not otherwise havepossessed. But Captain Aylmer was only the second son of his father, Sir Anthony Aylmer, who had married a Miss Folliott, sister of ourMrs Winterfield. On Frederic Aylmer his mother's estate was settled. That and Mrs Winterfield's property lay in the neighbourhood ofPerivale; and now, on the occasion to which I am alluding, MrsWinterfield thought it necessary to tell Clara that the property mustall go together. She had thought about it, and had doubted about it, and had prayed about it, and now she found that such a disposition ofit was her duty. 

'I am quite sure you're right, aunt, ' Clara had said. She knew verywell what had come of that provision which her father had attemptedto make for her, and knew also how great were her father'sexpectations in regard to Mrs Winterfield's money. 

'I hope I am; but I have thought it right to tell you. I shall feelmyself bound to tell Frederic. I have had many doubts, but I think Iam right. '

'I am sure you are, aunt. What would he think of me if, at somefuture time, he should have to find that I had been in his way?'

'The future time will not be long now, my dear. '

'I hope it may; but long or short, it is better so. '

'I think it is, my dear; I think it is. I think it is my duty. '

It must be understood that Captain Aylmer was member for Perivale onthe Low Church interest, and that, therefore, when at Perivale he wasdecidedly a Low Churchman. I am not aware that the peculiarity stuckto him very closely at Aylmer Castle, in Yorkshire, or among hisfriends in London; but there was no hypocrisy in this, as the worldgoes. Women in such matters are absolutely false if they be notsincere; but men, with political views, and with much of their futureprospects in jeopardy also, are allowed to dress themselvesdifferently for different scenes. Whatever be the peculiar intereston which a man goes into Parliament, of course he has to live up tothat in his own borough. Whether malt, the franchise, or teetotalismbe his rallying point, of course he is full of it when among hisconstituents. But it is not desirable that he should be full of italso at his club. Had Captain Aylmer become Prime Minister, he wouldno doubt have made Low Church bishops. It was the side to which hehad taken himself in that matter not without good reasons. And hecould say a sharp word or two in season about vestments; he wasstrong against candles, and fought for his side fairly well. No onehad good right to complain of Captain Aylmer as being insincere; buthad his aunt known the whole history of her nephew's life, I doubtwhether she would have made him her heir thinking that in doing soshe was doing the best for the good cause. 

The whole history of her niece's life she did know, and she knew thatClara was not with her, heart and soul. Had Clara left the old womanin doubt on this subject, she would have been a hypocrite. CaptainAylmer did not often spend a Sunday at Perivale, but when he did, hewent to church three times, and submitted himself to the yoke. He wasthinking of the borough votes quite as much as of his aunt's money, and was carrying on his business after the fashion of men But Clarafound herself compelled to maintain some sort of a fight, though shealso went to church three times on Sunday. And there was anotherreason why Mrs Winterfield thought it right to mention CaptainAylmer's name to her niece on this occasion. 

'I had hoped', she said, 'that it might make no difference in whatway my money was left. '

Clara well understood what this meant, as will, probably, the readeralso. 'I can't say but what it will make a difference, ' she answered, smiling; 'but I shall always think that you have done right. Whyshould I stand in Captain Aylmer's way?'

'I had hoped your ways might have been the same, ' said the old lady, fretfully. 

'But they cannot be the same. '

'No; you do not see things as he sees them. Things that are seriousto him are, I fear, only light to you. Dear Clara, would I could seeyou more in earnest as to the only matter that is worth ourearnestness. ' Miss Amedroz said nothing as to the Captain'searnestness, though, perhaps, her ideas as to his ideas aboutreligion were more correct than those held by Mrs Winterfield. But itwould not have suited her to raise any argument on that subject. 'Ipray for you, Clara, ' continued the old lady, 'and will do so as longas the power of prayer is left to me. I hope I hope you do not ceaseto pray for yourself?'

'I endeavour, aunt. '

'It is an endeavour which, if really made, never fails. ' Clara saidnothing more, and her aunt also remained silent. Soon afterwards, thefour-wheeled carriage, with the demure stable-boy, came to the door, and Clara was driven up and down through the streets of Perivale in amanner which was an injury to her. She knew that she was suffering aninjustice, but it was one of which she could not make complaint. Shesubmitted to her aunt, enduring the penances that were required ofher; and, therefore, her aunt had opportunity enough to see hershortcomings. Mrs Winterfield did see them, and judged heraccordingly. Captain Aylmer, being a man and a Member of Parliament, was called upon to bear no such penances, and, therefore, hisshortcomings were not suspected. 

But, after all, what title had she ever possessed to entertainexpectations from Mrs Winterfield? When she thought of it all in herroom that night, she told herself that it was strange that her auntshould have spoken to her in such a way on such a subject. But, then, so much had been said to her on the matter by her father, so much, nodoubt, had reached her aunt's ears also, the hope that her positionwith reference to the rich widow at Perivale might be beneficial toher had been so often discussed at Belton as a make-weight againstthe extravagances of the heir, there had already been so much of thismistake, that she taught herself to perceive that the communicationwas needed. 'In her honesty 'she has not chosen to leave me withfalse hopes, ' said Clara to herself. And at that moment she loved heraunt for her honesty. 

Then, on the day but one following this conversation as to thedestiny of her aunt's property, came the terrible tidings of herbrother's death. Captain Aylmer, who had been in London at the time, hurried down to Perivale, and had been the first to tell Miss Amedrozwhat had happened. The words spoken between them had not been many, but Clara knew that Captain Aylmer had been kind to her; and when hehad offered to accompany her to Belton, she had thanked him with adegree of gratitude which had almost seemed to imply more of regardbetween them than Clara would have acknowledged to exist. But inmoments such as those, soft words may be spoken and hands may bepressed without any of that meaning which soft words and the graspingof hands generally carry with them. As far as Taunton Captain Aylmerdid go with Miss Amedroz, and there they parted, he on his journey upto town, and she for her father's desolate house at Belton. 

CHAPTER II

THE HEIR PROPOSES TO VISIT HIS COUSIN

It was full summer at Belton, and the sweet scene of the new hayfilled the porch of the old house with fragrance, as Clara sat therealone with her work. Immediately before the house door, between thatand the old tower, there stood one of Farmer Stovey's hay-carts, nowempty, with an old horse between the shafts looking as though he wereasleep in the sun. Immediately beyond the tower the men were loadinganother cart, and the women and children were chattering as theyraked the scattered remnants up to the rows. Under the shadow of theold tower, but in sight of Clara as she sat in the porch, there laythe small beer-barrels of the hay-makers, and three or four rakeswere standing erect against the old grey wall. It was now eleveno'clock, and Clara was waiting for her father, who was not yet out ofhis room. She had taken his breakfast to him in bed, as was hercustom; for he had fallen into idle ways, and the luxury of his bedwas, of all his remaining luxuries, the one that he liked the best. After a while he came down to her, having an open letter in his hand. Clara saw that he intended either to show it to her or to speak ofit, and asked him therefore, with some tone of interest in her voice, from whom it had come. But Mr Amedroz was fretful at the moment, andinstead of answering her began to complain of his tenant's ill-usageof him. 

'What has he got his cart there for? I haven't let him the road up tothe hall door. I suppose he will bring his things into the parlournext. '

'I rather like it, papa. '

'Do you? I can only say that you're lucky in your tastes. I don'tlike it, I can tell you. '

'Mr Stovey is out there. Shall I ask him to have the things movedfarther off?'

'No, my dear no. I must bear it, as I do all the rest of it. Whatdoes it matter? There'll be an end of it soon. He pays his rent, andI suppose he is right to do as he pleases. But I can't say that Ilike it. '

'Am I to see the letter, papa?' she asked, wishing to turn his mindfrom the subject of the hay-cart. 

'Well, yes. I brought it for you to see; though perhaps I should bedoing better if I burned it, and said nothing more about it. It is amost impudent production; and heartless very heartless. '

Clara was accustomed to such complaints as these from her father. Everything that everybody did around him he would call heartless. Theman pitied himself so much in his own misery, that he expected tolive in an atmosphere of pity from others; and though the pitydoubtless was there, he misdoubted it. He thought that Farmer Stoveywas cruel in that he had left the hay-cart near the house, to woundhis eyes by reminding him that he was no longer master of the groundbefore his own hall door. He thought that the women and children werecruel to chatter so near his ears. He almost accused his daughter ofcruelty, because she had told him that she liked the contiguity ofthe hay-making. Under such circumstances as those which enveloped himand her, was it not heartless in her to like anything? It seemed tohim that the whole world of Belton should be drowned in woe becauseof his misery. 

'Where is it from, papa?' she asked. 

'There, you may read it. Perhaps it is better that you should knowthat it has been written. ' Then she read the letter, which was asfollows:--

'Plaistow Hall, -- July, 186--. '

Though she had never before seen the handwriting, she knew at oncefrom whence came the letter, for she had often heard of PlaistowHall. It was the name of the farm at which her distant cousin, WillBelton, lived, and her father had more than once been at the troubleof explaining to her, that though the place was called a hall, thehouse was no more than a farmhouse. He had never seen Plaistow Hall, and had never been in Norfolk; but so much he could take upon himselfto say, 'They call all the farms halls down there. ' It was notwonderful that he should dislike his heir; and perhaps not unnaturalthat he should show his dislike after this fashion. Clara, when sheread the address, looked up into her father's face. 'You know who itis now, ' he said. And then she read the letter. 

'Plaistow Hall, -- July, 186--. 

'My dear Sir, 'I have not written to you before since your bereavement, thinking itbetter to wait awhile; but I hope you have not taken me to be unkindin this, or have supposed me to be unmindful of your sorrow. Now Itake up my pen, hoping that I may make you understand how greatly Iwas distressed by what has occurred. I believe I am now the nearestmale relative that you have, and as such I am very anxious to be ofservice to you if it may be possible. Considering the closeness ofour connexion, and my position in reference to the property, it seemsbad that we should never meet. I can assure you that you would findme very friendly if we could manage to come together. 

'I should think nothing of running across to Belton, if you wouldreceive me at your house. I could come very well before harvest, ifthat would suit you, and would stay with you for a week. Pray give mykindest regards to my cousin Clara, whom I can only just remember asa very little girl. She was with her aunt at Perivale when I was atBelton as a boy. She shall find a friend in me if she wants a friend. 

'Your affectionate cousin, 'W. BELTON. '

Clara read the letter very slowly, so that she might make herselfsure of its tone and bearing before she was called upon by her fatherto express her feeling respecting it. She knew that she would beexpected to abuse it violently, and to accuse the writer ofvulgarity, insolence, and cruelty, but she had already learned thatshe must not allow herself to accede to all her father's fantasies. For his sake, and for his protection, it was necessary that sheshould differ from him, and even contradict him. Were she not to doso, he would fall into a state of wailing and complaining that wouldexaggerate itself almost to idiotcy. And it was imperative that sheherself should exercise her own opinion on many points, almostwithout reference to him. She alone knew how utterly destitute shewould be when he should die. He, in the first days of his agony, hadsobbed forth his remorse as to her ruin; but, even when doing so, hehad comforted himself with the remembrance of Miss Winterfield'smoney and Mrs Winterfield's affection for his daughter. And the aunt, when she had declared her purpose to Clara, had told herself that theprovision made for Clara by her father was sufficient. To neither ofthem had Clara told her own position. She could not inform her auntthat her father had given up to the poor reprobate who had destroyedhimself all that had been intended for her. Had she done so she wouldhave been asking her aunt for charity. Nor would she bring herself toadd to her father's misery, by destroying the hopes which stillsupported him. She never spoke of her own position in regard tomoney, but she knew that it had become her duty to live a wary, watchful life, taking much upon herself in their impoverishedhousehold, and holding her own opinion against her father's when herdoing so became expedient. So she finished the letter in silence, anddid not speak at the moment when the movement of her eyes declaredthat she had completed the task. 

'Well?' said he. 

'I do not think my cousin means badly. '

'You don't! I do, then. I think he means very badly. What businesshas he to write to me, talking of his position?'

'I can't see anything amiss in his doing so, papa. I think he wishesto be friendly. The property will be his some day, and I don't seewhy that should not be mentioned, when there is occasion. '

'Upon my word, Clara, you surprise me. But women never understooddelicacy in regard to money. They have so little to do with it, andthink so little about it, that they have no occasion for suchdelicacy. '

Clara could not help the thought that to her mind the subject waspresent with sufficient frequency to make delicacy very desirable, ifonly it were practicable. But of this she said nothing. 'And whatanswer will you send to him, papa?' she asked. 

'None at all. Why should I trouble myself to write to him?'

'I will take the trouble off your hands. '

'And what will you say to him?'

'I will ask him to come here, as he proposes. '

'Clara!'

'Why not, papa? He is the heir to the property, and why should he notbe permitted to see it? There are many things in which hisco-operation with you might be a comfort to you. I can't tell youwhether the tenants and people are treating you well, but he can doso; and, moreover, I think he means to be kind. I do not see why weshould quarrel with our cousin because he is the heir to yourproperty. It is not through any doing of his own that he is so. '

This reasoning had no effect upon Mr Amedroz, but his daughter'sresolution carried the point against him in spite of his want ofreason. No letter was written that day, or on the next; but on theday following a formal note was sent off by Clara, in which Mr Beltonwas told that Mr Amedroz would be happy to receive him at BeltonCastle. The letter was written by the daughter, but the father wasresponsible for the formality. He sat over her while she wrote it, and nearly drove her distracted by discussing every word and phrase. At last, Clara was so annoyed with her own production, that she wasalmost tempted to write another letter unknown to her father; but theformal note went. 

'My Dear Sir

'I am desired by my father to say that he will be happy to receiveyou at Belton Castle, at the time fixed by yourself. 

'Yours truly, 'CLARA AMEDROZ. '

There was no more than that, but that had the desired effect; and byreturn of post there came a rejoinder saying that Will Belton wouldbe at the Castle on the fifteenth of August. 'They can do without mefor about ten days, ' he said in his postscript, writing in a familiartone, which did not seem to have been at all checked by the coldnessof his cousin's note 'as our harvest will be late; but I must be backfor a week's work before the partridges. '

'Heartless! quite heartless!' Mr Amedroz said as he read this. 'Partridges! to talk of partridges at such a time as this!'

Clara, however, would not acknowledge that she agreed with herfather; but she could not altogether restrain a feeling on her ownpart that her cousin's good humour towards her and Mr Amedroz shouldhave been repressed by the tone of her letter to him. The man was tocome, however, and she would not judge of him until he was there. 

In one house in the neighbourhood, and in only one, had Miss Amedroza friend with whom she was intimate; and as regarded even this singlefriend, the intimacy was the effect rather of circumstances than ofreal affection. She liked Mrs Askerton, and saw her almost daily; butshe could hardly tell herself that she loved her neighbour. 

In the little town of Belton, close to the church, there stood apretty, small house, called Belton Cottage. It was so near the churchthat strangers always supposed it to be the parsonage; but therectory stood away out in the country, half a mile from the town, onthe road to Redicote, and was a large house, three stories high, withgrounds of its own, and very ugly. Here lived the old bachelorrector, seventy years of age, given much to long absences when hecould achieve them, and never on good terms with his bishop. His twocurates lived at Redicote, where there was a second church. BeltonCottage, which was occupied by Colonel Askerton and Mrs Askerton, wason the Amedroz property, and had been hired some two years since bythe Colonel, who was then a stranger in the country and altogetherunknown to the Belton people. But he had come there for shooting, andtherefore his coming had been understood. Even as long ago as twoyears since, there had been neither use nor propriety in keeping theshooting for the squire's son, and it had been let with the cottageto Colonel Askerton. So Colonel Askerton had come there with hiswife, and no one in the neighbourhood had known anything about them. Mr Amedroz, with his daughter, had called upon them, and graduallythere had grown up an intimacy between Clara and Mrs Askerton. Therewas an opening from the garden of Belton Cottage into the park, sothat familiar intercourse was easy, and Mrs Askerton was a woman whoknew well how to make herself pleasant to such another woman as MissAmedroz. 

The reader may as well know at ones that rumours prejudicial to theAskertons reached Belton before they had been established there forsix months. At Taunton, which was twenty miles distant, these rumourswere very rife, and there were people there who knew with accuracythough probably without a grain of truth in their accuracy everydetail in the history of Mrs Askerton's life. And something, too, reached Clara's ears something from old Mr Wright, the rector, wholoved scandal, and was very ill-natured. 'A very nice woman, ' therector had said; 'but she does not seem to have any belongings inparticular. ' 'She has got a husband, ' Clara had replied with somelittle indignation, for she had never loved Mr Wright. 'Yes; Isuppose she has got a husband. ' Then Clara had, in her own judgment, accused the rector of lying, evil-speaking, and slandering, and hadincreased the measure of her cordiality to Mrs Askerton. Butsomething more she had heard on the same subject at Perivale. 'Beforeyou throw yourself into close intimacy with the lady, I think youshould know something about her, ' Mrs Winterfield had said to her. 'I do know something about her; I know that she has the manners andeducation of a lady, and that she is living affectionately with herhusband, who is devoted to her. What more ought I to know?' 'If youreally do know all that, you know a great deal, ' Mrs Winterfield hadreplied. 

'Do you know anything against her, aunt?' Clara asked, after a pause. 

There was another pause before Mrs Winterfield answered. 'No, mydear; I cannot say that I do. But I think that young ladies, beforethey make intimate friendships, should be very sure of theirfriends. '

'You have already acknowledged that I know a great deal about her, 'Clara replied. And then the conversation was at an end. Clara had notbeen quite ingenuous, as she acknowledged to herself. She was awarethat her aunt would not permit herself to repeat rumours as to thetruth of which she had no absolute knowledge. She understood that theweakness of her aunt's caution was due to the old lady's sense ofcharity and dislike of slander. But Clara had buckled on her armourfor Mrs Askerton, and was glad, therefore, to achieve her littlevictory. When we buckle on our armour in any cause, we are apt to goon buckling it, let the cause become as weak as it may; and Claracontinued her intimacy with Mrs Askerton, although there wassomething in the lady's modes of speech, and something also in hermodes of thinking, which did not quite satisfy the aspirations ofMiss Amedroz as to a friend. 

Colonel Askerton himself was a pleasant, quiet man, who seemed to becontented with the life which he was leading. For six weeks in Apriland May he would go up to town, leaving Mrs Askerton at the cottageas to which, probably jovial, absence in the metropolis there seemedto be no spirit of grudging on the part of the wife. On the first ofSeptember a friend would come to the cottage and remain there for sixweeks' shooting: and during the winter the Colonel and his wifealways went to Paris for a fortnight. Such had been their life forthe last two years; and thus so said Mrs Askerton to Clara did theyintend to live as long as they could keep the cottage at Belton. Society at Belton they had none, and as they said desired none. Between them and Mr Wright there was only a speaking acquaintance. The married curate at Redicote would not let his wife call on MrsAskerton, and the unmarried curate was a hard-worked, clerical hack, a parochial minister at all times and seasons, who went to no housesexcept the houses of the poor, and who would hold communion with noman, and certainly with no woman, who would not put up with clericaladmonitions for Sunday backslidings. Mr Amedroz himself neitherreceived guests nor went as a guest to other men's houses. He wouldoccasionally stand for a while at the gate of the Colonel's garden, and repeat the list of his own woes as long as his neighbour wouldstand there to hear it. But there was no society at Belton, andClara, as far as she herself was aware, was the only person with whomMrs Askerton held any social intercourse, except what she might haveduring her short annual holiday in Paris. 

'Of course, you are right, ' she said, when Clara told her of theproposed coming of Mr Belton. 'If he turn out to be a good fellow, you will have gained a great deal. And should he be a bad, fellow, you will have lost nothing. In either case you will know him, andconsidering how he stands towards you, that itself is desirable. '

'But if he should annoy papa?'

'In your papa's condition, my dear, the coming of any one will annoyhim. At least, he will say so; though I do not in the least doubtthat he will like the excitement better even than you will. '

'I can't say there will be much excitement to me. '

'No excitement in a young man's coming into the house! Withoutshocking your propriety, allow me to say that that is impossible. Ofcourse, he is coming to see whether he can't make matters all rightby marrying you. '

'That's nonsense, Mrs Askerton. '

'Very well. Let it be nonsense. But why shouldn't he? It's just whathe ought to do. He hasn't got a wife; and, as far as I know, youhaven't got a lover. '

'I certainly have not got a lover. '

'Our religious nephew at Perivale does not seem to be of any use. '

'I wish, Mrs Askerton, you would not speak of Captain Aylmer in thatway. I don't know any man whom I like so much, or at any rate better, than Captain Aylmer; but I hate the idea that no girl can becomeacquainted with an unmarried man without having her name mentionedwith his, and having to hear ill-natured remarks of that kind. '

'I hope you will learn to like this other man much better. Think hownice it will be to be mistress of the old place after all. And thento go back to the old family name! If I were you I would make up mymind not to let him leave the place till I had brought him to myfeet. '

'If you go on like that I will not speak to you about him again. '

'Or rather not to my feet for gentlemen have laid aside the humbleway of making love for the last twenty years at least; but I don'tknow whether the women haven't gained quite as much by the change asthe men. '

'As I know nothing will stop you when you once get into a vein ofthat kind, I shall go, ' said Clara. 'And till this man has come andgone I shall not mention his name again in your presence. '

'So be it, ' said Mrs Askerton; 'but as I will promise to say nothingmore about him, you need not go on his account. ' But Clara had gotup, and did leave the cottage at once. 

CHAPTER III

WILL BELTON

Mr Belton came to the castle, and nothing further had been said atthe cottage about his coming. Clara had seen Mrs Askerton in themeantime frequently, but that lady had kept her promise almost toClara's disappointment. For she though she had in truth disliked theproposition that her cousin could be coming with any special viewswith reference to herself had nevertheless sufficient curiosity aboutthe stranger to wish to talk about him. Her father, indeed, mentionedBelton's name very frequently, saying something with reference to himevery time he found himself in his daughter's presence. A dozen timeshe said that the man was heartless to come to the house at such atime, and he spoke of his cousin always as though the man were guiltyof a gross injustice in being heir to the property. But not the lesson that account did he fidget himself about the room in which Beltonwas to sleep, about the food that Belton was to eat, and especiallyabout the wine that Belton was to drink. What was he to do for wine?The stock of wine in the cellars at Belton Castle was, no doubt, verylow. The squire himself drank a glass or two of port daily, and hadsome remnant of his old treasures by him, which might perhaps lasthim his time; and occasionally there came small supplies of sherryfrom the grocer at Taunton; but Mr Amedroz pretended to think thatWill Belton would want champagne and claret and he would continue tomake these suggestions in spite of his own repeated complaints thatthe man was no better than an ordinary farmer. 'I've no doubt he'lllike beer, ' said Clara. 'Beer!' said her father, and then stoppedhimself, as though he were lost in doubt whether it would best suithim to scorn his cousin for having so low a taste as that suggestedon his behalf, or to ridicule his daughter's idea that the householddifficulty admitted of so convenient a solution. 

The day of the arrival at last came, and Clara certainly was in atwitter, although she had steadfastly resolved that she would be inno twitter at all. She had told her aunt by letter of the proposedvisit, and Mrs Winterfield had expressed her approbation, saying thatshe hoped it would lead to good results. Of what good results couldher aunt be thinking? The one probable good result would surely bethis that relations so nearly connected should know each other. Whyshould there be any fuss made about such a visit? But, nevertheless, Clara, though she made no outward fuss, knew that inwardly she wasnot as calm about the man's coming as she would have wished herselfto be. 

He arrived about five o'clock in a gig from Taunton. Five was theordinary dinner hour at Belton, but it had been postponed till six onthis day, in the hope that the cousin might make his appearance atany rate by that hour. Mr Amedroz had uttered various complaints asto the visitor's heartlessness in not having written to name the hourof his arrival, and was manifestly intending to make the most of thegrievance should he not present himself before six but thisindulgence was cut short by the sound of the gig wheels. Mr Amedrozand his daughter were sitting in a small drawing-room which lookedout to the front of the house, and he, seated in his accustomed chairnear the window, could see the arrival. For a moment or two heremained quiet in his chair, as though he would not allow soinsignificant a thing as his cousin's coming to ruffle him but hecould not maintain this dignified indifference, and before Belton wasout of the gig he had shuffled out into the hall. 

Clara followed her father almost unconsciously, and soon foundherself shaking hands with a big man, over six feet high, broad inthe shoulders, large limbed, with bright quick grey eyes, a largemouth, teeth almost too perfect and a well-formed nose, with thickshort brown hair and small whiskers which came half-way down hischeeks a decidedly handsome man with a florid face, but still, perhaps, with something of the promised roughness of the farmer. Buta more good-humoured looking countenance Clara felt at once that shehad never beheld. 

'And you are the little girl that I remember when I was a boy at MrFolliott's?' he said. His voice was clear, and rather loud, but itsounded very pleasant in that sad old house. 

'Yes; I am the little girl, ' said Clara smiling. 

'Dear, dear! and that's twenty years ago now, ' said he. 

'But you oughtn't to remind me of that, Mr Belton. '

'Oughtn't I? Why not?'

'Because it shows how very old I am. '

'Ah, yes to be sure. But there's nobody here that signifies. How wellI remember this room and the old tower out there. It isn't changed abit!'

'Not to the outward eye, perhaps, ' said the squire. 

'That's what I mean. So they're making hay still. Our hay has beenall up these three weeks. I didn't know you ever meadowed the park. 'Here he trod with dreadful severity upon the corns of Mr Amedroz, buthe did not perceive it. And when the squire muttered something abouta tenant, and the inconvenience of keeping land in his own hands, Belton would have gone on with the subject had not Clara changed theconversation. The squire complained bitterly of this to Clara whenthey were alone, saying that it was very heartless. 

She had a little scheme of her own a plan arranged for the saying ofa few words to her cousin on the earliest opportunity of their beingalone together and she contrived that this should take place withinhalf an hour after his arrival, as he went through the hall up to hisroom. 'Mr Belton, ' she said, 'I'm sure you will not take it amiss ifI take a cousin's privilege at once and explain to you something ofour way of living here. My dear father is not very strong. '

'He is much altered since I saw him last. '

'Oh, yes. Think of all that he has had to bear! Well, Mr Belton, thefact is, that we are not so well off as we used to be, and areobliged to live in a very quiet way. You will not mind that?'

'Who? I?'

'I take it very kind of you, your coming all this way to see us--'

'I'd have come three times the distance. '

'But you must put up with us as you find us, you know. The truth iswe are very poor. '

'Well, now that's just what I wanted to know. One couldn't write andask such a question; but I was sure I should find out if I came. '

'You've found it out already, you see. '

'As for being poor, it's a thing I don't think very much about notfor young people. But it isn't comfortable when a man gets old. Nowwhat I want to know is this; can't something be done?'

'The only thing to do is to be very kind to him. He has had to letthe park to Mr Stovey, and he doesn't like talking about it. '

'But if it isn't talked about, how can it be mended?'

'It can't be mended. '

'We'll see about that. But I'll be kind to him; you see if I ain't. And I'll tell you what, I'll be kind to you too, if you'll let me. You have got no brother now. '

'No, ' said Clara; 'I have got no brother now. ' Belton was lookingfull into her face, and saw that her eyes had become clouded withtears. 

'I will be your brother, ' said he. 'You see if I don't. When I say athing I mean it. I will be your brother. ' And he took her hand, caressing it, and showing her that he was not in the least afraid ofher. He was blunt in his bearing, saying things which her fatherwould have called indelicate and heartless, as though they gave himno effort, and placing himself at once almost in a position ofascendency. This Clara had not intended. She had thought that herfarmer cousin, in spite of the superiority of his prospects as heirto the property, would have acceded to her little hints with silentacquiescence; but instead of this he seemed prepared to take uponhimself the chief part in the play that was to be acted between them. 'Shall it be so?' he said, still holding her hand. 

'You are very kind. '

'I will be more than kind; I will love you dearly if you will let me. You don't suppose that I have looked you up here for nothing. Bloodis thicker than water, and you have nobody now so near to you as Iam. I don't see why you should be so poor, as the debts have beenpaid. '

'Papa has had to borrow money on his life interest in the place. '

'That's the mischief! Never mind. We'll see if we can't do something. And in the meantime don't make a stranger of me. Anything does forme. Lord bless you! if you were to see how I rough it sometimes! Ican eat beans and bacon with any one; and what's more, I can gowithout 'em if I can't get 'em. '

'We'd better get ready for dinner now. I always dress, because papalikes to see it. ' This she said as a hint to her cousin that he wouldbe expected to change his coat, for her father would have beenannoyed had his guest sat down to dinner without such ceremony. WillBelton was not very good at taking hints; but he did understand this, and made the necessary change in his apparel. 

The evening was long and dull, and nothing occurred worthy of remarkexcept the surprise manifested by Mr Amedroz when Belton called hisdaughter by her Christian name. This he did without the slightesthesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world forhim to do. She was his cousin, and cousins of course addressed eachother in that way. Clara's quick eye immediately saw her father'sslight gesture of dismay, but Belton caught nothing of this. Thesquire took an early opportunity of calling him Mr Belton with somelittle peculiarity of expression; but this was altogether lost onWill, who five times in the next five minutes addressed 'Clara' asthough they were already on the most intimate terms. She would haveanswered him in the same way, and would have called him Will, had shenot been afraid of offending her father. 

Mr Amedroz had declared his purpose of coming down to breakfastduring the period of his cousin's visit, and at half-past nine he wasin the parlour. Clara had been there some time, but had not seen hercousin. He entered the room immediately after her father, bringinghis hat with him in his hand, and wiping the drops of perspirationfrom his brow. 'You have been out, Mr Belton, ' said the squire. 

'All round the place, sir. Six o'clock doesn't often find me in bed, summer or winter. What's the use of laying in bed when one has hadenough of sleep?'

'But that's just the question, ' said Clara; 'whether one has hadenough at six o'clock. '

'Women want more than men, of course. A man, if he means to do anygood with land, must be out early. The grass will grow of itself atnights, but it wants looking after as soon as the daylight comes. '

'I don't know that it would do much good to the grass here, ' said thesquire, mournfully. 

'As much here as anywhere. And indeed I've got something to say aboutthat. ' He had now seated himself at the breakfast-table, and wasplaying with his knife and fork. 'I think, sir, you're hardly makingthe best you can out of the park. '

'We won't mind talking about it, if you please, ' said the squire. 

'Well; of course I won't, if you don't like it; but upon my word youought to look about you; you ought indeed. '

'In what way do you mean?' said Clara. 

'If your father doesn't like to keep the land in his own hands, heshould let it to some one who would put stock in it not go on cuttingit year after year and putting nothing back, as this fellow will do. I've been talking to Stovey, and that's just what he means. '

'Nobody here has got money to put stock on the land, ' said thesquire, angrily. 

'Then you should look for somebody somewhere else. That's all. I'lltell you what now, Mr Amedroz, I'll do it myself. ' By this time hehad helped himself to two large slices of cold mutton, and was eatinghis breakfast and talking with an equal amount of energy for eitheroccupation. 

'That's out of the question, ' said the squire. 

'I don't see why it should be out of the question. It would be betterfor you and better for me too, if this place is ever to be mine. ' Onhearing this the squire winced, but said nothing. This terriblefellow was so vehemently outspoken that the poor old man wasabsolutely unable to keep pace with him even to the repeating of hiswish that the matter should be talked of no further. 'I'll tell youwhat I'll do, now, ' continued Belton. 'There's altogether, outsidethe palings and in, about a hundred and fifty acres of it. I'll giveyou one pound two and sixpence an acre, and I won't cut an acre ofgrass inside the park no, nor much of it outside either only justenough to give me a little fodder for the cattle in winter. '

'And give up Plaistow Hall?' asked Clara. 

'Lord love you, no. I've a matter of nine hundred acres on handthere, and most of it under the plough. I've counted it up, and itwould just cost me a thousand pounds to stock this place. I shouldcome and look at it twice a year or so, and I should see my moneyhome again, if I didn't get any profit out of it. '

Mr Amedroz was astonished. The man had only been in his house onenight, and was proposing to take all his troubles off his hands. Hedid not relish the proposition at all. He did not like to be accusedof not doing as well for himself as others could do for him. He didnot wish to make any change although he remembered at the moment hisanger with Farmer Stovey respecting the haycarts. He did not desirethat the heir should have any immediate interest in the place. But hewas not strong enough to meet the proposition with a direct negative. 'I couldn't get rid of Stovey in that way, ' he said, plaintively. I've settled it all with Stovey already, ' said Belton. 'He'll be gladenough to walk off with a twenty-pound note, which I'll give him. Hecan't make money out of the place. He hasn't got means to stock it, and then see the wages that hay-making runs away with! He'd lose byit even at what he's paying, and he knows it. There won't be anydifficulty about Stovey. '

By twelve o'clock on that day Mr Stovey had been brought into thehouse, and had resigned the land. It had been let to Mr WilliamBelton at an increased rental a rental increased by nearly fortypounds per annum and that gentleman had already made many of hisarrangements for entering upon his tenancy. The twenty pounds hadalready been paid to Stovey, and the transaction was complete. MrAmedroz sat in his chair bewildered, dismayed and, as he himselfdeclared shocked, quite shocked, at the precipitancy of the youngman. It might be for the best. He didn't know. He didn't feel at allsure. But such hurrying in such a matter was, under all thecircumstances of the family, to say the least of it, very indelicate. He was angry with himself for having yielded, and angry with Clarafor having allowed him to do so. 'It doesn't signify much, ' he said, at last. 'Of course he'll have it all to himself before long. '

'But, papa, it really seems to be a much better arrangement for you. You'll get more money. '

'Money is not everything, my dear. '

'But you'd sooner have Mr Belton, our own cousin, about the place, than Mr Stovey. '

'I don't know. We shall see. The thing is done now, and there is nouse in complaining. I must say he hasn't shown a great deal ofdelicacy. '

On that afternoon Belton asked Clara to go out with him, and walkround the place. He had been again about the grounds, and had madeplans, and counted up capabilities, and calculated his profit andlosses. 'If you don't dislike scrambling about, ' said he, 'I'll showyou everything that I intend to do. '

'But I can't have any changes made, Mr Belton, ' said Mr Amedroz, withsome affectation of dignity in his manner. 'I won't have the fencesmoved, or anything of that kind. '

'Nothing shall be done, sir, that you don't approve. I'll just manageit all as if I was acting as your own bailiff. ' 'Son, ' he was goingto say, but he remembered the fate of his cousin Charles just in timeto prevent the use of the painful word. 

'I don't want to have anything done, ' said Mr Amedroz. 

'Then nothing shall be done. We'll just mend a fence or two, to keepin the cattle, and leave other things as they are. But perhaps Clarawill walk out with me all the same. '

Clara was quite ready to walk out, and had already tied on her hatand taken her parasol. 

'Your father is a little nervous, ' said he, as soon as they werebeyond hearing of the house. 

'Can you wonder at it, when you remember all that he has suffered. '

'I don't wonder at it in the least; and I don't wonder at hisdisliking me either. '

'I don't think he dislikes you, Mr Belton. '

'Oh, but he does. Of course he does. I'm the heir to the placeinstead of you. It is natural that he should dislike me. But I'lllive it down. You see if I don't. I'll make him so fond of me, he'llalways want to have me here. I don't mind a little dislike to beginwith. '

'You're a wonderful man, Mr Belton. '

'I wish you wouldn't call me Mr Belton. But of course you must do asyou please about that. If I can make him call me Will, I supposeyou'll call me so too. '

'Oh, yes; then I will. '

'It don't much matter what a person is called; does it! Only onelikes to be friendly with one's friends. I suppose you don't like mycalling you Clara. '

'Now you've begun you had better go on. '

'I mean to. I make it a rule never to go back in the world. Yourfather is half sorry that he has agreed about the place; but I shan'tlet him off now. And I'll tell you what. In spite of what he says, I'll have it as different as possible before this time next year. 'Why, there's lots of timber that ought to come out of theplantation; and there's places where the roots want stubbing uphorribly. These things always pay for themselves if they are properlydone. Any good done in the world always pays. ' Clara often rememberedthose words afterwards when she was thinking of her cousin'scharacter. Any good done in the world always pays!

'But you mustn't offend my father, even though it should do good, 'she said. 

'I understand, ' he answered. 'I won't tread on his toes. Where do youget your milk and butter?'

'We buy them. '

'From Stovey, I suppose. '

'Yes; from Mr Stovey. It goes against the rent. '

'And it ought to go against the grain too living in the country andpaying for milk! I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a cow. Itshall be a little present from me to you. ' He said nothing of themore important present which this would entail upon him in the matterof the grass for the cow; but she understood the nature of thearrangement, and was anxious to prevent it. 

'Oh, Mr Belton, I think we'd better not attempt that, ' she said. 

'But we will attempt it. I've pledged myself to do nothing to opposeyour father; but I've made no such promise as to you. We'll have acow before I'm many days older. What a pretty place this is! I dolike these rocks so much, and it is such a comfort to be off theflat. '

'It is pretty. '

'Very pretty. You've no conception what an ugly place Plaistow is. The land isn't actual fen now, but it was once. And it's quite flat. And there is a great dike, twenty feet wide, oozing through it justoozing, you know; and lots of little dikes, at right angles with thebig one. And the fields are all square. And there are no hedges andhardly a tree to be seen in the place. 

'What a picture you have drawn! I should commit suicide if I livedthere. '

'Not if you had so much to do as I have. '

'And what is the house like?'

'The house is good enough an old-fashioned manor-house, with highbrick chimneys, and brick gables, tiled all over, and large squarewindows set in stone. The house is good enough, only it stands in themiddle of a farm-yard. I said there were no trees, but there is anavenue. '

'Come, that is something. '

'It was an old family seat, and they used to have avenues in thosedays; but it doesn't lead up to the present hail door. It comessideways up to the farm-yard; so that the whole thing must have beendifferent once, and there must have been a great court-yard. InElizabeth's time Plaistow Manor was rather a swell place, andbelonged to some Roman Catholics who came to grief, and then theHowards got it. There's a whole history about it, only I don't caremuch about those things. '

'And is it yours now?'

'It's between me and my uncle, and I pay him rent for his part. He'sa clergyman you know, and he has a living in Lincolnshire not faroff. '

'And do you live alone in that big house?'

'There's my sister. You've heard of Mary haven't you?'

Then Clara remembered that there was a Miss Belton, a poor sicklycreature, with a twisted spine and a hump back, as to whose welfareshe ought to have made inquiries. 

'Oh yes; of course, ' said Clara. 'I hope she's better than she usedto be when we heard of her. '

'She'll never be better. But then she does not become much worse. Ithink she does grow a little weaker. She's older than I am, you knowtwo years older; but you would think she was quite an old woman tolook at her. ' Then, for the next half-hour, they talked about MaryBelton as they visited every corner of the place. Belton still had aneye to business as he went on talking, and Clara remarked how manysticks he moved as he went, how many stones he kicked on one side, and how invariably he noted any defect in the fences. But still hetalked of his sister, swearing that she was as good as gold, and atlast wiping away the tears from his eyes as he described hermaladies. 'And yet I believe she is better off than any of us, ' hesaid, 'because she is so good. ' Clara began to wish that she hadcalled him Will from the beginning, because she liked him so much. Hewas just the man to have for a cousin a true loving cousin, stalwart, self-confident, with a grain or two of tyranny in his composition asbecomes a man in relation to his intimate female relatives; and one, moreover, with whom she could trust herself to be familiar withoutany danger of love-making! She saw his character clearly, and toldherself that she understood it perfectly. He wag a jewel of a cousin, and she must begin to call him Will as speedily as possible. 

At last they came round in their walk to the gate leading intoColonel Askerton's garden; and here in the garden, close to the gate, they found Mrs Askerton. I fancy that she had been watching for them, or at any rate watching for Clara, so that she might know how herfriend was carrying herself with her cousin. She came at once to thewicket, and there she was introduced by Clara to Mr Belton. MrBelton, as he made his bow, muttered something awkwardly, and seemedto lose his self-possession for the moment. Mrs Askerton was verygracious to him, and she knew well how to be both gracious andungracious. She talked about the scenery, and the charms of the oldplace, and the dullness of the people around them, and theinexpediency of looking for society in country places; till afterawhile Mr Belton was once more at his ease. 

'How is Colonel Askerton?' asked Clara. 

'He's in-doors. Will you come and see him? He's reading a Frenchnovel, as usual. It's the only thing he ever does in summer. Do youever read French novels, Mr Belton?'

'I read very little at all, and when I do I read English. '

'Ah, you're a man who has a pursuit in life, no doubt. '

'I should rather think so that is, if you mean, by a pursuit, earningmy bread. A man has not much time for French novels with a thousandacres of land on his hands; even if he knew how to read French, whichI don't. '

'But you're not always at work on your farm?'

'It's pretty constant, Mrs Askerton. Then I shoot, and hunt. '

'You're a sportsman?'

'All men living in the country are more or less. '

'Colonel Askerton shoots a great deal. He has the shooting of Belton, you know. He'll be delighted, I'm sure, to see you if you are heresome time in September. But you, coming from Norfolk, would not carefor partridge-shooting in Somersetshire. '

'I don't see why it shouldn't be as good here as there. '

'Colonel Askerton thinks he has got a fair head of game upon theplace. '

'I dare say. Game is easily kept if people knew how to set about it. '

'Colonel Askerton has a very good keeper, and has gone to a greatdeal of expense since he has been here. '

'I'm my own head-keeper, ' said Belton;' and so I will be or rathershould be, if I had this place. '

Something in the lady's tone had grated against his feelings andoffended him; or perhaps he thought that she assumed too many of theairs of proprietorship because the shooting of the place had been letto her husband for thirty pounds a year. 

'I hope you don't mean to say you'll turn us out, ' said Mrs Askerton, laughing. 

'I have no power to turn anybody out or in, ' said he. 'I've gotnothing to do with it. '

Clara, perceiving that matters were not going quite pleasantlybetween her old and new friend, thought it best to take herdeparture. Belton, as he went, lifted his hat from his head, andClara could not keep herself from thinking that he was not only veryhandsome, but that he looked very much like a gentleman, in spite ofhis occupation as a farmer. 

'Bye-bye, Clara, ' said Mrs Askerton; 'come down and see me tomorrow, there's a dear. Don't forget what a dull life I have of it. ' Clarasaid that she would come. And I shall be so happy to see Mr Belton ifhe will call before he leaves you. ' At this Belton again raised hishat from his head, and muttered some word or two of civility. Butthis, his latter muttering, was different from the first, for he hadaltogether regained his presence of mind. 

'You didn't seem to get on very well with my friend, ' said Clara, laughing, as soon as they had turned away from the cottage. 

'Well, no that is to say, not particularly well or particularlybadly. At first I took her for somebody else I knew slightly ever solong ago, and I was thinking of that other person at the time. '

'And what was the other person's name?'

'I can't even remember that at the present moment. '

'Mrs Askerton was a Miss Oliphant. '

'That wasn't the other lady's name. But, independently of that, theycan't be the same. The other lady married a Mr Berdmore. '

'A Mr Berdmore!' Clara as she repeated the name felt convinced thatshe had heard it before, and that she had heard it in connexion withMrs Askerton. She certainly had heard the name of Berdmorepronounced, or had seen it written, or had in some shape come acrossthe name in Mrs Askerton's presence; or at any rate somewhere on thepremises occupied by that lady. More than this she could notremember; but the name, as she had now heard it from her cousin, became at once distinctly connected in her memory with her friends atthe cottage. 

'Yes, ' said Belton; 'a Berdmore. I knew more of him than of her, though for the matter of that, I knew very little of him either. Shewas a fast-going girl, and his friends were very sorry. But I thinkthey are both dead or divorced, or that they have come to grief insome way. '

'And is Mrs Askerton like the fast-going lady?'

'In a certain way. Not that I remember what the fast-going lady waslike; but there was something about this woman that put me in mind ofthe other. Vigo was her name; now I recollect it a Miss Vigo. It'snine or ten years ago now, and I was little more than a boy. '

'Her name was Oliphant. '

'I don't suppose they have anything to do with each other. What riledme was the way she talked of the shooting. People do when they take alittle shooting. They pay some trumpery thirty or forty pounds ayear, and then they seem to think that it's almost the same as thoughthey owned the property themselves. I've known a man talk of hismanor because he had the shooting of a wood and a small farm roundit. They are generally shop-keepers out of London, gin distillers, orbrewers, or people like that. '

'Why, Mr Belton, I didn't think you could be so furious!

'Can't I? When my back's up, it is up! But it isn't up yet. '

'And I hope it won't be up while you remain in Somersetshire. '

'I won't answer for that. There's Stovey's empty cart standing justwhere it stood yesterday; and he promised he'd have it home beforethree today. My back will be up with him if he doesn't mind himself. '

It was nearly six o'clock when they got back to the house, and Clarawas surprised to find that she had been out three hours with hercousin. Certainly it had been very pleasant. The usual companion ofher walks, when she had a companion, was Mrs Askerton; but MrsAskerton did not like real walking. She would creep about the groundsfor an hour or so, and even such companionship as that was better toClara than absolute solitude; but now she had been carried about theplace, getting over stiles and through gates, and wandering throughthe copses, till she was tired and hungry, and excited and happy. 'Oh, papa, ' she said, 'we have had such a walk!'

'I thought we were to have dined at five, ' he replied, in a lowwailing voice. 

'No, papa, indeed indeed you said six. '

'That was for yesterday. '

'You said we were to make it six while Mr Belton was here. '

'Very well if it must be, I suppose it must be. '

'You don't mean on my account, ' said Will. 'I'll undertake to eat mydinner, sir, at any hour that you'll undertake to give it me. Ifthere's a strong point about me at all, it is my appetite. '

Clara, when she went to her father's room that evening, told him whatMr Belton had said about the shooting, knowing that her father'sfeelings would agree with those which had been expressed by hercousin. Mr Amedroz of course made this an occasion for furthergrumbling, suggesting that Belton wanted to get the shooting forhimself as he had got the farm. But, nevertheless, the effect whichClara had intended was produced, and before she left him he hadabsolutely proposed that the shooting and the land should gotogether. 

'I'm sure that Mr Belton doesn't mean that at all, ' said Clara. 

'I don't care what he means, ' said the squire. 

'And it wouldn't do to treat Colonel Askerton in that way, ' saidClara. 

'I shall treat him just as I like, ' said the squire. 

CHAPTER IV

SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING

A DEAR cousin, and safe against love-making! This was Clara's verdictrespecting Will Belton, as she lay thinking of him in bed that night. Why that warranty against love-making should be a virtue in her eyesI cannot, perhaps, explain. But all young ladies are apt to talk tothemselves in such phrases about gentlemen with whom they are throwninto chance intimacy, --as though love-making were in itself a thinginjurious and antagonistic to happiness, instead of being, as it is, the very salt of life. Safe against love-making! And yet MrsAskerton, her friend, had spoken of the probability of suchlove-making as being the great advantage of his coming. And therecould not be a second opinion as to the expediency of a match betweenher and her cousin in a worldly point of view. Clara, moreover, hadalready perceived that he was a man fit to guide a wife, verygood-humoured, --and good-tempered also, anxious to give pleasure toothers, a man of energy and forethought, who would be sure to do wellin the world and hold his head always high among his fellows;--as good ahusband as a girl could have. Nevertheless, she congratulated herselfin that she felt satisfied that he was safe against love-making!Might it be possible that the pressing of hands at Taunton had beenso tender, and those last words spoken with Captain Aylmer so soft, that on his account she felt delighted to think that her cousin waswarranted not to make love?

And what did Will Belton think about his cousin, insured as he wasthus supposed to be against the dangers of love? He, also, lay awakefor awhile that night, thinking over his new friendship. Or rather hethought of it walking about his room, and looking out at the brightharvest moon for with him to be in bed was to be asleep. He sathimself down, and he walked about, and he leaned out of the windowinto the cool night air; and he made some comparisons in his mind, and certain calculations; and he thought of his present home, and ofhis sister, and of his future prospects as they were concerned withthe old place at which he was now staying; and he portrayed tohimself, in his mind, Clara's head and face and figure and feet andhe resolved that she should be his wife. He had never seen a girl whoseemed to suit him so well. Though he had only been with her for aday, he swore to himself that he knew he could love her. Nay he sworeto himself that he did love her. Then when he had quite made up hismind, he tumbled into his bed and was asleep in five minutes. 

Miss Amedroz was a handsome young woman, tall, well-made, active, andfull of health. She carried herself as though she thought her limbswere made for use, and not simply for ease upon a sofa. Her head andneck stood well upon her shoulders, and her waist showed none ofthose waspish proportions of which ladies used to be more proud thanI believe them to be now, in their more advanced state of knowledgeand taste. There was much about her in which she was like her cousin, as though the blood they had in common between them had given to boththe same proportions and the same comeliness. Her hair was of a darkbrown colour, as was his. Her eyes were somewhat darker than his, andperhaps not so full of constant movement; but they were equallybright, and possessed that quick power of expressing tenderness whichbelonged to them. Her nose was more finely cut, as was also her chin, and the oval of her face; but she had the same large expressivemouth, and the same perfection of ivory-white teeth. As has been saidbefore, Clara Amedroz, who was now nearly twenty-six years of age, was not a young-looking woman. To the eyes of many men that wouldhave been her fault; but in the eyes of Belton it was no fault. Hehad not made himself fastidious as to women by much consort withthem, and he was disposed to think that she who was to become hiswife had better be something more than a girl not long since takenout of the nursery. He was well-to-do in the world, and could sendhis wife out in her carriage, with all becoming bravery ofappurtenances. And he would do so, too, when he should have a wife. But still he would look to his wife to be a useful partner to him. She should be a woman not above agricultural solicitude, or too proudto have a care for her cows. Clara, he was sure, had no false pride;and yet, --as he was sure also, she was at every point such a lady aswould do honour to the carriage and the bravery when it should beforthcoming. And then such a marriage as this would put an end to allthe trouble which he felt in reference to the entail on the estate. He knew that he was to be master of Belton, and of course had, inthat knowledge, the satisfaction which men do feel from theconsciousness of their future prosperity. And this with him wasenhanced by a strong sympathy with old-fashioned prejudices as tofamily. He would be Belton of Belton; and there had been Beltons ofBelton in old days, for a longer time backwards than he was able tocount. But still the prospect had not been without its alloy, and hehad felt real distress at the idea of turning his cousin out of herfather's house. Such a marriage as that he now contemplated would putall these things right. 

When he got up in the morning he was quite as keen about it as he hadbeen on the previous evening and as he thought about it the more, hebecame keener and still more keen. On the previous evening, as he wasleaning out of the window endeavouring to settle in his own mind whatwould be the proper conduct of the romance of the thing, he hadconsidered that he had better not make his proposal quite at once. Hewas to remain eight days at Belton, and as eight days was not a longperiod of acquaintance, he had reflected that it might be well forhim to lay what foundation for love it might be in his power toconstruct during his present sojourn, and then return and completethe work before Christmas. But as he was shaving himself, thehabitual impatience of his nature predominated, and he becamedisposed to think that delay would be useless, and might perhaps bedangerous. It might be possible that Clara would be unable to givehim a decisive answer so quickly as to enable him to return home anaccepted lover; but if such doubt were left, such doubt would givehim an excuse for a speedy return to Belton. He did not omit to tellhimself that very probably he might not succeed at all. He was a mannot at all apt to feel assurance that he could carry all before himin love. But in this matter, as in all others which required from himany personal effort, he prepared himself to do his best, leaving theconsequences to follow as they might. When he threw his seed corninto the earth with all such due appliances of agricultural skill andindustry as his capital and experience enabled him to use, he did hispart towards the production of next year's crop; and after that hemust leave it to a higher Power to give to him, or to withhold fromhim, the reward of his labour. He had found that, as a rule, thereward had been given when the labour had been honest; and he was nowprepared to follow the same plan, with the same hopes, in this matterof his love-making. 

After much consideration--very much consideration, a considerationwhich took him the whole time that he was brushing his hair andwashing his teeth he resolved that he would, in the first instance, speak to Mr Amedroz. Not that he intended that the father should winthe daughter for him. He had an idea that he would like to do thatwork for himself. But he thought that the old squire would be betterpleased if his consent were asked in the first instance. The presentday was Sunday, and he would not speak on the subject till Monday. This day he would devote to the work of securing his futurefather-in-law's good opinion; to that and to his prayers. 

And he had gained very much upon Mr Amedroz before the evening of theday was over. He was a man before whom difficulties seemed to yield, and who had his own way simply because he had become accustomed toask for it to ask for it and to work for it. He had so softened thesquire's tone of thought towards him, that the future stocking of theland was spoken of between them with something like energy on bothsides; and Mr Amedroz had given his consent, without any difficulty, to the building of a shed for winter stall-feeding. Clara sat bylistening, and perceived that Will Belton would soon be allowed to dojust what he pleased with the place. Her father talked as she had notheard him talk since her poor brother's death, and was quite animatedon the subject of woodcraft. 'We don't know much about timber downwhere I am, ' said Will, 'just because we've got no trees. '

'I'll show you your way, ' said the old man. 'I've managed the timberon the estate myself for the last forty years. ' Will Belton of coursedid not say a word as to the gross mismanagement which had beenapparent even to him. What a cousin he was! Clara thought what aparagon among cousins! And then he was so manifestly safe againstlove-making! So safe, that he only cared to talk about timber, andoxen, and fences, and winter-forage! But it was all just as it oughtto be; and if her father did not call him Will before long, sheherself would set the way by doing so first. A very paragon amongcousins!

'What a flatterer you are, ' she said to him that night. 

'A flatterer! I?'

'Yes, you. You have flattered papa out of all his animosity already. I shall be jealous soon; for he'll think more of you than of me. '

'I hope he'll come to think of us as being nearly equally near tohim, ' said Belton, with a tone that was half serious and half tender. Now that he had made up his mind, he could not keep his hand from thework before him an instant. But Clara had also made up her mind, andwould not be made to think that her cousin could mean anything thatwas more than cousinly. 

'Upon my word, ' she said, laughing, 'that is very cool on your part. '

'I came here determined to be friends with him at any rate. '

'And you did so without any thought of me. But you said you would bemy brother, and I shall not forget your promise. Indeed, indeed, Icannot tell you how glad I am that you have come both for papa's sakeand my own. You have done him so much good that I only dread to thinkthat you are going so soon. '

'I'll be back before long. I think nothing of running across herefrom Norfolk. You'll see enough of me before next summer. '

Soon after breakfast on the next morning he got Mr Amedroz out intothe grounds, on the plea of showing him the proposed site for thecattle shed; but not a word was said about the shed on that occasion. He went to work at his other task at once, and when that was well onhand the squire was quite unfitted for the consideration of any lessimportant matter, however able to discuss it Belton might have beenhimself. 

'I've got something particular that I want to say to you, sir, 'Belton began. 

Now Mr Amedroz was of opinion that his cousin had been sayingsomething very particular ever since his arrival, and was ratherfrightened at this immediate prospect of a new subject. 

'There's nothing wrong; is there?'

'No, nothing wrong at least, I hope it's not wrong. Would not it be agood plan, sir, if I were to marry my cousin Clara?'

What a terrible young man! Mr Amedroz felt that his breath was socompletely taken away from him that he was quite unable to speak aword of answer at the moment. Indeed, he was unable to move, andstood still, where he had been fixed by the cruel suddenness of theproposition made to him. 

'Of course I know nothing of what she may think about it, ' continuedBelton. 'I thought it best to come to you before I spoke a word toher. And I know that in many ways she is above me. She is bettereducated, and reads more, and all that sort of thing. And it may bethat she'd rather marry a London man than a fellow who passes all histime in the country. But she couldn't get one who would love herbetter or treat her more kindly. And then as to the property; youmust own it would be a good arrangement. You'd like to know it wouldgo to your own child and your own grandchild wouldn't you, sir? AndI'm not badly off, without looking to this place at all, and couldgive her every thing she wants. But then I don't know that she'd careto marry a farmer. ' These last words he said in a melancholy tone, asthough aware that he was confessing his own disgrace. 

The squire had listened to it all, and had not as yet said a word. And now, when Belton ceased, he did not know what word to speak. Hewas a man whose thoughts about women were chivalrous, and perhaps alittle old-fashioned. Of course, when a man contemplates marriage, hecould do nothing better, nothing more honourable, than consult thelady's father in the first instance. But he felt that even a fathershould be addressed on such a subject with great delicacy. Thereshould be ambages in such a matter. The man who resolved to commithimself to such a task should come forward with apparent difficultywith great diffidence, and even with actual difficulty. He shouldkeep himself almost hidden, as behind a mask, and should tell of hisown ambition with doubtful, quivering voice. And the ambages shouldtake time. He should approach the citadel to be taken with coveredways working his way slowly and painfully. But this young man, beforehe had been in the house three days, said all that he had to saywithout the slightest quaver in his voice, and evidently expected toget an answer about the squire's daughter as quickly as he had got itabout the squire's land. 

'You have surprised me very much, ' said the old man at last, drawinghis breath. 

'I'm quite in earnest about it. Clara seems to me to be the very girlto make a good wife to such a one as I am. She's got everything thata woman ought to have By George, she has!'

'She is a good girl, Mr Belton. '

'She is as good as gold, every inch of her. '

'But you have not known her very long, Mr Belton. '

'Quite long enough for my purposes. You see I knew all about herbeforehand who she is, and where she comes from. There's a great dealin that, you know. '

Mr Amedroz shuddered at the expressions used. It was grievous to himto hear his daughter spoken of as one respecting whom some one knewwho she was and whence she came. Such knowledge respecting thedaughter of such a family was, as a matter of course, common to allpolite persons. 'Yes, ' said Mr Amedroz, stiffly: 'you know as much asthat about her, certainly. '

'And she knows as much about me. Now the question is, whether youhave any objection to make?'

'Really, Mr Belton, you have taken me so much by surprise that I donot feel myself competent to answer you at once. '

'Shall we say in an hour's time, sir?' An hour's time! Mr Amedroz, ifhe could have been left to his own guidance, would have thought amonth very little for such a work. 

'I suppose you would wish me to see Clara first, ' said Mr Amedroz. 

'Oh dear, no. I would much rather ask her myself if only I could getyour consent to my doing so. '

'And you have said nothing to her?'

'Not a word. '

'I am glad of that. You would have behaved badly, I think, had youdone so while staying under my roof. '

'I thought it best, at any rate, to come to you first. But as I mustbe back at Plaistow on this day week, I haven't much time to lose. Soif you could think about it this afternoon, you know Mr Amedroz, muchbewildered, promised that he would do his best, and eventually didbring himself to give an answer on the next morning. 'I have beenthinking about this all night, ' said Mr Amedroz. 

'I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, ' said Belton, feeling ratherashamed of his own remissness as he remembered how soundly he hadhimself slept. 

'If you are quite sure of yourself'

'Do you mean sure of loving her? I am as sure of that as anything. '

'But men are so apt to change their fancies. '

'I don't know much about my fancies; but I don't often change mypurpose when I'm in earnest. In such a matter as this I couldn'tchange. I'll say as much as that for myself, though it may seembold. '

'Of course, in regard to money such a marriage would be advantageousto my child. I don't know whether you know it, but I shall havenothing to give her literally nothing. '

'All the better, sir, as far as I am concerned. I'm not one who wantsto be saved from working by a wife's fortune. '

'But most men like to get something when they marry. '

'I want to get nothing nothing, that is, in the way of money. IfClara becomes my wife I'll never ask you for one shilling. '

'I hope her aunt will do something for her. ' This the old man said ina wailing voice, as though the expression of such a hope was grievousto him. 

'If she becomes my wife, Mrs Winterfield will be quite at liberty toleave her money elsewhere. ' There were old causes of dislike betweenMr Belton and Mrs Winterfield, and even now Mrs Winterfield wasalmost offended because Mr Belton was staying at Belton Castle. 

'But all that is quite uncertain, ' continued Mr Amedroz. 

'And I have your leave to speak to Clara myself?'

'Well, Mr Belton; yes; I think so. I do not see why you should notspeak to her. But I fear you are a little too precipitate. Clara hasknown you so very short a time, that you can hardly have a right tohope that she should learn to regard you at once as you would haveher do. ' As he heard this, Belton's face became long and melancholy. He had taught himself to think that he could dispense with that delaytill Christmas which he had at first proposed to himself, and that hemight walk into the arena at once, and perhaps win the battle in thefirst round. 'Three days is such a very short time, ' said the squire. 

'It is short certainly, ' said Belton. 

The father's leave was however given, and armed with that, Belton wasresolved that he would take, at any rate, some preliminary steps inlove-making before he returned to Plaistow. What would be the natureof the preliminary steps taken by such a one as him, the reader bythis time will probably be able to surmise. 

CHAPTER V

NOT SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING

'Why don't you call him Will?' Clara said to her father. Thisquestion was asked on the evening of that Monday on which Mr Amedrozhad given his consent as to the marriage proposal. 

'Call him Will! Why should I?'

'You used to do so, when he was a boy. '

'Of course I did; but that is years ago. He would think itimpertinent now. '

'Indeed he would not; he would like it. He has told me so. It soundsso cold to him to be called Mr Belton by his relations. '

The father looked at his daughter as though for a moment he alsosuspected that matters had really been arranged between her and herfuture lover without his concurrence, and before his sanction hadbeen obtained. But if for a moment such a thought did cress his mind, it did not dwell there. He trusted Belton; but as to his daughter, heknew that he might be sure of her. It would be impossible with her tokeep such a secret from him, even for half a day. And yet, how odd itwas! Here was a man who in three days had fallen in love with hisdaughter; and here was his daughter apparently quite as ready to bein love with the man. How could she, who was ordinarily circumspect, and almost cold in her demeanour towards strangers who was fromcircumstances and from her own disposition altogether hostile toflirting intimacies how could this Clara have changed her nature sospeedily? The squire did not understand it, but was prepared tobelieve that it was all for the best. 'I'll call him Will, if youlike it, ' said he. 

'Do, papa, and then I can do so also. He is such a good fellow, and Iam so fond of him. '

On the next morning Mr Amedroz did, with much awkwardness, call hisguest by his Christian name. Clara caught her cousin's eye andsmiled, and he also smiled. At that moment he was more in love thanever. Could anything be more charming than this? Immediately afterbreakfast he was going over to Redicote, to see a builder in a smallway who lived there, and whom he proposed to employ in putting up theshed for the cattle; but he almost begrudged the time, so anxious washe to begin his suit. But his plan had been laid out and he wouldfollow it. 'I think I shall be back by three o'clock, ' he said toClara, 'and then we'll have our walk. '

'I'll be ready; and you can call for me at Mr Askerton's. I must godown there, and it will save you something in your walk to pick me upat the cottage. ' And so the arrangements for the day were made. 

Clara had promised that she would soon call at the cottage, and was, indeed, rather anxious to see Mrs Askerton on her own account. Whatshe had heard from her cousin as to a certain Miss Vigo of old dayshad interested her, and also what she had heard of a certain MrBerdmore. It had been evident to her that her cousin had thoughtlittle about it. The likeness of the lady he then saw to the lady hehad before known, had at first struck him; but when he found that thetwo ladies were not represented by one and the same person, he wassatisfied, and there was an end of the matter for him. But it was notso with Clara. Her feminine mind dwelt on the matter with moreearnestness than he had cared to entertain, and her clearer intellectsaw possibilities which did not occur to him. But it was not till shefound herself walking across the park to the cottage that sheremembered that any inquiries as to her past life might bedisagreeable to Mrs Askerton. She had thought of asking her friendplainly whether the names of Vigo and Berdmore had ever been familiarto her; but she reminded herself that there had been rumours afloat, and that there might be a mystery. Mrs Askerton would sometimes talkof her early life; but she would do this with dreamy, indistinctlanguage, speaking of the sorrows of her girlhood, but not specifyingtheir exact nature, seldom mentioning any names, and never referringwith clear personality to those who had been nearest to her when shehad been a child. Clara had seen her friend's maiden name, MaryOliphant, written in a book, and seeing it had alluded to it. On thatoccasion Mrs Askerton had spoken of herself as having been anOliphant, and thus Clara had come to know the fact. But now, as shemade her way to the cottage, she remembered that she had learnednothing more than this as to Mrs Askerton's early life. Such beingthe case, she hardly knew how to ask any question about the two namesthat had been mentioned. And yet, why should she not ask such aquestion? Why should she doubt Mrs Askerton? And if she did doubt, why should not her doubts be solved?

She found Colonel Askerton and his wife together, and she certainlywould ask no such question in his presence. He was a slight built, wiry man, about fifty, with iron-grey hair and beard who seemed tohave no trouble in life, and to desire but few pleasures. Nothingcould be more regular than the course of his days, and nothing moreidle. He breakfasted at eleven, smoked and read till the afternoon, when he rode for an hour or two; then he dined, read again, smokedagain, and went to bed. In September and October he shot, and twicein the year, as has been before stated, went away to seek a littleexcitement elsewhere. He seemed to be quite contented with his lot, and was never heard to speak an angry word with any one. Nobody caredfor him much; but then he troubled himself with no one's affairs. Henever went to church, and had not eaten or drank in any house but hisown since he had come to Belton. 

'Oh, Clara, you naughty girl, ' said Mrs Askerton, 'why didn't youcome yesterday? I was expecting you all day. '

'I was busy. Really, we've grown to be quite industrious people sincemy cousin came. '

'They tell me he's taking the land into his own hands, ' said thecolonel. 

'Yes, indeed; and he is going to build sheds, and buy cattle; and Idon't know what he doesn't mean to do; so that we shall be aliveagain. '

'I hope he won't want my shooting. '

'He has shooting of his own in Norfolk, ' said Clara. 

'Then he'll hardly care to come here for that purpose. When I heardof his proceedings I began to be afraid. '

'I don't think he would do anything to annoy you for the world, ' saidClara, enthusiastically. 'He's the most unselfish person I ever met. '

'He'd have a perfect right to take the shooting if he liked it thatis always supposing that he and your father agreed about it. '

'They agree about everything now. He has altogether disarmed papa'sprejudices, and it seems to be recognized that he is to have his ownway about the place. But I don't think he'll interfere about theshooting. '

'He won't, my dear, if you ask him not, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

'I'll ask him in a moment if Colonel Askerton wishes it. '

'Oh dear no, ' said he. 'It would be teaching the ostler to grease thehorse's teeth. Perhaps he hasn't thought of it. '

'He thinks of everything, ' said Clara. 

'I wonder whether he's thinking of . ' So far Mrs Askerton spoke, andthen she paused. Colonel Askerton looked up at Clara with anill-natured smile, and Clara felt that she blushed. Was it not cruelthat she could not say a word in favour of a friend and a cousin acousin who had promised to be a brother to her, without being treatedwith such words and such looks as these? But she was determined notto be put down. 'I'm quite sure of this, ' she said, 'that my cousinwould do nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike. '

'There would be nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike in it. I shouldn'ttake it amiss at all but I should simply take up my bed and walk. Pray tell him that I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing himbefore he goes. I did call yesterday, but he was out. '

'He'll be here soon. He's to come here for me. ' But ColonelAskerton's horse was brought to the door, and he could not thereforewait to make Mr Belton's acquaintance on that occasion. 

'What a phoenix this cousin of yours is, ' said Mrs Askerton, as soonas her husband was gone. 

'He is a splendid fellow he is indeed. There's so much life abouthim! He's always doing something. He says that doing good will alwayspay in the long run. Isn't that a fine doctrine?'

'Quite a practical phoenix!'

'It has done papa so much good! At this moment he's out somewhere, thinking of what is going on, instead of moping in the house. Hecouldn't bear the idea of Will's coming, and now he is alreadybeginning to complain because he's going away. '

'Will, indeed!'

'And why not Will? He's my cousin. '

'Yes ten times removed. But so much the better if he's to be anythingmore than a cousin. '

'He is to be nothing more, Mrs Askerton. '

'You're quite sure of that?

'I am quite sure of it. And I cannot understand why there should besuch a suspicion because he and I are thrown closely together, andare fond of each other. Whether he is a sixth, eighth, or tenthcousin makes no difference. He is the nearest I have on that side;and since my poor brother's death he is papa's heir. It is so naturalthat he should be my friend and such a comfort that he should be sucha friend as he is! I own it seems cruel to me that under suchcircumstances there should be any suspicion. '

'Suspicion, my dear suspicion of what?'

'Not that I care I or it. I am prepared to love him as if he were mybrother. I think him one of the finest creatures I ever knew perhapsthe finest I ever did know. His energy and good-nature together arejust the qualities to make the best kind of man. I am proud of him asmy friend and my cousin, and now you may suspect what you please. '

'But, my dear, why should not he fall in love with you? It would bethe most proper, and also the most convenient thing in the world. '

'I hate talking of falling in love as though a woman had nothing elseto think of whenever she sees a man. '

'A woman has nothing else to think of. '

'I have a great deal else. And so has he. '

'It's quite out of the question on his part, then?'

'Quite out of the question. I'm sure he likes me; I can see it in hisface, and hear it in his voice, and am so happy that it is so. But itisn't in the way that you mean. Heaven knows that I may want a friendsome of these days, and I feel that I may trust to him. His feelingsto me will be always those of a brother. '

'Perhaps so. I have seen that fraternal love before under similarcircumstances, and it has always ended in the same way. '

'I hope it won't end in any way between us. '

'But the joke is that this suspicion, as you call it which makes youso indignant is simply a suggestion that a thing should happen which, of all things in the world, would be the best for both of you. '

'But the thing won't happen, and therefore let there be an end of it. I hate the twaddle talk of love, whether it's about myself or aboutany one else. It makes me feel ashamed of my sex, when I find that Icannot talk of myself to another woman without being supposed to beeither in love or thinking of love cither looking for it or avoidingit. When it comes, if it comes prosperously, it's a very good thing. But I for one can do without it, and I feel myself injured when sucha state of things is presumed to be impossible. '

'It is worth any one's while to irritate you, because yourindignation is so beautiful. '

'It is not beautiful to me; for I always feel ashamed afterwards ofmy own energy. And now, if you please, we won't say anything moreabout Mr Will Belton. '

'May I not talk about him, even as the enterprising cousin?

'Certainly; and in any other light you please. Do you know he seemedto think that he had known you ever so many years ago. ' Clara, as shesaid this, did not look direct at her friend's face; but still shecould perceive that Mrs Askerton was disconcerted. There came a shadeof paleness over her face, and a look of trouble on her brow, and fora moment or two she made no reply. 

'Did he?' she then said. 'And when was that?'

'I suppose it was in London. But, after all, I believe it was notyou, but somebody whom he remembers to have been like you. He saysthat the lady was a Miss Vigo. ' As she pronounced the name, Claraturned her face away, feeling instinctively that it would be kind todo so. 

'Miss Vigo!' said Mrs Askerton at once; and there was that in thetone of her voice which made Clara feel that all was not right withher. 'I remember that there were Miss Vigos; two of them, I think. Ididn't know that they were like me especially. '

'And he says that the one he remembers married a Mr Berdmore. '

'Married a Mr Berdmore!' The tone of voice was still the same, andthere was an evident struggle, as though the woman was making avehement effort to speak in her natural voice. Then Clara looked ather, feeling that if she abstained from doing so, the very fact ofher so abstaining would be remarkable. There was the look of pain onMrs Askerton's brow, and her cheeks were still pale, but she smiledas she went on speaking. 'I'm sure I'm flattered, for I remember thatthey were both considered beauties. Did he know anything more of her?

'No; nothing more. '

'There must have been some casual likeness I suppose. ' Mrs Askertonwas a clever woman, and had by this time almost recovered herself-possession. Then there came a ring at the front door, and inanother minute Mr Belton was in the room. Mrs Askerton felt that itwas imperative on her to make some allusion to the conversation whichhad just taken place, and dashed at the subject at once. 'Clara tellsme that I am exactly like some old friend of yours, Mr Belton. '

Then he looked at her closely as he answered her. 'I have no right tosay that she was my friend, Mrs Askerton, ' he said; 'indeed there washardly what might be called an acquaintance between us; but youcertainly are extremely like a certain Miss Vigo that I remember. '

'I often wonder that one person isn't more often found to be likeanother, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

'People often are like, ' said he, 'but not like in such a way as togive rise to mistakes as to identity. Now, I should have stopped youin the street and called you Mrs Berdmore. '

'Didn't I once see or hear the name of Berdmore in this house?' askedClara. 

Then that look of pain returned. Mrs Askerton had succeeded inrecovering the usual tone of her countenance, but now she was oncemore disturbed. 'I think I know the name, ' said she. 

'I fancy that I have seen it in this house, ' said Clara. 'You maymore likely have heard it, my dear. My memory is very poor, but if Iremember rightly, Colonel Askerton did know a Captain Berdmore a longwhile ago, before he was married; and you may probably have heard himmention the name. ' This did not quite satisfy Clara, but she saidnothing more about it then. If there was a mystery which Mrs Askertondid not wish to have explored, why should she explore it?

Soon after this Clara got up to go, and Mrs Askerton, making anotherattempt to be cheerful, was almost successful. So you're going backinto Norfolk on Saturday, Clara tells me. You are making a very shortvisit now that you're come among us. '

'It is a long time for me to be away from home. Farmers can hardlyever dare to leave their work. But in spite of my farm, I am talkingof coming here again about Christmas. '

'But you are going to have a farming establishment here too?'

'That will be nothing. Clara will look after that for me; will younot?' Then they went, and Belton had to consider how he would beginthe work before him. He had some idea that too much precipitancymight do him an injury, but he hardly knew how to commence withoutcoming to the point at once. When they were out together in the park, he went back at first to the subject of Mrs Askerton. 

'I would almost have sworn they were one and the same woman, ' hesaid. 

'But you see that they are not. '

'It's not only the likeness, but the voice. It so chanced that I oncesaw that Miss Vigo in some trouble. I happened to meet her in companywith a man who was who was tipsy, in fact, and I had to relieve her. '

'Dear me how disagreeable!'

'It's a long time ago, and there can't be any harm in mentioning itnow. It was the man she was going to marry, and whom she did marry. '

'What the Mr Berdmore?'

'Yes; he was often in that way. And there was a look about MrsAskerton just now so like the look of that Miss Vigo then, that Icannot get rid of the idea. '

'They can't be the same, as she was certainly a Miss Oliphant. Andyou hear, too, what she says. '

'Yes I heard what she said. You have known her long?'

'These two years. '

'And intimately?

'Very intimately. She is our only neighbour; and her being here hascertainly been a great comfort to me. It is sad not having some womannear one that one can speak to and then, I really do like her verymuch. '

'No doubt it's all right. '

'Yes; it's all right, ' said Clara. After that there was nothing moresaid about Mrs Askerton, and Belton began his work. They had gonefrom the cottage, across the park, away from the house, up to a highrock which stood boldly out of the ground, from whence could be seenthe sea on one side, and on the other a far track of country almostaway to the moors. And when they reached this spot they seatedthemselves. 'There, ' said Clara, 'I consider this to be the prettiestspot in England. '

'I haven't seen all England, ' said Belton. 

'Don't be so matter-of-fact, Will. I say it's the prettiest inEngland, and you can't contradict me. '

'And I say you're the prettiest girl in England, and you can'tcontradict me. '

This annoyed Clara, and almost made her feel that her paragon of acousin was not quite so perfect as she had represented him to be. 'Isee', she said, 'that if I talk nonsense I'm to be punished. '

'Is it a punishment to you to know that I think you very handsome?'he said, turning round and looking full into her face. 

'It is disagreeable to me very, to have any such subject talked aboutat all. What would you think if I began to pay you foolish personalcompliments?'

'What I say isn't foolish; and there's a great difference. Clara, Ilove you better than all the world put together. '

She now looked at him; but still she did not believe it. It could notbe that after all her boastings she should have made so gross ablunder. 'I hope you do love me, ' she said; 'indeed, you are bound todo so, for you promised that you would be my brother. '

'But that will not satisfy me now, Clara. Clara, I want to be yourhusband. '

'Will!' she exclaimed. 

'Now you know it all; and if I have been too sudden, I must beg yourpardon. '

'Oh, Will, forget that you have said this. Do not go on untileverything must be over between us. '

'Why should anything be over between us? Why should it be wrong in meto love you?'

'What will papa say?'

'Mr Amedroz knows all about it already, and has given me his consent. I asked him directly I had made up my own mind, and he told me that Imight go to you. '

'You have asked papa? Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?'

'Am I so odious to you then?' As he said this he got up from his seatand stood before her. He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and hecould assume a look and mien that were almost noble when he was movedas he was moved now. 

'Odious! Do you not know that I have loved you as my cousin that Ihave already learned to trust you as though you were really mybrother? But this breaks it all. '

'You cannot love me then as my wife?'

'No. ' She pronounced the monosyllable alone, and then he walked awayfrom her as though that one little word settled the question for him, now and for ever. He walked away from her, perhaps a distance of twohundred yards, as though the interview was over, and he were leavingher. She, as she saw him go, wished that he would return that shemight say some word of comfort to him. Not that she could have saidthe only word that would have comforted him. At the first blush ofthe thing, at the first sound of the address which he had made toher, she had been angry with him. He had disappointed her, and shewas indignant. But her anger had already melted and turned itself toruth. She could not but love him better, in that he had loved her sowell; but yet she could not love him with the love which he desired. 

But he did not leave her. When he had gone from her down the hill thedistance that has been named, he turned back and came up to herslowly. He had a trick of standing and walking with his thumbs fixedinto the armholes of his waistcoat, while his large hands rested onhis breast. He would always assume this attitude when he was assuredthat he was right in his views, and was eager to carry some point atissue. Clara already understood that this attitude signified hisintention to be autocratic. He now came close up to her and againstood over her, before he spoke. 'My dear, ' he said, 'I have beenrough and hasty in what I have said to you, and I have to ask you topardon my want of manners. '

'No, no, no, ' she exclaimed. 

'But in a matter of so much interest to us both you will not let anawkward manner prejudice me. '

'It is not that; indeed, it is not. '

'Listen to me, dearest. It is true that I promised to be yourbrother, and I will not break my word unless I break it by your ownsanction. I did promise to be your brother, but I did not know thenhow fondly I should come to love you. Your father, when I told him ofthis, bade me not to be hasty; but I am hasty, and I haven't knownhow to wait. Tell me that I may come at Christmas for my answer, andI will not say a word to trouble you till then. I will be yourbrother, at any rate till Christmas. '

'Be my brother always. '

A black cloud crossed his brow as this request reached his ears. Shewas looking anxiously into his face, watching every turn in theexpression of his countenance. 'Will you not let it wait tillChristmas?' he asked. 

She thought it would be cruel to refuse this request, and yet sheknew that no such waiting could be of service to him. He had beenawkward in his love-making, and was aware of it. He should havecontrived this period of waiting for himself; giving her no optionbut to wait and think of it. He should have made no proposal, buthave left her certain that such proposal was coming. In such case shemust have waited and if good could have come to him from that, hemight have received it. But, as the question was now presented toher, it was impossible that she should consent to wait. To have givensuch consent would have been tantamount to receiving him as herlover. She was therefore forced to be cruel. 

'It will be of no avail to postpone my answer when I know what itmust be. Why should there be suspense?'

'You mean that it is impossible that you should love me?'

'Not in that way, Will. '

'And why not?' Then there was a pause. 'But I am a fool to ask such aquestion as that, and I should be worse than a fool were I to pressit. It must then be considered as settled?'

She got up and clung to his arm. 'Oh, Will, do not look at me likethat!

'It must then be considered as settled?' he repeated. 

'Yes, Will, yes. Pray consider it as settled. ' He then sat down onthe rock again, and she came and sat by him near to him, but notclose as she had been before. She turned her eyes upon him, gazing onhim, but did not speak to him; and he sat also without speaking for awhile, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. 'I suppose we may go backto the house?' he said at last. 

'Give me your hand, Will, and tell me that you will still love me asyour sister. '

He gave her his hand. 'If you ever want a brother's care you shallhave it from me, ' he said. 

'But not a brother's love?'

'No. How can the two go together? I shan't cease to love you becausemy love is in vain. Instead of making me happy it will make mewretched. That will be the only difference. '

'I would give my life to make you happy, if that were possible. '

'You will not give me your life in the way that I would have it. '

After that they walked in silence back to the house, and when he hadopened the front door for her, he parted from her and stood aloneunder the porch, thinking of his misfortune. 

CHAPTER VI

SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING ONCE AGAIN

For a considerable time Belton stood under the porch of the house, thinking of what had happened to him, and endeavouring to steadyhimself under the blow which he had received. I do not know that hehad been sanguine of success. Probably he had made to himself noassurances on the subject. But he was a man to whom failure, ofitself, was intolerable. In any other event of life he would havetold himself that he would not fail that he would persevere andconquer. He could imagine no other position as to which he could atonce have been assured of failure, in any project on which he had sethis heart. But as to this project it was so. He had been told thatshe could not love him that she could never love him and he hadbelieved her. He had made his attempt and had failed; and, as hethought of this, standing under the porch, he became convinced thatlife for him was altogether changed, and that he who had been sohappy must now be a wretched man. 

He was still standing there when Mr Amedroz came down into the hall, dressed for dinner, and saw his figure through the open doors. 'Will, ' he said, coming up to him, 'it only wants five minutes todinner. ' Belton started and shook himself, as though he were shakingoff a lethargy, and declared that he was quite ready. Then heremembered that he would be expected to dress, and rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to his own room. When he came down, Clara andher father were already in the dining-room, and he joined them there. 

Mr Amedroz, though he was not very quick in reading facts from themanners of those with whom he lived, had felt assured that things hadgone wrong between Belton and his daughter. He had not as yet had aminute in which to speak to Clara, but he was certain that it was so. Indeed, it was impossible not to read terrible disappointment anddeep grief in the young man's manner. He made no attempt to concealit, though he did not speak of it. Through the whole evening, thoughhe was alone for a while with the squire, and alone also for a timewith Clara, he never mentioned or alluded to the subject of hisrejection. But he bore himself as though he knew and they knew asthough all the world knew that he had been rejected. And yet he didnot remain silent. He talked of his property and of his plans, andexplained how things were to be done in his absence. Once only wasthere something like an allusion made to his sorrow. 'But you will behere at Christmas?' said Mr Amedroz, in answer to something whichBelton had said as to work to be done in his absence. 'I do not knowhow that may be now, ' said Belton. And then they had all been silent. 

It was a terrible evening to Clara. She endeavoured to talk, butfound it to be impossible. All the brightness of the last few dayshad disappeared, and the world seemed to her to be more sad andsolemn than ever. She had no idea when she was refusing him that hewould have taken it to heart as he had done. The question had comebefore her for decision so suddenly, that she had not, in fact, hadtime to think of this as she was making her answer. All she had donewas to feel that she could not be to him what he wished her to be. And even as yet she had hardly asked herself why she must be sosteadfast in her refusal. But she had refused him steadfastly, andshe did not for a moment think of reducing the earnestness of herresolution. It seemed to be manifest to her, from his present manner, that he would never ask the question again; but she was sure, let itbe asked ever so often, that it could not be answered in any otherway. 

Mr Amedroz, not knowing why it was so, became cross and querulous, and scolded his daughter. To Belton, also, he was captious, makinglittle difficulties, and answering him with petulance. This therejected lover took with most extreme patience, as though such atrifling annoyance had no effect in adding anything to his misery. Hestill held his purpose of going on the Saturday, and was still intenton work which was to be done before he went; but it seemed that hewas satisfied to do everything now as a duty, and that the enjoymentof the thing, which had heretofore been so conspicuous, was over. 

At last they separated, and Clara, as was her wont, went up to herfather's room. 'Papa, ' she said, 'what is all this about Mr Belton?'

'All what, my dear? what do you mean?'

'He has asked me to be to be his wife; and has told me that he camewith your consent. '

'And why shouldn't he have my consent? What is there amiss with him?Why shouldn't you marry him if he likes you? You seemed, I thought, to be very fond of him. '

This surprised Clara more than anything. She could hardly have toldherself why, but she would have thought that such a proposition fromher cousin would have made her father angry unreasonably angry angrywith him for presuming to have such an idea; but now it seemed thathe was going to be angry with her for not accepting her cousin out ofhand. 

'Yes, papa; I am fond of him; but not like that. I did not expectthat he would think of me in that way. '

'But why shouldn't he think of you? It would be a very good marriagefor you, as far as money is concerned. '

'You would not have me marry any one for that reason would you, papa?'

'But you seemed to like him. Well; of course I can't make you likehim. I meant to do for the best; and when he came to me as he did, Ithought he was behaving very handsomely, and very much like agentleman. '

'I am sure he would do that. '

'And if I could have thought that this place would be your home whenI am gone, it would have made me very happy very happy. '

She now came and stood close to him and took his hand. 'I hope, papa, you do not make yourself uneasy about me. I shall do very well. I'msure you can't want me to go away and leave you. '

'How will you do very well? I'm sure I don't know. And if your auntWinterfield means to provide for you, it would only be kind in her tolet me know it, so that I might not have the anxiety always on mymind. '

Clara knew well enough what was to be the disposition of her aunt'sproperty, but she could not tell her father of that now. She almostfelt that it was her duty to do so, but she could not bring herselfto do it. She could only beg him not to be anxious on her behalf, making vague assurances that she would do very well. 'And are youdetermined not to change your mind about Will?' he said at last. 

'I shall not change my mind about that, papa, certainly, ' sheanswered. Then he turned away from her, and she saw that he wasdispleased. 

When alone, she was forced to ask herself why it was that she was socertain. Alas! there could in truth be no doubt on that subject inher own mind. When she sat down, resolved to give herself an answer, there was no doubt. She could not love her cousin, Will Belton, because her heart belonged to Captain Aylmer. 

But she knew that she had received nothing in exchange for her heart. He had been kind to her on that journey to Taunton, when the agonyarising from her brother's death had almost crushed her. He had oftenbeen kind to her on days before that so kind, so soft in his manners, approaching so nearly to the little tenderness of incipientlove-making, that the idea of regarding him as her lover had ofnecessity forced itself upon her. But in nothing had he gone beyondthose tendernesses, which need not imperatively be made to meananything, though they do often mean so much. It was now two yearssince she had first thought that Captain Aylmer was the most perfectgentleman she knew, and nearly two years since Mrs Winterfield hadexpressed to her a hope that Captain Aylmer might become her husband. She had replied that such a thing was impossible as any girl wouldhave replied; and had in consequence treated Captain Aylmer with allthe coolness which she had been able to assume whenever she was incompany with him in her aunt's presence. Nor was it natural to her tobe specially gracious to a man under such trying circumstances, evenwhen no Mrs Winterfield was there to behold. And so things had goneon. Captain Aylmer had now and again made himself very pleasant toher at certain trying periods of joy or trouble almost more thanpleasant. But nothing had come of it, and Clara had told herself thatCaptain Aylmer had no special feeling in her favour. She had toldherself this, ever since that journey together from Perivale toTaunton; but never till now had she confessed to herself what was herown case. 

She made a comparison between the two men. Her cousin Will was, shethought, the more generous, the more energetic perhaps by nature, theman of the higher gifts. In person he was undoubtedly the superior. He was full of noble qualities forgetful of self, industrious, fullof resources, a very man of men, able to command, eager in doing workfor others' good and his own a man altogether uncontaminated by thecoldness and selfishness of the outer world. But he was rough, awkward, but indifferently educated, and with few of those tasteswhich to Clara Amedroz were delightful. He could not read poetry toher, he could not tell her of what the world of literature was doingnow or of what it had done in times past. He knew nothing of theinner world of worlds which governs the world. She doubted whether hecould have told her who composed the existing cabinet, or have giventhe name of a single bishop beyond the see in which his own parishwas situated. But Captain Aylmer knew everybody, and had readeverything, and understood, as though by instinct, all the movementsof the world in which he lived. 

But what mattered any such comparison? Even though she should be ableto prove to herself beyond the shadow of a doubt that her cousin Willwas of the two the fitter to be loved the one more worthy of herheart no such proof could alter her position. Love does not go byworth. She did not love her cousin as she must love any man to whomshe could give her hand and, alas! she did love that other man. 

On this night I doubt whether Belton did slumber with that solidityof repose which was usual to him. At any rate, before he came down inthe morning he had found time for sufficient thought, and had broughthimself to a resolution. He would not give up the battle as lost. Tohis thinking there was something weak and almost mean in abandoningany project which he had set before himself. He had been awkward, andhe exaggerated to himself his own awkwardness. He had been hasty, andhad gone about his task with inconsiderate precipitancy. It might bethat he had thus destroyed all his chance of success. But, as he saidto himself, 'he would never say die, as long as there was a puff ofbreath left in him. ' He would not mope, and hang down his head, andwear the willow. Such a state of things would ill suit either theroughness or the readiness of his life. No! He would bear like a manthe disappointment which had on this occasion befallen him, and wouldreturn at Christmas and once more try his fortune. 

At breakfast, therefore, the cloud had passed from his brow. When hecame in he found Clara alone in the room, and he simply shook handswith her after his ordinary fashion. He said nothing of yesterday, and almost succeeded in looking as though yesterday had been in nowise memorable. She was not so much at her ease, but she alsoreceived some comfort from his demeanour. Mr Amedroz came down almostimmediately, and Belton soon took an opportunity of saying that hewould be back at Christmas if Mr Amedroz would receive him. 

'Certainly, ' said the squire. 'I thought it had been all settled. '

'So it was till I said a word yesterday which foolishly seemed tounsettle it. But I have thought it over again, and I find that I canmanage it. '

'We shall be so glad to have you!' said Clara. 

'And I shall be equally glad to come. They are already at work, sir, about the sheds. '

'Yes; I saw the carts full of bricks go by, ' said the squire, querulously. 'I didn't know there was to be any brickwork. You saidyou would have it made of deal slabs with oak posts. '

'You must have a foundation, sir. I propose to carry the brickwork afoot and a half above the ground. '

'I suppose you know best. Only that kind of thing is so very ugly. '

'If you find it to be ugly after it is done, it shall be pulled downagain. '

'No it can never come down again. '

'It can and it shall, if you don't like it. I never think anything ofchanges like that. '

'I think they'll be very pretty!' said Clara. 

'I dare say, ' said the squire, ' but at any rate it won't make muchdifference to me. I shan't be here long to see them. '

This was rather melancholy; but Belton bore up even against this, speaking cheery words and expressing bright hopes so that it seemed, both to Clara and her father, that he had in a great measure overcomethe disappointment of the preceding day. It was probable that he wasa man not prone to be deeply sensitive in such matters for any longperiod. The period now had certainly not been long, and yet WillBelton was alive again. 

Immediately after breakfast there occurred a little incident whichwas not without its effect upon them all. There came up on the driveimmediately before the front door, under the custody of a boy, a cow. It was an Alderney cow, and any man or woman at all understandingcows would at once have perceived that this cow was perfect in herkind. Her eyes were mild, and soft, and bright. Her legs were likethe legs of a deer; and in her whole gait and demeanour she almostgave the lie to her own name, asserting herself to have sprung fromsome more noble origin among the woods, than maybe supposed to be theorigin of the ordinary domestic cow a useful animal, but heavy in itsappearance, and seen with more pleasure at some little distance thanat close quarters. But this cow was graceful in its movements, andalmost tempted one to regard her as the far-off descendant of the elkor the antelope. 

'What's that?' said Mr Amedroz, who, having no cows of his own, wasnot pleased to see one brought up in that way before his hail door. 'There's somebody's cow come here. '

Clara understood it in a moment; but she was pained, and saidnothing. Had the cow come without any such scene as that ofyesterday, she would have welcomed the animal with all cordiality, and would have sworn to her cousin that the cow should be cherishedfor his sake. But after what had passed it was different. How was sheto take any present from him now?

But Belton faced the difficulty without any bashfulness or apparentregret. 'I told you I would give you a cow, ' said he 'and here sheis. '

'What can she want with a cow?' said Mr Amedroz. 

'I am sure she wants one very much. At any rate she won't refuse thepresent from me; will you, Clara?'

What could she say? 'Not if papa will allow me to keep it. '

'But we've no place to put it!' said the squire. 'We haven't gotgrass for it!'

'There's plenty of grass, ' said Belton. 'Come, Mr Amedroz; I've madea point of getting this little creature for Clara, and you mustn'tstand in the way of my gratification. ' Of course he was successful, and of course Clara thanked him with tears in her eyes. 

The next two days passed by without anything special to mark them, and then the cousin was to go. During the period of his visit he didnot see Colonel Askerton, nor did he again see Mrs Askerton. He wentto the cottage once, with the special object of returning thecolonel's call; but the master was out, and he was not speciallyinvited in to see the mistress. He said nothing more to Clara abouther friends, but he thought of the matter more than once, as he wasgoing about the place, and became aware that he would like toascertain whether there was a mystery, and if so, what was itsnature. He knew that he did not like Mrs Askerton, and he felt alsothat Mrs Askerton did not like him. This was, as he thought, unfortunate; for might it not be the case, that in the one matterwhich was to him of so much importance, Mrs Askerton might haveconsiderable influence over Clara?

During these days nothing special was said between him and Clara. Thelast evening passed over without anything to brighten it or to makeit memorable. Mr Amedroz, in his passive, but gently querulous way, was sorry that Belton was going to leave him, as his cousin had beenthe creation of some new excitement for him, but he said nothing onthe subject; and when the time for going to bed had come, he bade hisguest farewell with some languid allusion to the pleasure which hewould have in seeing him again at Christmas. Belton was to start veryearly in the morning before six, and of course he was prepared totake leave also of Clara. But she told him very gently, so gentlythat her father did not hear it, that she would be up to give him acup of coffee before he went. 

'Oh no, ' he said. 

'But I shall. I won't have you go without seeing you out of thedoor. '

And on the following morning she was up before him. She hardlyunderstood, herself, why she was doing this. She knew that it shouldbe her object to avoid any further special conversation on thatsubject which they discussed up among the rocks. She knew that shecould give him no comfort, and that he could give none to her. Itwould seem that he was willing to let the remembrance of the scenepass away, so that it should be as though it had never been; andsurely it was not for her to disturb so salutary an arrangement! Butyet she was up to bid him Godspeed as he went. She could notbear, --so she excused the matter to herself, --she could not bear tothink that he should regard her as ungrateful. She knew all that hehad done for them. She had perceived that the taking of the land, thebuilding of the sheds, the life which he had contrived in so short atime to throw into the old place, had all come from a desire on hispart to do good to those in whose way he stood by family arrangementsmade almost before his birth; and she longed to say to him one word ofthanks. And had he not told her, --once in the heat of hisdisappointment; for then at that moment, as Clara had said toherself, she supposed that he must have been in some measuredisappointed, --had he not even then told her that when she wanted abrother's care, a brother's care should be given to her by him? Wasshe not therefore bound to do for him what she would do for abrother?

She, with her own hands, brought the coffee into the little breakfastparlour, and handed the cup into his hands. The gig, which had comeovernight from Taunton, was not yet at the door, and there was aminute or two during which they must speak to each other. Who has notseen some such girl when she has come down early, without the fullcompleteness of her morning toilet, and yet nicer, fresher, prettierto the eye of him who is so favoured, than she has ever been in moreformal attire? And what man who has been so favoured has not lovedher who has so favoured him, even though he may not previously havebeen enamoured as deeply as poor Will Belton?

'This is so good of you, ' he said. 

'I wish I knew how to be good to you, ' she answered not meaning totrench upon dangerous ground, but feeling, as the words came fromher, that she had done so. 'You have been so good to us, so very goodto papa, that we owe you everything. I am so grateful to you forsaying that you will come back at Christmas. '

He had resolved that he would refrain from further love-making tillthe winter; but he found it very hard to refrain when so addressed. To take her in his arms, and kiss her twenty times, and swear that hewould never let her go to claim her at once savagely as his own, thatwas the line of conduct to which temptation prompted him. How couldshe look at him so sweetly, how could she stand before him, ministering to him with all her pretty maidenly charms brought soclose to him, without intending that he should love her? But he didrefrain. 'Blood is thicker than water, ' said he. 'That's the realreason why I first came. '

'I understand that quite, and it is that feeling that makes you sogood. But I'm afraid you are spending a great deal of money here andall for our sakes. '

'Not at all. I shall get my money back again. And if I didn't, whatthen? I've plenty of money. It is not money that I want. '

She could not ask him what it was that he did want, and she wasobliged therefore to begin again. 'Papa will look forward so to thewinter now. '

'And so shall I. '

'But you must come for longer then you won't go away at the end of aweek? Say that you won't. '

'I'll see about it. I can't tell quite yet. You'll write me a line tosay when the shed is finished, won't you?'

'That I will, and I'll tell you how Bessy goes on. ' Bessy was thecow. 'I will be so very fond of her. She'll come to me for applesalready. '

Belton thought that he would go to her, wherever she might be, evenif he were to get no apples. 'It's all cupboard love with them, ' hesaid. 'I'll tell you what I'll do when I come, I'll bring you a dogthat will follow you without thinking of apples. ' Then the gig washeard on the gravel before the door, and Belton was forced to go. Fora moment he reflected whether, as her cousin, it was not his duty tokiss her. It was a matter as to which he had doubt as is the casewith many male cousins; but ultimately he resolved that if he kissedher at all he would not kiss her in that light, and so he againrefrained. 'Goodbye, ' he said, putting out his great hand to her. 

'Good-bye, Will, and God bless you. ' I almost think he might havekissed her, asking himself no questions as to the light in which itwas done. 

As he turned from her he saw the tears in her eyes; and as he sat inthe gig, thinking of them, other tears came into his own. By heaven, he would have her yet! He was a man who had not read much of romance. To him all the imagined mysteries of passion had not been made commonby the perusal of legions of love stories but still he knew enough ofthe game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were, oftheir own teeth. He knew that he could not now run away with her, taking her off by force; but still he might conquer her will by hisown. As he remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of hervoice, and the pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that hadbecome tender in its expression, he could not hut think that he wouldbe wise to love her still. Wise or foolish, he did love her still;and it should not be owing to fault of his if she did not become hiswife. As he drove along he saw little of the Quantock hills, littleof the rich Somersetshire pastures, little of the early beauty of theAugust morning. He saw nothing but her eyes, moistened with brighttears, and before he reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with manyrevilings in that he had parted from her and not kissed her. 

Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out ofsight, --watching it as well as her tears would allow. What a grandcousin he was! Had it not been a pity, --a thousand pities, --thatgrievous episode should have come to mar the brotherly love, thesisterly confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfectbetween them? But perhaps it might all be well yet. Clara knew, orthought that she knew, that men and women differed in theirappreciation of love. She, having once loved, could not change. Of thatshe was sure. Her love might be fortunate or unfortunate. It might bereturned, or it might simply be her own, to destroy all hope ofhappiness for her on earth. But whether it were this or that, whetherproductive of good or evil, the love itself could not be changed. Butwith men she thought it might be different. Her cousin, doubtless, hadbeen sincere in the full sincerity of his heart when he made his offer. And had she accepted it, --had she been able to accept it, --she believedthat he would have loved her truly and constantly. Such was his nature. But she also believed that love with him, unrequited love, would haveno enduring effect, and that he had already resolved, with equal courageand wisdom, to tread this short-lived passion out beneath his feet. Onenight had sufficed to him for that treading out. As she thought ofthis the tears ran plentifully down her cheek; and going again to herroom she remained there crying till it was time for her to wipe awaythe marks of her weeping, that she might go to her father. 

But she was very glad that Will bore it so well very glad! Her cousinwas safe against love-making once again. 

CHAPTER VII

MISS AMEDROZ GOES TO PERIVALE

It had been settled for some time past that Miss Amedroz was to go toPerivale for a few days in November. Indeed it seemed to be arecognized fact in her life that she was to make the journey fromBelton to Perivale and back very often, as there prevailed an ideathat she owed a divided duty. This was in some degree hard upon her, as she had very little gratification in these visits to her aunt. Hadthere been any intention on the part of Mrs Winterfield to providefor her, the thing would have been intelligible according to theusual arrangements which are made in the world on such matters; butMrs Winterfield had scarcely a right to call upon her niece fordutiful attendance after having settled it with her own consciencethat her property was all to go to her nephew. But Clara entertainedno thought of rebelling, and had agreed to make the accustomedjourney in November, travelling then, as she did on all such journeys, at her aunt's expense. 

Two things only occurred to disturb her tranquillity before she went, and they were not of much violence. Mr Wright, the clergyman, calledat Belton Castle, and in the course of conversation with Mr Amedrozrenewed one of those ill-natured rumours which had before been spreadabout Mrs Askerton. Clara did not see him, but she heard an accountof it all from her father. 

'Does it mean, papa, ' she said, speaking almost with anger, 'that youwant me to give up Mrs Askerton?'

'How can you be so unkind as to ask me such a question?' he replied. 'You know how I hate to be bothered. I tell you what I hear, and thenyou can decide for yourself. '

'But that isn't quite fair either, papa. That that man comes here--'

'That man, as you call him, is the rector of the parish, and I'veknown him for forty years. '

'And have never liked him, papa. '

'I don't know much about liking anybody, my dear. Nobody likes me, and so why should I trouble myself?'

'But, papa, it all amounts to this--that somebody has said that theAskertons are not Askertons at all, but ought to be called somethingelse. Now we know that he served as Captain and Major Askerton forseven years in India and in fact it all means nothing. If I knowanything, I know that he is Colonel Askerton. '

'But do you know that she is his wife? That is what Mr Wright asks. Idon't say anything. I think it's very indelicate talking about suchthings. '

'If I am asked whether I have seen her marriage certificate, certainly I have not; nor probably did you ever do so as to any ladythat you ever knew. But I know that she is her husband's wife, as weall of us know things of that sort. I know she was in India with him. I've seen things of hers marked with her name that she has had atleast ten years. '

'I don't know anything about it, my dear, ' said Mr Amedroz, angrily. 

'But Mr Wright ought to know something about it before he says suchthings. And then this that he's saying now isn't the same that hesaid before. '

'I don't know what he said before. '

'He said they were both of them using a feigned name. '

'It's nothing to me what name they use. I know I wish they hadn'tcome here, if I'm to be troubled about them in this way first byWright and then by you. '

'They have been very good tenants, papa. '

'You needn't tell me that, Clara, and remind me about the shootingwhen you know how unhappy it makes me. '

After this Clara said nothing more, and simply determined that MrWright and his gossip should have no effect upon her intimacy withMrs Askerton. But not the less did she continue to remember what hercousin had said about Miss Vigo. 

And she had been ruffled a second time by certain observations whichMrs Askerton made to her respecting her cousin or rather by littlewords which were dropped on various occasions. It was very clear thatMrs Askerton did not like Mr Belton, and that she wished to prejudiceClara against him. 'It's a pity he shouldn't be a lover of yours, 'the lady said, 'because it would be such a fine instance of Beautyand the Beast. ' It will of course be understood that Mrs Askerton hadnever been told of the offer that had been made. 

'You don't mean to say that he's not a handsome man, ' said Clara. 

'I never observe whether a man is handsome or not; but I can see verywell whether he knows what to do with his arms and legs, or whetherhe has the proper use of his voice before ladies. ' Clara remembered aword or two spoken by her cousin to herself, in speaking which he hadseemed to have a very proper use of his voice. 'I know when a man isat ease like a gentleman, and when he is awkward like a--'

'Like a what?' said Clara. 'Finish what you've got to say. '

'Like a ploughboy, I was going to say, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

'I declare I think you have a spite against him, because he said youwere like some Miss Vigo, ' replied Clara, sharply. Mrs Askerton wason that occasion silenced, and she said nothing more about Mr Beltontill after Clara had returned from Perivale. 

The journey itself from Belton to Perivale was always a nuisance, andwas more so now than usual, as it was made in the disagreeable monthof November. There was kept at the little inn at Redicote an oldfly-so called which habitually made the journey to the Tauntonrailway-station, under the conduct of an old grey horse and an olderand greyer driver, whenever any of the old ladies of theneighbourhood were minded to leave their homes. This vehicle usuallytravelled at the rate of five miles an hour; but the old grey driverwas never content to have time allowed to him for the transitcalculated upon such a rate of speed. Accidents might happen, and whyshould he be made, as he would plaintively ask, to drive the poorbeast out of its skin? He was consequently always at Belton a fullhour before the time, and though Clara was well aware of all this, she could not help herself. Her father was fussy and impatient, theman was fussy and impatient; and there was nothing for her but to go. On the present occasion she was taken off in this way the full sixtyminutes too soon, and after four dreary hours spent upon the road, found herself landed at the Taunton station, with a terrible gulf oftime to be passed before she could again proceed on her journey. 

One little accident had occurred to her. The old horse, whiletrotting leisurely along the level high road, had contrived to tumbledown. Clara did not think very much of this, as the same thing hadhappened with her before; but, even with an hour or more to spare, there arises a question whether under such circumstances the traincan be saved. But the grey old man reassured her. 'Now, miss, ' saidhe, coming to the window, while he left his horse recumbent andapparently comfortable on the road, 'where'd you have been now, sure, if I hadn't a few minutes in hand for you?' Then he walked off tosome neighbouring cottage, and having obtained assistance, succeededin putting his beast again upon his legs. After that he looked oncemore in at the window. 'Who's right now, I wonder?' he said, with anair of triumph. And when he came to her for his guerdon at Taunton, he was evidently cross in not having it increased because of theaccident. 

That hour at the Taunton station was terrible to her. I know of nohours more terrible than those so passed. The minutes will not goaway, and utterly fail in making good their claim to be calledwinged. A man walks up and down the platform, and in that way obtainssomething of the advantage of exercise; but a woman finds herselfbound to sit still within the dreary dullness of the waiting-room. There are, perhaps, people who under such circumstances can read, butthey are few in number. The mind altogether declines to be active, whereas the body is seized by a spirit of restlessness to which delayand tranquillity are loathsome. The advertisements on the walls areexamined, the map of some new Eden is studied some Eden in which anirregular pond and a church are surrounded by a multiplicity ofregular villas and shrubs till the student feels that noconsideration of health or economy would induce him to live there. Then the porters come in and out, till each porter has made himselfodious to the sight. Everything is hideous, dirty, and disagreeable;and the mind wanders away, to consider why station-masters do notmore frequently commit suicide. Clara Amedroz had already got beyondthis stage, and was beginning to think of herself rather than of thestation-master, when at last there sounded, close to her ears, thebell of promise, and she knew that the train was at hand. 

At Taunton there branched away from the main line that line which wasto take her to Perivale, and therefore she was able to take her ownplace quietly in the carriage when she found that the down-trainfrom London was at hand. This she did, and could then watch withequanimity, while the travelers from the other train went through thepenance of changing their seats. But she had not been so watching formany seconds when she saw Captain Frederic Aylmer appear upon theplatform. Immediately she sank back into her corner and watched nomore. Of course he was going to Perivale; but why had not her aunttold her that she was to meet him? Of course she would be staying inthe same house with him, and her present small attempt to avoid himwould thus be futile. The attempt was made; but nevertheless she wasprobably pleased when she found that it was made in vain. He came atonce to the carriage in which she was sitting, and had packed hiscoats, and dressing-bag, and desk about the carriage before he haddiscovered who was his fellow-traveller 'How do you do, CaptainAylmer?' she said, as he was about to take his seat. 

'Miss Amedroz! Dear me; how very odd! I had not the slightestexpectation of meeting you here. The pleasure is of course thegreater. '

'Nor I of seeing you. Mrs Winterfield has not mentioned to me thatyou were coming to Perivale. '

'I didn't know it myself till the day before yesterday. I'm going togive an account of my stewardship to the good-natured Perivalians whosent me to Parliament. I'm to dine with the Mayor tomorrow, and assome big-wig has come in his way who is going to dine with him also, the thing has been got up in a hurry. But I'm delighted to find thatyou are to be with us. '

'I generally go to my aunt about this time of the year. '

'It is very good-natured of you. ' Then he asked after her father, andshe told him of Mr Belton's visit, telling him nothing as the readerwill hardly require to be told of Mr Belton's offer. And so, bydegrees, they fell into close and intimate conversation. 

'I am so glad, for your father's sake!' said the captain, withsympathetic voice, speaking still of Mr Belton's visit. 

'That's what I feel, of course. '

'I is just as it should be, as he stands in that position to theproperty. And so he is a nice sort of fellow, is he?

'Nice is no word for him. He is perfect!'

'Dear me! This is terrible! You remember that they hated some oldGreek patriot when they could find no fault in him?'

'I'll defy you to hate my cousin Will. '

'What sort of looking man is he?'

'Extremely handsome at least I should say so. '

'Then I certainly must hate him. And clever?'

'Well not what you would call clever. He is very clever about fieldsand cattle. '

'Come, there is some relief in that. '

'But you must not mistake me. He is clever; and then there's a wayabout him of doing everything just as he likes it, which iswonderful. You feel quite sure that he'll become master ofeverything. '

'But I do not feel at all sure that I should like him better forthat. '

'But he doesn't meddle in things that he doesn't understand. And thenhe is so generous! His spending all that money down there is onlydone because he thinks it will make the place pleasanter to papa. '

'Has he got plenty of money?'

'Oh, plenty! At least, I think so. He says that he has. '

'The idea of any man owning that he had got plenty of money! What ahappy mortal! And then to be handsome, and omnipotent, and tounderstand cattle and fields! One would strive to emulate him ratherthan envy him, had not one learned to acknowledge that it is notgiven to every one to get to Corinth. '

'You may laugh at him, but you'd like him if you knew him. '

'One never can be sure of that from a lady's account of a man. When aman talks to me about another man, I can generally tell whether Ishould like him or not particularly if I know the man well who isgiving the description; but it is quite different when a woman is thedescriber. '

'You mean that you won't take my word?'

'We see with different eyes in such matters. I have no doubt yourcousin is a worthy man and as prosperous a gentleman as the Thane ofCawdor in his prosperous days but probably if he and I came togetherwe shouldn't have a word to say to each other. '

Clara almost hated Captain Aylmer for speaking as he did, and yet sheknew that it was true. Will Belton was not an educated man, and werethey two to meet in her presence the captain and the farmer she feltthat she might have to blush for her cousin. But yet he was thebetter man of the two. She knew that he was the better man of thetwo, though she knew also that she could not love him as she lovedthe other. 

Then they changed the subject of their conversation, and discussedMrs Winterfield, as they had often done before. Captain Aylmer hadsaid that he should return to London on the Saturday, the present daybeing Tuesday, and Clara accused him of escaping always from the realhard work of his position. 'I observe that you never stay a Sunday atPerivale, ' she said. 

'Well not often. Why should I? Sunday is just the day that peoplelike to be at home. '

'I should have thought it would not have made much difference to abachelor in that way. '

'But Sunday is a day that one specially likes to pass after one's ownfashion. '

'Exactly and therefore you don't stay with my aunt. I understand itall completely. '

'Now you mean to be ill-natured!'

'I mean to say that I don't like Sundays at Perivale at all, and thatI should do just as you do if I had the power. But women, --women, that is, of my age, --are such slaves! We are forced to give anobedience for which we can see no cause, and for which we canunderstand no necessity. I couldn't tell my aunt that I meant to goaway on Saturday. '

'You have no business which makes imperative calls upon your time. '

'That means that I can't plead pretended excuses. But the true reasonis that we are dependent. '

'There is something in that, I suppose. '

'Not that I am dependent on her. But my position generally isdependent, and I cannot assist myself. '

Captain Aylmer found it difficult to make any answer to this, feelingthe subject to be one which could hardly be discussed between him andMiss Amedroz. He not unnaturally looked to be the heir of his aunt'sproperty, and any provision made out of that property for Clara wouldso far lessen that which would come to him. For anything that heknew, Mrs Winterfield might leave everything she possessed to herniece. The old lady had not been open and candid to him whom shemeant to favour in her will, as she had been to her to whom no suchfavour was to be shown. But Captain Aylmer did know, with tolerableaccuracy, what was the state of affairs at Belton, and was aware thatMiss Amedroz had no prospect of maintenance on which to depend, unless she could depend on her aunt. She was now pleading that shewas not dependent on that lady, and Captain Aylmer felt that she waswrong. He was a man of the world, and was by no means inclined toabandon any right that was his own; but it seemed to him that he wasalmost bound to say some word to show that in his opinion Clarashould hold herself bound to comply with her aunt's requirements. 

'Dependence is a disagreeable word, ' he said; and one never quiteknows what it means. '

'If you were a woman you'd know. It means that I must stay atPerivale on Sundays, while you can go up to London or down toYorkshire. That's what it means. '

'What you do mean, I think, is this that you owe a duty to your aunt, the performance of which is not altogether agreeable. Nevertheless itwould be foolish in you to omit it. '

'It isn't that not that at all. It would not be foolish, not in yoursense of the word, but it would be wrong. My aunt has been kind tome, and therefore I am bound to her for this service. But she is kindto you also, and yet you are not bound. That's why I complain. Yousail always under false pretences, and yet you think you do yourduty. You have to see your lawyer which means going to your club; orto attend to your tenants which means hunting and shooting. '

'I haven't got any tenants. '

'You know very well that you could remain over Sunday without doingany harm to anybody only you don't like going to church three times, and you don't like hearing my aunt read a sermon afterwards. Whyshouldn't you stay, and I go to the club?'

'With all my heart, if you can manage it. '

'But I can't; we ain't allowed to have clubs, or shooting, or to haveour own way in anything, putting forward little pretences aboutlawyers. '

'Come, I'll stay if you'll ask me. '

'I'm sure I won't do that. In the first place you'd go to sleep, andthen she would be offended; and I don't know that your sufferingswould make mine any lighter. I'm not prepared to alter the ways ofthe world, but feel myself entitled to grumble at them sometimes. '

Mrs Winterfield inhabited a large brick house in the centre of thetown. It had a long frontage to the street; for there was not onlythe house itself, with its three square windows on each side of thedoor, and its seven windows over that, and again its seven windows inthe upper story but the end of the coach-house also abutted on thestreet, on which was the family clock, quite as much respected inPerivale as was the town-clock; and between the coach-house and themansion there was the broad entrance into the yard, and the entrancealso to the back door. No Perivalian ever presumed to doubt that MrsWinterfield's house was the most important house in the town. Nor didany stranger doubt it on looking at the frontage. But then it was inall respects a town house to the eye that is, an English town house, being as ugly and as respectable as unlimited bricks and mortar couldmake it. Immediately opposite to Mrs Winterfield lived the leadingdoctor and a retired builder, so that the lady's eye was not hurt byany sign of a shop. The shops, indeed, came within a very few yardsof her on either side; but as the neighbouring shops on each sidewere her own property, this was not unbearable. To me, had I livedthere, the incipient growth of grass through some of the stones whichformed the margin of the road would have been altogether unendurable. There is no sign of coming decay which is so melancholy to the eye asany which tells of a decrease in the throng of men. Of men or horsesthere was never any throng now in that end of Perivale. That streethad formed part of the main line of road from Salisbury to Taunton, and coaches, wagons, and posting-carriages had been frequent on it;but now, alas it was deserted. Even the omnibuses from therailway-station never came there unless they were ordered to call atMrs Winterfield's door. For Mrs Winterfield herself, this desolationhad, I think, a certain melancholy attraction. It suited her tone ofmind and her religious views that she should be thus daily remindedthat things of this world were passing away and going to destruction. She liked to have ocular proof that grass was growing in the highwaysunder mortal feet, and that it was no longer worth man's while torenew human flags in human streets. She was drawing near to thepavements which would ever be trodden by myriads of bright sandals, and which yet would never be worn, and would be carried to thosejewelled causeways on which no weed could find a spot for its uselessgrowth. 

Behind the house there was a square prim garden, arranged inparallelograms, tree answering to tree at every corner, round whichit was still her delight to creep when the weather permitted. PoorClara! How much advice she had received during these creepings, andhow often had she listened to inquiries as to the schooling of thegardener's children. Mrs Winterfield was always unhappy about hergardener. Serious footmen are very plentiful, and even coachmen areto be found who, at a certain rate of extra payment, will be punctualat prayer time, and will promise to read good little books; butgardeners, as a class, are a profane people, who think themselvesentitled to claim liberty of conscience, and who will not submit tothe domestic despotism of a serious Sunday. They live in cottages bythemselves, and choose to have an opinion of their own on churchmatters. Mrs Winterfield was aware that she ought to bid high forsuch a gardener as she wanted. A man must be paid well who willsubmit to daily inquiries as to the spiritual welfare of himself, hiswife, and family. But even though she did bid high, and though shepaid generously, no gardener would stop with her. One conscientiousman attempted to bargain for freedom from religion during the sixunimportant days of the week, being strong, and willing therefore togive up his day of rest; but such liberty could not be allowed tohim, and he also went. 'He couldn't stop, ' he said, 'in justice tothe greenhouses, when missus was so constant down upon him about hissprittual backsliding. And after all, where did he backslide? It wasonly a pipe of tobacco with the babby in his arms, instead of thatdarned evening lecture. '

Poor Mrs Winterfield! She had been strong in her youth, and hadherself sat through evening lectures with a fortitude which otherpeople cannot attain. And she was strong too in her age, with thestrength of a martyr, submitting herself with patience to wearinesseswhich are insupportable to those who have none of the martyr spirit. The sermons of Perivale were neither bright, nor eloquent, norencouraging. All the old vicar or the young curate could tell she hadheard hundreds of times. She knew it all by heart, and could havepreached their sermons to them better than they could preach them toher. It was impossible that she could learn anything from them: andyet she would sit there thrice a day, suffering from cold in winter, from cough in spring, from heat in summer, and from rheumatism inautumn; and now that her doctor had forbidden her to go more thantwice, recommending her to go only once, she really thought that sheregarded the prohibition as a grievance. Indeed, to such as her, thatexpectation of the jewelled causeway, and of the perfect pavementthat shall never be worn, must be everything. But if she wasright--right as to herself and others, --then why has the world beenmade so pleasant? Why is the fruit of the earth so sweet; and thetrees, --why are they so green; and the mountains so full of glory? Whyare women so lovely? and why is it that the activity of man's mind isthe only sure forerunner of man's progress? In listening thrice a dayto outpourings from the clergyman at Perivale, there certainly was noactivity of mind. 

Now, in these days, Mrs Winterfield was near to her reward. That shehad ensured that I cannot doubt. She had fed the poor, and filled theyoung full with religious teachings perhaps not wisely, and in herown way only too well, but yet as her judgment had directed her. Shehad cared little for herself forgiving injuries done to her, and notforgiving those only which she thought were done to the Lord. She hadlived her life somewhat as the martyr lived, who stood for years onhis pillar unmoved, while his nails grew through his flesh. So hadshe stood, doing, I fear, but little positive good with her largemeans but thinking nothing of her own comfort here, in comparisonwith the comfort of herself and others in the world to which she wasgoing. 

On this occasion her nephew and niece reached her together; the primboy, with the white cotton gloves and the low four-wheeled carriage, having been sent down to meet Clara. For Mrs Winterfield was a ladywho thought it unbecoming that her niece though only an adopted nieceshould come to her door in an omnibus. Captain Aylmer had driven thefour-wheeled carriage from the station, dispossessing the boy, andthe luggage had been confided to the public conveyance. 

'It is very fortunate that you should come together, ' said MrsWinterfield. 'I didn't know when to expect you, Fred. Indeed, younever say at what hour you'll come. '

'I think it safer to allow myself a little margin, aunt, because onehas so many things to do. '

'I suppose it is so with a gentleman, ' said Mrs Winterfield. Afterwhich Clara looked at Captain Aylmer, but did not betray any of hersuspicions. 'But I knew Clara would come by this train, ' continuedthe old lady; 'so I sent Tom to meet her. Ladies always can bepunctual; they can do that at any rate. ' Mrs Winterfield was one ofthose women who have always believed that their own sex is in everyrespect inferior to the other. 

CHAPTER VIII

CAPTAIN AYLMER MEETS HIS CONSTITUENTS

On the first evening of their visit Captain Aylmer was very attentiveto his aunt. He was quite alive to the propriety of such attentions, and to their expediency; and Clara was amused as she watched himwhile he sat by her side, by the hour together, answering littlequestions and making little remarks suited to the temperament of theold lady's mind. She, herself, was hardly called upon to join in theconversation on that evening, and as she sat and listened, she couldnot but think that Will Belton would have been less adroit, but thathe would also have been more straightforward. And yet why should notCaptain Aylmer talk to his mat? Will Belton would also have talked tohis aunt if he had one, but then he would have talked his own talk, and not his aunt's talk. Clara could hardly make up her mind whetherCaptain Aylmer was or was not a sincere man. On the following dayAylmer was out all the morning, paying visits among his constituents, and at three o'clock he was to make his speech in the town-hall. Special places in the gallery were to be kept for Mrs Winterfield andher niece, and the old woman was quite resolved that she would bethere. As the day advanced she became very fidgety, and at length shewas quite alive to the perils of having to climb up the town-hallstairs; but she persevered, and at ten minutes before three she wasseated in her place. 

'I suppose they will begin with prayer, ' she said to Clara. Clara, who knew nothing of the manner in which things were done at suchmeetings, said that she supposed so. A town councillor's wife who saton the other side of Mrs Winterfield here took the liberty ofexplaining that as the captain was going to talk politics there wouldbe no prayers. 'But they have prayers in the Houses of Parliament, 'said Mrs Winterfield, with much anger. To this the town councillor'swife, who was almost silenced by the great lady's wrath, said thatindeed she did not know. After this Mrs Winterfield continued to hopefor the best, till the platform was filled and the proceedings hadcommenced. Then she declared the present men of Perivale to be agodless set, and expressed herself very sorry that her nephew hadever had anything to do with them. 'No good can come of it, my dear, 'she said. Clara from the beginning had feared that no good would comeof her aunt's visit to the town-hall. 

The business was put on foot at once, and with some littleflourishing at the commencement, Captain Aylmer made his speech;--thesame speech which we have all heard and read so often, speciallyadapted to the meridian of Perivale. He was a Conservative, and ofcourse he told his hearers that a good time was coming; that he andhis family were really about to buckle themselves to the work, andthat Perivale would hear things that would surprise it. The malt taxwas to go, and the farmers were to have free trade in beer, --thearguments from the other side having come beautifully round in theirappointed circle and old England was to be old England once again. Hedid the thing tolerably well, as such gentlemen usually do, andPerivale was contented with its Member, with the exception of onePerivalian. To Mrs Winterfield, sitting up there and listening withall her ears, it seemed that he had hitherto omitted all allusion toany subject that was worthy of mention. At last he said some wordabout the marriage and divorce court, condemning the iniquity of thepresent law, to which Perivale had opposed itself violently bypetition and general meetings; and upon hearing this Mrs Winterfieldhad thumped with her umbrella, and faintly cheered him with her weakold voice. But the surrounding Perivalians had heard the cheer, andit was repeated backward and forwards through the room, till theMember's aunt thought that it might be her nephew's mission to annulthat godless Act of Parliament and restore the matrimonial bonds ofEngland to their old rigidity. When Captain Aylmer came out to handher up to her little carriage, she patted him, and thanked him, andencouraged him; and on her way home she congratulated herself toClara that she should have such a nephew to leave behind in herplace. 

Captain Aylmer was dining with the Mayor on that evening, and MrsWinterfield was therefore able to indulge herself in talking abouthim. 'I don't see much of young men, of course, ' she said; 'but I donot even hear of any that are like him. ' Again Clara thought of hercousin Will. Will was not at all like Frederic Aylmer; but was he notbetter? And yet, as she thought thus, she remembered that she hadrefused her cousin Will because she loved that very Frederic Aylmerwhom her mind was thus condemning. 

'I'm sure he does his duty as a Member of Parliament very well, ' saidClara. 

'That alone would not be much; but when that is joined to so muchthat is better, it is a great deal. I am told that very few of themen in the House now are believers at all. '

'Oh, aunt!'

'It is terrible to think of, my dear. '

'But, aunt; they have to take some oath, or something of that sort, to show that they are Christians. '

'Not now, my dear. They've done away with all that since we had Jewmembers. An atheist can go into Parliament now; and I'm told thatmost of them are that, or nearly as bad. I can remember when noPapist could sit in Parliament. But they seem to me to be doing awaywith everything. It's a great comfort to me that Frederic is what heis. '

'I'm sure it must be, aunt. '

Then there was a pause, during which, however, Mrs Winterfield gaveno sign that the conversation was to be considered as being over. Clara knew her aunt's ways so well, that she was sure something morewas coming, and therefore waited patiently, without any thought oftaking up her book. 'I was speaking to him about you yesterday, ' MrsWinterfield said at last. 

'That would not interest him very much. '

'Why not? Do you suppose he is not interested in those I love?Indeed, it did interest him; and he told me what I did not knowbefore, and what you ought to have told me. '

Clara now blushed, she knew not why, and became agitated. 'I don'tknow that I have kept anything from you that I ought to have told, 'she said. 

'He says that the provision made for you by your father has all beensquandered. '

'If he used that word he has been very unkind, ' said Clara, angrily. 

'I don't know what word he used, but he was not unkind at all; henever is. I think he was very generous. 

'I do not want his generosity, aunt, '

'That is nonsense, my dear. If he has told me the truth, what haveyou to depend on?'

'I don't want to depend on anything. I hate hearing about it. '

'Clara, I wonder you can talk in that way. If you were only seventeenit would be very foolish; but at your age it is inexcusable. When Iam gone, and your father is gone, who is to provide for you? Willyour cousin do it Mr Belton, who is to have the property?'

'Yes, he would if I would let him of course I would not let him. But, aunt, pray do not go on. I would sooner have to starve than talkabout it at all. '

There was another pause; but Clara again knew that the conversationwas not over; and she knew also that it would be vain for her toendeavour to begin another subject. Nor could she think of anythingelse to say, so much was she agitated. 

'What makes you suppose that Mr Belton would be so liberal?' askedMrs Winterfield. 

'I don't know. I can't say. He is the nearest relation I shall have;and of all the people I ever knew he is the best, and the mostgenerous, and the least selfish. When he came to us papa was quitehostile to him disliking his very name; but when the time came, papacould not bear to think of his going, because he had been so good. '

'Clara!'

'Well, aunt. '

'I hope you know my affection for you. '

'Of course I do, aunt; and I hope you trust mine for you also. '

'Is there anything between you and Mr Belton besides cousinship?'

'Nothing. '

'Because if I thought that, my trouble would of course be at an end. '

'There is nothing but pray do not lot me be a trouble to you. ' Clara, for a moment, almost resolved to tell her aunt the whole truth; butshe remembered that she would be treating her cousin badly if shetold the story of his rejection. 

There was another short period of silence, and then Mrs Winterfieldwent on. 'Frederic thinks that I should make some provision for youby will. That, of course, is the same as though he offered to do ithimself. I told him that it would be so, and I read him my will lastnight. He said that that made no difference, and recommended me toadd a codicil. I asked him how much I ought to give you, and he saidfifteen hundred pounds. There will be as much as that after buryingme without burden to the estate. You must acknowledge that he hasbeen very generous. '

But Clara, in her heart, did not at all thank Captain Aylmer for hisgenerosity. She would have had everything from him, or nothing. Itwas grievous to her to think that she should owe to him a barepittance to keep her out of the workhouse to him who had twice seemedto be on the point of asking her to share everything with him. Shedid not love her cousin Will as she loved him; but her cousin Will'sassurance to her that he would treat her with a brother's care wassweeter to her by far than Frederic Aylmer's well-balanced counsel tohis aunt on her behalf. In her present mood, too, she wanted no oneto have forethought for her; she desired no provision; for her, inthe discomfiture of heart, there was consolation in the feeling thatwhen she should find herself alone in the world, she would have beenill-treated by her friends all round her. There was a charm in theprospect of her desolation of which she did not wish to be robbed bythe assurance of some seventy pounds a year, to be given to her byCaptain Frederic Aylmer. To be robbed of one's grievance is the lastand foulest wrong a wrong under which the most enduring temper willat last yield and become soured by which the strongest back will bebroken. 'Well, my dear, ' continued Mrs Winterfield, when Clara madeno response to this appeal for praise. 

'It is so hard for me to say anything about it, aunt. What can I saybut that I don't want to be a burden to any one?'

'That is a position which very few women can attain, that is, veryfew single women. '

'I think it would be well if all single women were strangled by thetime they are thirty, ' said Clara with a fierce energy whichabsolutely frightened her aunt. 

'Clara! how can you say anything so wicked so abominably wicked?'

'Anything would be better than being twitted in this way. How can Ihelp it that I am not a man and able to work for my bread? But I amnot above being a housemaid, and so Captain Aylmer shall find. I'dsooner be a housemaid, with nothing but my wages, than take the moneywhich you say he is to give me. It will be of no use, aunt, for Ishall not take it. '

'It is I that am to leave it to you. It is not to be a present fromFrederic. '

'It is the same thing, aunt. He says you are to do it; and you toldme just now that it was to come out of his pocket. '

'I should have done it myself long ago, had you told me all the truthabout your father's affairs. '

'How was I to tell you? I would sooner have bitten my tongue out. ButI will tell you the truth now. If I had known that all this was to besaid to me about money, and that our poverty was to be talked overbetween you and Captain Aylmer, I would not have come to Perivale. Iwould rather that you should be angry with me and think that I hadforgotten you. '

'You would not say that, Clara, if you remembered that this willprobably be your last visit to me. '

'No, no; it will not be the last. But do not talk about these things. And it will be so much better that I should be here when he is nothere. '

'I had hoped that when I died you might both be with me together ashusband and wife. '

'Such hopes never come to anything. '

'I still think that he would wish it. '

'That is nonsense, aunt. It is indeed, for neither of us wish it. ' Alie on such a subject from a woman under such circumstances is hardlyto be considered a lie at all. It is spoken with no mean object, andis the only bulwark which the woman has ready at her need to coverher own weakness. 

'From what he said yesterday, ' continued Mrs Winterfield, 'I think itis your own fault. '

'Pray pray do not talk in that way. It cannot be matter of any faultthat two people do not want to marry each other. '

'Of course I asked him no positive question. It would be indelicateeven in me to have done that. But he spoke as though he thought veryhighly of you. '

'No doubt he does. And so do I of Mr Possitt. '

'Mr Possitt is a very excellent young man, ' said Mrs Winterfield, gravely. Mr Possitt was, indeed, her favourite curate of Perivale, and always dined at the house on Sundays between services, when MrsWinter-field was very particular in seeing that he took two glassesof her best port wine to support him. 'But Mr Possitt has nothing buthis curacy. '

'There is no danger, aunt, I can assure you. '

'I don't know what you call danger; but Frederic seemed to think thatyou are always sharp with him. You don't want to quarrel with him, Ihope, because I love him better than any one in the world?'

'Oh, aunt, what cruel things you say to me without thinking of them!'

'I do not mean to be cruel, but I will say nothing more about him. AsI told you before that I had not thought it expedient to leave awayany portion of my little property from Frederic believing, as I didthen, that the money intended for you by your father was stillremaining it is best that you should now know that I have at lastlearnt the truth, and that I will at once see my lawyer about makingthe change. '

'Dear aunt, of course I thank you. '

'I want no thanks, Clara. I humbly strive to do what I believe to bemy duty. I have never felt myself to be more than a steward of mymoney. That I have often failed in my stewardship I know well for inwhat duties do we not all fail?' Then she gently laid herself back inher arm-chair, closing her eyes, while she kept fast clasped in herhands the little book of daily devotion which she had been strivingto read when the conversation had been commenced. Clara knew thenthat nothing more was to be said, and that she was not at present tointerrupt her aunt. From her posture, and the closing of her eyelids, Mrs Winterfield might have been judged to be asleep; but Clara couldsee the gentle motion of her lips, and was aware that her aunt wassolacing herself with prayer. 

Clara was angry with herself, and angry with all the world. She knewthat the old lady who was sitting then before her was very good; andthat all this that had now been said had come from pure goodness, anda desire that strict duty might be done; and Clara was angry withherself in that she had not been more ready with her thanks and moredemonstrative with her love and gratitude. Mrs Winterfield wasaffectionate as well as good, and her niece's coldness, as the niecewell knew, had hurt her sorely. But still what could Clara have doneor said? She told herself that it was beyond her power to burst outinto loud praises of Captain Aylmer; and of such nature was thegratitude which Mrs Winterfield had desired. She was not grateful toCaptain Aylmer, and wanted nothing that was to come from hisgenerosity. And then her mind went away to that other portion of heraunt's discourse. Could it be possible that this man was in truthattached to her, and was repelled simply by her own manner? She wasaware that she had fallen into a habit of fighting with him, ofsparring against him with words about indifferent things, and callinghis conduct in question in a manner half playful and half serious. Could it be the truth that she was thus robbing herself of that whichwould be to her as to herself she had frankly declared the onetreasure which she would desire? Twice, as has been said before, words had seemed to tremble on his lips which might have settled thequestion for her for ever; and on both occasions, as she knew, sheherself had helped to laugh off the precious word that had beencoming. But had he been thoroughly in earnest in earnest as she wouldhave him to be no laugh would have deterred him from his purpose. Could she have laughed Will Belton out of his declaration?

At last the lips ceased to move, and she knew that her aunt was intruth asleep. The poor old lady hardly ever slept at night; butnature, claiming something of its due, would give her rest such asthis in her arm-chair by the fire-side. They were sitting in a largedouble drawing-room upstairs, in which there were, as was customarywith Mrs Winterfield in winter, two fires; and the candles were inthe back-room, while the two ladies sat in that looking out into thestreet. This Mrs Winterfield did to save her eyes from the candles, and yet to be within reach of light if it were wanted. And Clara alsosat motionless in the dark, careful not to disturb her aunt, anddesirous of being with her when she should awake. Captain Aylmer haddeclared his purpose of being home early from the Mayor's dinner, andthe ladies were to wait for his arrival before tea was brought tothem. Clara was herself almost asleep when the door was opened, andCaptain Aylmer entered the room. 

'H--sh!' she said, rising gently from her chair, and putting up herfinger. He saw her by the dull light of the fire, and closed the doorwithout a sound. Clara then crept into the back-room and he followedher with a noiseless step. 'She did not sleep at all last night, 'said Clara; 'and now the unusual excitement of the day has fatiguedher, and I think it is better not to wake her. ' The rooms were large, and they were able to place themselves at such a distance from thesleeper that their low words could hardly disturb her. 

'Was she very tired when she got home? 'he asked. 

'Not very. She has been talking much since that. '

'Has she spoken about her will to you?'

'Yes she has. '

'I thought she would. ' Then he was silent, as though he expected thatshe would speak again on that matter. But she had no wish to discussher aunt's will with him, and therefore, to break the silence, askedhim some trifling question. 'Are you not home earlier than youexpected?

'It was very dull, and there was nothing more to be said. I did comeaway early, and perhaps have given affront. I hope you will acceptthe compliment implied. '

'Your aunt will, when she wakes. She will be delighted to find youhere. '

'I am awake, ' said Mrs Winterfield. 'I heard Frederic come in. It isvery good of him to come so soon. Clara, my dear, we will have tea. '

During tea, Captain Aylmer was called upon to give an account of theMayor's feast how the rector had said grace before dinner, and MrPossitt had done so after dinner, and how the soup had beenuneatable. 'Dear me!' said Mrs Winterfield. 'And yet his wife washousekeeper formerly in a family that lived very well!' The MrsWinterfields of this world allow themselves little spiteful pleasuresof this kind, repenting of them, no doubt, in those frequent momentsin which they talk to their friends of their own terrible vilenesses. Captain Aylmer then explained that his own health had been drunk, andhis aunt desired to know whether, in returning thanks, he had beenable to say anything further against that wicked Divorce Act ofParliament. This her nephew was constrained to answer with anegative, and so the conversation was carried on till tea was over. She was very anxious to hear every word that he could be made toutter as to his own doings in Parliament, and as to his doings inPerivale, and hung upon him with that wondrous affection which oldpeople with warm hearts feel for those whom they have selected astheir favourites. Clara saw it all, and knew that her aunt was almostdoting. 

'I think I'll go up to bed now, my dears, ' said Mrs Winterfield, whenshe had taken her cup of tea. 'I am tired with those weary stairs inthe Town-hall, and I shall be better in my own room. ' Clara offeredto go with her, but this attendance her aunt declined as she didalways. So the bell was rung, and the old maid-servant walked offwith her mistress, and Miss Amedroz and Captain Aylmer were lefttogether. 

'I don't think she will last long, ' said Captain Aylmer, soon afterthe door was closed. 

'I should be sorry to believe that; but she is certainly muchaltered. '

'She has great courage to keep her up and a feeling that she shouldnot give way, but do her duty to the last. In spite of all that, however, I can see how changed she is since the summer. Have you everthought how sad it will be if she should be alone when the daycomes?'

'She has Martha, who is more to her now than any one else unless itis you. '

'You could not remain with her over Christmas, I suppose?'

'Who, I? What would my father do? Papa is as old, or nearly as old, as my aunt. '

'But he is strong. '

'He is very lonely. He would be more lonely than she is, for he hasno such servant as Martha to be with him. Women can do better thanmen, I think, when they come to my aunt's age. '

From this they got into a conversation as to the character of thelady with whom they were both so nearly connected, and, in spite ofall that Clara could do to prevent it, continual references were madeby Captain Aylmer to her money and will, and the need of an additionto that will on Clara's behalf. At last she was driven to speak out. 'Captain Aylmer, ' she said, 'the subject is so distasteful to me, that I must ask you not to speak about it. '

'In my position I am driven to think about it. '

'I cannot, of course, help your thoughts; but I can assure you thatthey are unnecessary. '

'It seems to me so hard that there should be such a gulf between youand me. ' This he said after he had been silent for a while; and as hespoke he looked away from her at the fire. 

'I don't know that there is any particular gulf, ' she replied. 

'Yes, there is. And it is you that make it. Whenever I attempt tospeak to you as a friend you draw yourself off from me, and shutyourself up. I know that it is not jealousy. '

'Jealousy, Captain Aylmer!'

'Jealousy with my aunt, I mean. '

'No, indeed. '

'You are infinitely too proud for that; but I am sure that a strangerseeing it would think that it was so. '

'I don't know what it is that I do or that I ought not to do. But allmy life everything that I have done at Perivale has always beenwrong. '

'It would have been so natural that you and I should be friends. '

'If we are enemies, Captain Aylmer, I don't know it. '

'But if ever I venture to speak of your future life you always repelme as though you were determined to let me know that it should not bea matter of care to me. '

'That is exactly what I am determined to let you know. You are, orwill be, a rich man, and you have everything the world can give you. I am, or shall be, a very poor woman. '

'Is that a reason why I should not be interested in your welfare?'

'Yes the best reason in the world. We are not related to each other, though we have a common connexion in dear Mrs Winterfield. Andnothing, to my idea, can be more objectionable than any sort ofdependence from a woman of my age on a man of yours there being noreal tie of blood between them. I have spoken very plainly, CaptainAylmer, for you have made me do it. '

'Very plainly, ' he said. 

'If I have said anything to offend you, I beg your pardon; but I wasdriven to explain myself. '

Then she got up and took her bed-candle in her hand. 

'You have not offended me, ' he said, as he also rose. 

'Good-night, Captain Aylmer. '

He took her hand and kept it. 'Say that we are friends. '

'Why should we not be friends?'

'There is no reason on my part why we should not be the dearestfriends, ' he said. 'Were it not that I am so utterly withoutencouragement, I should say the very dearest. ' He still held herhand, and was looking into her face as he spoke. For a moment shestood there, bearing his gaze, as though she expected some furtherwords to be spoken. Then she withdrew her hand, and again saying, ina clear voice, 'Good-night, Captain Aylmer, ' she left the room. 

CHAPTER IX

CAPTAIN AYLMER'S PROMISE TO HIS AUNT

What had Captain Aylmer meant by telling her that they might be thedearest friends by saying so much as that, and then saying no more?Of course Clara asked herself that question as soon as she was alonein her bedroom, after leaving Captain Aylmer below. And she made twoanswers to herself two answers which were altogether distinct andcontradictory one of the other. At first she decided that he had saidso much and no more because he was deceitful because it suited hisvanity to raise hopes which he had no intention of fulfilling becausehe was fond of saying soft things which were intended to have nomeaning. This was her first answer to herself. But in her second sheaccused herself as much as before she had accused him. She had beencold to him, unfriendly, and harsh. As her aunt had told her, shespoke sharp words to him, and repulsed the kindness which he offeredher. What right had she to expect from him a declaration of love whenshe was studious to stop him at every avenue by which he mightapproach it? A little management on her side would, she almost knew, make things right. But then the idea of any such managementdistressed her nay, more, disgusted her. The management, if any werenecessary, must come from him. And it was manifest enough that if hehad any strong wishes in this matter he was not a good manager. Hercousin, Will Belton, knew how to manage much better. 

On the next morning, however, all her thoughts respecting CaptainAylmer were dissipated by tidings which Martha brought to herbedside. Her aunt was ill. Martha was afraid that her mistress wasvery ill. She did not dare to send specially for the doctor on herown responsibility, as Mrs Winterfield had strong and peculiarfeelings about doctors' visits, and had on this very morning declinedto be so visited. On the next day the doctor would come in the usualcourse of things, for she had submitted for some years back to suchperiodical visitings; but she had desired that nothing might be doneout of the common way. Martha, however, declared that if she werealone with her mistress the doctor would be sent for; and she nowpetitioned for aid from Clara. Clara was, of course, by her aunt'sbedside in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more the doctor fromthe other side of the way was there also. 

It was ten o'clock before Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz met atbreakfast, and they had before that been together in MrsWinterfield's room. The doctor had told Captain Aylmer that his auntwas very ill very ill, dangerously ill. She had been wrong to go intosuch a place as the cold, unaired Town-hall, and that, too, in themonth of November; and the fatigue had also been too much for her. Mrs Winterfield, too, had admitted to Clara that she know herself tobe very ill. 'I felt it coming on me last night, ' she said, 'when Iwas talking to you; and I felt it still more strongly when I left youafter tea. I have lived long enough. God's will be done. ' At thatmoment, when she said she had lived long enough, she forgot herintention with reference to her will. But she remembered it beforeClara had left the room. 'Tell Frederic', she said, 'to send at oncefor Mr Palmer. ' Now Clara knew that Mr Palmer was the attorney, andresolved that she would give no such message to Captain Aylmer. ButMrs Winterfield sent for her nephew, who had just left her, andherself gave her orders to him. In the course of the morning therecame tidings from the attorney's office that Mr Palmer was away fromPerivale, that he would be back on the morrow, and that he would ofcourse wait on Mrs Winterfield immediately on his return. 

Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz discussed nothing but their aunt'sstate of health that morning over the breakfast-table. Of course, under such circumstances in the house, there was no further immediatereference made to that offer of dearest friendship. It was clear tothem both that the doctor did not expect that Mrs Winterfield wouldagain leave her bed; and it was clear to Clara also that her aunt wasof the same opinion. 

'I shall hardly be able to go home now, ' she said. 

'It will be kind of you if you can remain. '

'And you?'

'I shall remain over the Sunday. If by that time she is at allbetter, I will run up to town and come down again before the end ofthe week. I know you don't believe it, but a man really has somethings which he must do. '

'I don't disbelieve you, Captain Aylmer. '

'But you must write to me daily if I do go. '

To this Clara made no objection and she must write also to some oneelse. She must let her cousin know how little chance there was thatshe would be at home at Christmas, explaining to him at the same timethat his visit to her father would on that account be all the morewelcome. 

'Are you going to her now?' he asked, as Clara got up immediatelyafter breakfast. 'I shall be in the house all the morning, and if youwant me you will of course send for me. '

'She may perhaps like to see you. '

'I will come up every now and again. I would remain there altogether, only I should be in the way. ' Then he got a newspaper and madehimself comfortable over the fire, while she went up to her wearytask in her aunt's room. 

Neither on that day nor on the next did the lawyer come, and on thefollowing morning all earthly troubles were over with MrsWinterfield. It was early on the Sunday morning that she died, andlate on the Saturday evening Mr Palmer had sent up to say that he hadbeen detained at Taunton, but that he would wait on Mrs Winterfieldearly on the Monday morning. On the Friday the poor lady had saidmuch on the subject, but had been comforted by an assurance from hernephew that the arrangement should be carried out exactly as shewished it, whether the codicil was or was not added to the will. ToClara she said nothing more on the subject, nor at such a time didCaptain Aylmer feel that he could offer her any assurance on thematter. But Clara knew that the will was not altered; and though atthe time she was not thinking much about money, she had, nevertheless, very clearly made up her own mind as to her ownconduct. Nothing should induce her to take a present of fifteenhundred pounds or, indeed, of as many pence from Captain Aylmer. During those hours of sickness in the house they had been much throwntogether, and no one could have been kinder or more gentle to herthan he had been. He had come to call her Clara, as people will dowhen joined together in such duties, and had been very pleasant aswell as affectionate in his manner with her. It had seemed to herthat he also wished to take upon himself the cares and love of anadopted brother. But as an adopted brother she would have nothing todo with him. The two men whom she liked best in the world wouldassume each the wrong place; and between them both she felt that shewould be left friendless. 

On the Saturday afternoon they had both surmised how it was going tobe with Mrs Winterfield, and Captain Aylmer had told Mr Palmer thathe feared his coming on the Monday would be useless. He explainedalso what was required, and declared that he would be at once readyto make good the deficiency in the will Mr Palmer seemed to thinkthat this would be better even than the making of a codicil in thelast moments of the lady's life; and, therefore, he and CaptainAylmer were at rest on that subject. 

During the greater part of the Saturday night both Clara and CaptainAylmer remained with their aunt; and once when the morning was almostthere, and the last hour was near at hand, she had said a word or twowhich both of them had understood, in which she implored her darlingFrederic to take a brother's care of Clara Amedroz. Even in thatmoment Clara had repudiated the legacy, feeling sure in her heartthat Frederic Aylmer was aware what was the nature of the care whichhe ought to owe, if he would consent to owe any care to her. Hepromised his aunt that he would do as she desired him, and it wasimpossible that Clara should then, aloud, repudiate the compact. Butshe said nothing, merely allowing her hand to rest with his beneaththe thin, dry hand of the dying woman. To her aunt, however, when fora moment they were alone together, she showed all possible affection, with thanks and tears, and warm kisses, and prayers for forgivenessas to all those matters in which she had offended. 'My pretty one mydear, ' said the old woman, raising her hand on to the head of thecrouching girl, who was hiding her moist eyes on the bed. Neverduring her life had her aunt appeared to her in so loving a mood asnow, when she was leaving it. Then, with some eager impassionedwords, in which she pronounced her ideas of what should be thereligious duties of a woman, Mrs Winterfield bade farewell to herniece. After that, she had a longer interview with her nephew, andthen it seemed that all worldly cares were over with her. 

The Sunday was passed in all that blackness of funeral grief which isabsolutely necessary on such occasions. It cannot be said that eitherClara or Captain Aylmer were stricken with any of that agony of woewhich is produced on us by the death of those whom we have loved sowell that we cannot bring ourselves to submit to part with them. Theywere both truly sorry for their aunt, in the common parlance of theworld; but their sorrow was of that modified sort which does not numbthe heart and make the surviving sufferer feel that there never canbe a remedy. Nevertheless, it demanded sad countenances, few words, and those spoken hardly above a whisper; an absence of all amusementand almost of all employment, and a full surrender to the trappingsof woe. They two were living together without other companion in thebig house sitting down together to dinner and to tea; but on this dayhardly a dozen words were spoken between them, and those dozen werespoken with no purport. On the Monday Captain Aylmer gave orders forthe funeral, and then went away to London, undertaking to be back onthe day before the last ceremony. Clara was rather glad that heshould be gone, though she feared the solitude of the big house. Shewas glad that he should be gone, as she found it impossible to talkto him with ease to herself. She knew that he was about to assumesome position as protector or quasi guardian over her in conformitywith her aunt's express wish, and she was quite resolved that shewould submit to no such guardianship from his hands. That being so, the shorter period there might be for any such discussion the better. 

The funeral was to take place on the Saturday, and during the fourdays that intervened she received two visits from Mr Possitt. MrPossitt was very discreet in what he said, and Clara was angry withherself for not allowing his words to have any avail with her. Shetold herself that they were commonplace; but she told herself, also, after his first visit, that she had no right to expect anything elsebut commonplace words. How often are men found who can speak words onsuch occasions that are not commonplaces that really stir the soul, and bring true comfort to the listener? The humble listener mayreceive comfort even from commonplace words; but Clara was nothumble, and rebuked herself for her own pride. On the second occasionof his coming she did endeavour to receive him with a meek heart, andto accept what he said with an obedient spirit. But the strugglewithin her bosom was hard, and when he bade her to kneel and praywith him, she doubted for a moment between rebellion and hypocrisy. But she had determined to be meek, and so hypocrisy carried the hour. 

What would a clergyman say on such an occasion if the object of hissolicitude were to decline the offer, remarking that prayer at thatmoment did not seem to be opportune; and that, moreover, he, theperson thus invited, would like, first of all, to know what was to bethe special object of the proposed prayer, if he found that he could, at the spur of the moment, bring himself at all into a fitting moodfor the task? Of him who would decline, without argument, theclergyman would opine that he was simply a reprobate. Of him whowould propose to accompany an hypothetical acceptance with certainstipulations, he would say to himself that he was a stiff-neckedwrestler against grace, whose condition was worse than that of thereprobate. Men and women, conscious that they will be thus judged, submit to the hypocrisy, and go down upon their knees unprepared, making no effort, doing nothing while they are there, allowing theirconsciences to be eased if they can only feel themselves numbed intosome ceremonial awe by the occasion. So it was with Clara, when MrPossitt, with easy piety, went through the formula of his devotion, hardly ever having realized to himself the fact that of all works inwhich man can engage himself, that of prayer is the most difficult. 

'It is a sad loss to me, ' said Mr Possitt, as he sat for half an hourwith Clara, after she had thus submitted herself. Mr Possitt was aweakly, pale-faced little man, who worked so hard in the parish thaton every day, Sundays included, he went to bed as tired in all hisbones as a day labourer from the fields 'a very great loss. There arenot many now who understand what a clergyman has to go through, asour dear friend did. ' If he was mindful of his two glasses of portwine on Sundays, who could blame him?

'She was a very kind woman, Mr Possitt. '

'Yes, indeed and so thoughtful! That she will have an exceeding greatreward, who can doubt? Since I knew her she always lived as a saintupon earth. I suppose there's nothing known as to who will live inthis house, Miss Amedroz?'

'Nothing I should think. '

'Captain Aylmer won't keep it in his own hands?'

'I cannot tell in the least; but as he is obliged to live in Londonbecause of Parliament, and goes to Yorkshire always in the autumn, hecan hardly want it. 

'I suppose not. But it will be a sad loss, --a sad loss to have thishouse empty. Ah!--I shall never forget her kindness to me. Do you know, Miss Amedroz, '--and as he told his little secret he became beautifullyconfidential;--'do you know, she always used to send me ten guineas atChristmas to help me along. She understood, as well as any one, howhard it is for a gentleman to live on seventy pounds a year. You willnot wonder that I should feel that I've had a loss. ' It is hard for agentleman to live upon seventy pounds a year; and it is very hard, too, for a lady to live upon nothing a year, which lot in life fateseemed to have in store for Miss Amedroz. 

On the Friday evening Captain Aylmer came back, and Clara was intruth glad to see him. Her aunt's death had been now far enough backto admit of her telling Martha that she would not dine till CaptainAylmer had come, and to allow her to think somewhat of his comfort. People must eat and drink even when the grim monarch is in the house;and it is a relief when they first dare to do so with some attentionto the comforts which are ordinarily so important to them. Forthemselves alone women seldom care to exercise much trouble in thisdirection; but the presence of a man at once excuses and rendersnecessary the ceremony of a dinner. So Clara prepared for thearrival, and greeted the corner with some returning pleasantness ofmanner. And he, too, was pleasant with her, telling her of his plans, and speaking to her as though she were one of those whom it wasnatural that he should endeavour to interest in his future welfare. 

'When I come back tomorrow, ' he said, 'the will must be opened andread. It had better be done here. ' They were sitting over the fire inthe dining-room, after dinner, and Clara knew that the coming back towhich he alluded was his return from the funeral. But she made noanswer to this, as she wished to say nothing about her aunt's will. 'And after that, ' he continued, 'you had better let me take you out. '

'I am very well, ' she said. 'I do not want any special taking out. '

'But you have been confined to the house a whole week. '

'Women are accustomed to that, and do not feel it as you would. However, I will walk with you if you'll take me. '

'Of course I'll take you. And then we must settle our future plans. Have you fixed upon any day yet for returning? Of course, the longeryou stay, the kinder you will be. '

'I can do no good to any one by staying. '

'You do good to me but I suppose I'm nobody. I wish I could tell whatto do about this house. Dear, good old woman! I know she would havewished that I should keep it in my own hands, with some idea ofliving here at some future time but of course I shall never livehere. '

'Why not?'

'Would you like it yourself?'

'I am not Member of Parliament for Perivale, and should not be theleading person in the town. You would be a sort of king here; andthen, some day, you will have your mother's property as well as youraunt's; and you would be near to your own tenants. '

'But that does not answer my question. Could you bring yourself tolive here even if it were your own?'

'Why not?'

'Because it is so deadly dull because it has no attraction whateverbecause of all lives it is the one you would like the least. No oneshould live in a provincial town but they who make their money bydoing so. '

'And what are the wives and daughters of such people to do andespecially their widows? I have no doubt I could live here veryhappily if I had anybody near me that I liked. I should not wish tohave to depend altogether on Mr Possitt for society. '

'And you would find him about the best. '

'Mr Possitt has been with me twice whilst you were away, and he, too, asked what you meant to do about the house. '

'And what did you say?'

'What could I say? Of course I said I did not know. I suppose he wasmeditating whether you would live here and ask him to dinner onSundays!'

'Mr Possitt is a very good sort of man, ' said the captain, gravelyfor Captain Aylmer, in the carrying out of his principles, alwaysspoke seriously of everything connected with the Church in Perivale. 

'And quite worthy to be asked to dinner on Sundays, ' said Clara. 'ButI did not give him any hope. How could I? Of course I knew that youwould not live here, though I did not tell him so. '

'No; I don't suppose I shall. But I see very plainly that you think Iought to do so. '

'I've the old-fashioned idea as to a man's living near to his ownproperty; that is all. No doubt it was good for other people inPerivale, besides Mr Possitt, that my dear aunt lived here; and ifthe house is shut up, or let to some stranger, they will feel herloss the more. But I don't know that you are bound to sacrificeyourself to them. '

'If I were to marry, ' said Captain Aylmer, very slowly and in a lowvoice, 'of course I should have to think of my wife's wishes. '

'But if your wife, when she accepted you, knew that you were livinghere, she would hardly take upon herself to demand that you shouldgive up your residence. '

'She might find it very dull. '

'She would make her own calculations as to that before she acceptedyou. '

'No doubt but I can't fancy any woman taking a man who was tied byhis leg to Perivale. What do people do who live in Perivale?'

'Earn their bread. '

'Yes that's just what I said. But I shouldn't earn mine here. '

'I have the feeling I spoke of very strongly about papa's place, 'said Clara, changing the conversation suddenly. 'I very often thinkof the future fate of Belton Castle when papa shall have gone. Mycousin has got his house at Plaistow, and I don't suppose he'd livethere. '

'And where will you go?' he asked. 

As soon as she had spoken, Clara regretted her own imprudence inhaving ventured to speak upon her own affairs. She had been wellpleased to hear him talk of his plans, and had been quite resolvednot to talk of her own. But now, by her own speech, she had sot himto make inquiries as to her future life. She did not at first answerthe question; but he repeated it. 'And where will you live yourself?'

'I hope I may not have to think of that for some time to come yet. '

'It is impossible to help thinking of such things. '

'I can assure you that I haven't thought about it; but I suppose Ishall endeavour to to I don't know what I shall endeavour to do. '

'Will you come and live at Perivale?'

'Why here more than anywhere else?

'In this house I mean. '

'That would suit me admirably would it not? I'm afraid Mr Possittwould not find me a good neighbour. To tell the truth, I think thatany lady who lives here alone ought to be older than I am. ThePenvalians would not show to a young woman that sort of respect whichthey have always felt for this house. '

'I didn't mean alone, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

Then Clara got up and made some excuse for leaving him, and there wasnothing more said between them nothing, at least, of moment, on thatevening. She had become uneasy when he asked her whether she wouldlike to live in his house at Perivale. But afterwards, when hesuggested that she was to have some companion with her there, shefelt herself compelled to put an end to the conversation. And yet sheknew that this was always the way, both with him and with herself. Hewould say things which would seem to promise that in another minutehe would be at her feet, and then he would go no farther. And she, when she heard those words though in truth size would have had him ather feet if she could would draw away, and recede, and forbid him asit were to go on. But Clara continued to make her comparisons, andknew well that her cousin Will would have gone on in spite of anysuch forbiddings. 

On that night, however, when she was alone, she could console herselfwith thinking how right she had been. In that front bedroom, the doorof which was opposite to her own, with closed shutters, in theterrible solemnity of lifeless humanity, was still lying the body ofher aunt! What would she have thought of herself if at such a momentshe could have listened to words of love, and promised herself as awife while such an inmate was in the house? She little knew that he, within that same room, had pledged himself, to her who was now lyingthere waiting for her last removal had pledged himself, just sevendays since, to make the offer which, when he was talking to her, shewas always half hoping and half fearing!

He could have meant nothing else when he told her that he had notintended to suggest that she should live there alone in that greathouse at Perivale. She could not hinder herself from thinking ofthis, unfit as was the present moment for any such thoughts. How wasit possible that she should not speculate on the subject, let herresolutions against any such speculation be ever so strong? She hadconfessed to herself that she loved the man, and what else could shewish but that he also should love her? But there came upon her somefaint suspicion some glimpse of what was almost a dream that hemight possibly in this matter be guided rather by duty than by love. It might be that he would feel himself constrained to offer his handto her constrained by the peculiarity of his position towards her. Ifso should she discover that such were his motives there would be nodoubt as to the nature of her answer. 

CHAPTER X

SHOWING HOW CAPTAIN AYLMER KEPT HIS PROMISE

The next day was necessarily very sad. Clara had declared herdetermination to follow her aunt to the churchyard, and did so, together with Martha, the old servant. There were three or fourmourning coaches, as family friends came over from Taunton, one ortwo of whom were to be present at the reading of the will. Howmelancholy was the occasion, and how well the work was done; howsubstantial and yet how solemn was the luncheon, spread after thefuneral for the gentlemen; and how the will was read, without a wordof remark, by Mr Palmer, need hardly be told here. The will containedcertain substantial legacies to servants the amount to that oldhandmaid Martha being so great as to produce a fit of fainting, afterwhich the old handmaid declared that if ever there was, by anychance, an angel of light upon the earth, it was her late mistress;and yet Martha had had her troubles with her mistress; and there wasa legacy of two hundred pounds to the gentleman who was called uponto act as co-executor with Captain Aylmer. Other clause in the willthere was none, except that one substantial clause which bequeathedto her well-beloved nephew, Frederic Folliott Aylmer, everything ofwhich the testatrix died possessed. The will had been made at somemoment in which Clara's spirit of independence had offended her aunt, and her name was not mentioned. That nothing should have been left toClara was the one thing that surprised the relatives from Taunton whowere present. The relatives from Taunton, to give them their due, expected nothing for themselves; but as there had been great doubt asto the proportions in which the property would be divided between thenephew and adopted niece, there was aroused a considerable excitementas to the omission of the name of Miss Amedroz an excitement whichwas not altogether unpleasant. When people complain of some cruelshame, which does not affect themselves personally, the complaint isgenerally accompanied by an unexpressed and unconscious feeling ofsatisfaction. 

On the present occasion, when the will had been read and refolded, Captain Aylmer, who was standing on the rug near the fire, spoke afew words. His aunt, he said, had desired to add a codicil to thewill, of the nature of which Mr Palmer was well aware. She hadexpressed her intention to leave fifteen hundred pounds to her niece, Miss Amedroz; but death had come upon her too quickly to enable herto perform her purpose. Of this intention on the part of MrsWinterfield, Mr Palmer was as well aware as himself; and he mentionedthe subject now, merely with the object of saying that, as a matterof course, the legacy to Miss Amedroz was as good as though thecodicil had been completed. On such a question as that there couldarise no question as to legal right; but he understood that the legalclaim of Miss Amedroz, under such circumstances, was as void as hisown. It was therefore no affair of generosity on his part. Then therewas a little buzz of satisfaction on the part of those present, andthe meeting was broken up. 

A certain old Mrs. Folliott, who was cousin to everybody concerned, had come over from Taunton to see how things were going. She hadalways been at variance with Mrs Winterfield, being a woman who lovedcards and supper parties, and who had throughout her life stabled herhorses in stalls very different to those used by the lady ofPerivale. Now this Mrs Folliott was the first to tell Clara of thewill. Clara, of course, was altogether indifferent. She had known formonths past that her aunt had intended to leave nothing to her, andher only hope had been that she might be left free from anycommiseration or remark on the subject. But Mrs Folliott, with sundryshakings of the head, told her how her aunt had omitted to name herand then told her also of Captain Aylmer's generosity. 'We all didthink, my dear, ' said Mrs Folliott, 'that she would have done betterthan that for you, or at any rate that she would not have left youdependent on him. ' Captain Aylmer's horses were also supposed to bestabled in strictly Low Church stalls, and were therefore regarded byMrs Folliott with much dislike. 

'I and my aunt understood each other perfectly, ' said Clara. 

'I dare say. But if so, you really were the only person that didunderstand her. No doubt what she did was quite right, seeing thatshe was a saint; but we sinners would have thought it very wicked tohave made such a will, and then to have trusted to the generosity ofanother person after we were dead. '

'But there is no question of trusting to any one's generosity, MrsFolliott. '

'He need not pay you a shilling, you know, unless he likes it. '

'And he will not be asked to pay me a shilling. '

'I don't suppose he will go back after what he has said publicly. '

'My dear Mrs Folliott, ' said Clara earnestly, 'pray do not let ustalk about it. It is quite unnecessary. I never expected any of myaunt's property, and knew all along that it was to go to CaptainAylmer, --who, indeed, was Mrs Winterfield's heir naturally. MrsWinterfield was not really my aunt, and I had no claim on her. '

'But everybody understood that she was to provide for you. '

'As I was not one of the everybodies myself, it will not signify. 'Then Mrs Folliott retreated, having, as she thought, performed herduty to Clara, and contented herself henceforth with abusing MrsWinterfield's will in her own social circles at Taunton. 

On the evening of that day, when all the visitors were gone and thehouse was again quiet, Captain Aylmer thought it expedient to explainto Clara the nature of his aunt's will, and the manner in which shewould be allowed to inherit under it the amount of money which heraunt had intended to bequeath to her. When she became impatient andobjected to listen to him, he argued with her, pointing out to herthat this was a matter of business to which it was now absolutelynecessary that she should attend. 'It may be the case, ' he said, 'and, indeed, I hope it will, that no essential difference will bemade by it except that it will gratify you to know how careful shewas of your interests in her last moments. But you are bound in dutyto learn your own position; and I, as her executor, am bound toexplain it to you. But perhaps you would rather discuss it with MrPalmer. '

'Oh no save me from that. '

'You must understand, then, that I shall pay over to you the sum offifteen hundred pounds as soon as the will has been proved. '

'I understand nothing of the kind. I know very well that if I were totake it, I should be accepting a present from you, and to that Icannot consent. '

'But, Clara--'

'It is no good, Captain Aylmer. Though I don't pretend to understandmuch about law, I do know that I can have no claim to anything thatis not put into the will; and I won't have what I could not claim. Mymind is quite made up, and I hops I mayn't be annoyed about it. Nothing is more disagreeable than having to discuss money matters. '

Perhaps Captain Aylmer thought that the having no money matters todiscuss might be even more disagreeable. 'Well, ' he said, 'I can onlyask you to consult any friend whom you can trust upon the matter. Askyour father, or Mr Belton, and I have no doubt that either of themwill tell you that you are as much entitled to the legacy as thoughit had been written in the will. '

'On such a matter, Captain Aylmer, I don't want to ask anybody. Youcan't pay me the money unless I choose to take it, and I certainlyshall not do that. ' Upon hearing this he smiled, assuming, as Clarafancied that he was sometimes wont to do, a look of quietsuperiority; and then, for that time, he allowed the subject to bedropped between them. 

But Clara knew that she must discuss it at length with her father, and the fear of that discussion made her unhappy. She had alreadywritten to say that she would return home on the day but one afterthe funeral, and had told Captain Aylmer of her purpose. So veryprudent a man as he of course could not think it right that a younglady should remain with him, in his house, as his visitor; and to herdecision on this point he had made no objection. She now heartilywished that she had named the day after the funeral, and that she hadnot been deterred by her dislike of making a Sunday journey. Shedreaded this day, and would have been very thankful if he would haveleft her and gone back to London. But he intended, he said, to remainat Perivale throughout the next week, and she must endure the day asbest she might be able. She wished that it were possible to ask MrPossitt to his accustomed dinner; but she did not dare to make theproposition to the master of the house. Though Captain Aylmer haddeclared Mr Possitt to be a very worthy man, Clara surmised that hewould not be anxious to commence that practice of a Sabbatical dinnerso soon after his aunt's decease. The day, after all, would be butone day, and Clara schooled herself into a resolution to bear it withgood humour. 

Captain Aylmer had made a positive promise to his aunt on herdeathbed that he would ask Clara Amedroz to be his wife, and he hadno more idea of breaking his word than he had of resigning the wholeproperty which had been left to him. Whether Clara would accept himhe had much doubt. He was a man by no means brilliant, not naturallyself-confident, nor was he, perhaps, to be credited with thepossession of high principles of the finest sort; but he was clever, in the ordinary sense of the word, knowing his own interest, knowing, too, that that interest depended on other things besides money; andha was a just man, according to the ordinary rules of justice in theworld. Not for the first time, when he was sitting by the bedside ofhis dying aunt, had he thought of asking Clara to marry him. Thoughhe had never hitherto resolved that he would do so though he hadnever till then brought himself absolutely to determine that he wouldtake so important a step he had pondered over it often, and was awarethat he was very fond of Clara. He was, in truth, as much in lovewith her as it was in his nature to be in love. He was not a man tobreak his heart for a girl nor even to make a strong fight for awife, as Belton was prepared to do. If refused once, he mightprobably ask again having some idea that a first refusal was notalways intended to mean much and he might possibly make a thirdattempt, prompted by some further calculation of the same nature. Butit might be doubted whether, on the first, second, or third occasion, he would throw much passion into his words; and those who knew himwell would hardly expect to see him die of a broken heart, should heultimately be unsuccessful. 

When he had first thought of marrying Miss Amedroz he had imaginedthat she would have shared with him his aunt's property, and indeedsuch had been his belief up to the days of the last illness of MrsWinterfield. The match therefore had recommended itself to him asbeing prudent as well as pleasant; and though his aunt had neverhitherto pressed the matter upon him, he had understood what herwishes were. When she first told him, three or four days before herdeath, that her property was left altogether to him, and then, onhearing how totally her niece was without hope of provision from herfather, had expressed her desire to give a sum of money to Clara, shehad spoken plainly of her desire but she had not on that occasionasked him for any promise. But afterwards, when she knew that she wasdying, she had questioned him as to his own feelings, and he, in hisanxiety to gratify her in her last wishes, had given her the promisewhich she was so anxious to hear. He made no difficulty in doing so. It was his own wish as well as hers. In a money point of view hemight no doubt now do better; but then money was not everything. Hewas very fond of Clara, and felt that if she would accept him hewould be proud of his wife. She was well born and well educated, andit was the proper sort of thing for him to do. No doubt he had someidea, seeing how things had now arranged themselves, that he would begiving much more than he would get; and perhaps the manner of hisoffer might be affected by that consideration; but not on thataccount did he feel at all sure that he would be accepted. ClaraAmedroz was a proud girl perhaps too proud. Indeed, it was her fault. If her pride now interfered with her future fortune in life, itshould be her fault, not his. He would do his duty to her and to hisaunt he would do it perseveringly and kindly; and then, if sherefused him, the fault would not be his. 

Such, I think, was the state of Captain Aylmer's mind when he got upon the Sunday morning, resolving that he would on that day make goodhis promise. And it must be remembered, on his behalf, that he wouldhave prepared himself for his task with more animation if he hadhitherto received warmer encouragement. He had felt himself to berepulsed in the little efforts which he had already made to pleasethe lady, and had no idea whatever as to the true state of herfeelings. Had he known what she knew, he would, I think, have beenanimated enough, and gone to his task as happy and thriving a loveras any. But he was a man somewhat diffident of himself, thoughsufficiently conscious of the value of the worldly advantages whichhe possessed and he was, perhaps, a little afraid of Clara, givingher credit for an intellect superior to his own. 

He had promised to walk with her on the Saturday after the reading ofthe will, intending to take her out through the gardens down to afarm, now belonging to himself, which lay at the back of the town, and which was held by an old widow who had been senior in life to herlate landlady; but no such walk had been possible, as it was darkbefore the last of the visitors from Taunton had gone. At breakfaston Sunday he again proposed the walk, offering to take herimmediately after luncheon. 'I suppose you will not go to church?' hesaid. 

'Not today. I could hardly bring myself to do it today. '

'I think you are right. I shall go. A man can always do these thingssooner than a lady can. But you will come out afterwards?' To thisshe assented, and then she was left alone throughout the morning. Thewalk she did not mind. That she and Captain Aylmer should walktogether was all very well. They might probably have done so had MrsWinterfield been still alive. It was the long evening afterwards thatshe dreaded the long winter evening, in which she would have to sitwith him as his guest, and with him only. She could not pass thesehours without talking to him, and she felt that she could not talk tohim naturally and easily. It would, however, be but for once, and shewould bear it. 

They went together down to the house of Mrs Partridge, the tenant, and made their kindly speeches to the old woman. Mrs Partridgealready knew that Captain Aylmer was to be her landlord, but havinghitherto seen more of Miss Amedroz than of the captain, and havingalways regarded her landlady's niece as being connected irrevocablywith the property, she addressed them as though the estate were ajoint affair. 

'I shan't be here to trouble you long that I shan't, Miss Clara, 'said the old woman. 

'I am sure Captain Aylmer would be very sorry to lose you, ' repliedClara, speaking loud, and close to the poor woman's ear, for she wasdeaf. 

'I never looked to live after she was gone, Miss Clara never. No moreI didn't. Deary deary! And I suppose you'll be living at the bighouse now; won't ye?'

'The big house belongs to Captain Aylmer, Mrs Partridge. ' She wasdriven to bawl out her words, and by no means liked the task. ThenCaptain Aylmer said something, but his speech was altogether lost. 

'Oh it belongs to the captain, do it? They told me that was the wayof the will; but I suppose it's all one. '

'Yes; it's all one, ' said Captain Aylmer, gaily. 

'It's not exactly all one, as you call it, ' said Clara, attempting tolaugh, but still shouting at the top of her voice. 

'Ah I don't understand; but I hope you'll both live there togetherand I hope you'll be as good to the poor as she that is gone. Well, well; I didn't ever think that I should be still here, while she islying under the stones up in the old church!'

Captain Aylmer had determined that he would ask his question on theway back from the farm, and now resolved that he might as well beginwith some allusion to Mrs Partridge's words about the house. Theafternoon was bright and cold, and the lane down to the farmhouse hadbeen dried by the wind, so that the day was pleasant for walking. 'Wemight as well go on to the bridge, ' he said, as they left thefarm-yard. 'I always think that Perivale church looks better fromCreevy bridge than any other point. ' Perivale church stood high inthe centre of the town, on an eminence, and was graced with a spirewhich was declared by the Perivalians to be preferable to that ofSalisbury in proportion, though it was acknowledged to be somewhatinferior to it in height. The little river Creevy, which ran througha portion of the suburbs of the town, and which, as there seen, washardly more than a ditch, then sloped away behind Creevy Grange, asthe farm of Mrs Partridge was called, and was crossed by a smallwooden bridge, from which there was a view, not only of the church, but of all that side of the hill on which Mrs Winterfield's largebrick house stood conspicuously. 

So they walked down to Creevy bridge, and, when there, stood leaningon the parapet and looking back upon the town. 

'How well I know every house and spot in the place as I see them fromhere, ' he said. 

'A good many of the houses are your own or will be some day; andtherefore you should know them. '

'I remember, when I used to be here as a boy fishing, I alwaysthought Aunt Winterfield's house was the biggest house in thecounty. '

'It can't be nearly so large as your father's house in Yorkshire. '

'No; certainly it is not. Aylmer Park is a large place; but the housedoes not stretch itself out so wide as that; nor does it stand on theside of a hill so as to show out its proportions with so muchostentation. The coach-house and the stables, and the old brewhouse, seem to come half way down the hill. And when I was a boy I had muchmore respect for my aunt's red-brick house in Perivale than I had forAylmer Park. '

'And now it's your own. '

'Yes; now it's my own and all my respect for it is gone. I used tothink the Creevy the best river in England for fish; but I wouldn'tgive a sixpence now for all the perch I ever caught in it. '

'Perhaps your taste for perch is gone also. '

'Yes; and my taste for jam. I never believed in the store-room atAylmer Park as I did in my aunt's store-room here. '

'I don't doubt but what it is full now. '

'I dare say; but I shall never have the curiosity even to inquire. Ah, dear I wish I knew what to do about the house. '

'You won't sell it, I suppose?'

'Not if I could either live in it, or let it. It would be wrong tolet it stand idle. '

'But you need not decide quite at once. '

'That's just what I want to do. I want to decide at once. '

'Then I'm sure I cannot advise you. It seems to me very unlikely thatyou should come and live here by yourself. It isn't like acountry-house exactly. '

'I shan't live there by myself certainly. You heard what MrsPartridge said just now. '

'What did Mrs Partridge say?'

'She wanted to know whether it belonged to both of us, and whether itwas not all one. Shall it be all one, Clara?'

She was leaning over the rail of the bridge as he spoke, with hereyes fixed on the slowly moving water. When she heard his words sheraised her face and looked full upon him. She was in some sortprepared for the moment, though it would be untrue to say that shehad now expected it. Unconsciously she had made some resolve that ifever the question were put to her by him, she would not be takenaltogether off her guard; and now that the question was put to her, she was able to maintain her composure. Her first feeling was one oftriumph as it must be in such a position to any woman who has alreadyacknowledged to herself that she loves the man who then asks her tobe his wife. She looked up into Captain Aylmer's face and his eyealmost quailed beneath hers. Even should he be triumphant, he was notperfectly assured that his triumph would be a success. 

'Shall what be all one?' she asked. 

'Shall it be in your house and my house? Can you tell me that youwill love me and be my wife?' Again she looked at him, and herepeated his question. 'Clara, can you love me well enough to take mefor your husband?'

'I can, ' she said. Why should she hesitate, and play the coy girl, and pretend to any doubts in her mind which did not exist there? Shedid love him, and had so told herself with much earnestness. To him, while his words had been doubtful while he had simply played atmaking love to her, she had given no hint of the state of heraffections. She had so carried herself before him as to make himdoubt whether success could be possible for him. But now why shouldshe hesitate now? It was as she had hoped or as she had hardly daredto hope. He did love her. 'I can, ' she said; and then, before hecould speak again, she repeated her words with more emphasis. 'IndeedI can; with all my heart. '

As regarded herself, she was quite equal to the occasion; but had sheknown more of the inner feelings of men and women in general, shewould have been slower to show her own. What is there that any mandesires any man or any woman that does not lose half its value whenit is found to be easy of access and easy of possession? Wine isvalued by its price, not its flavour. Open your doors freely to Jonesand Smith, and Jones and Smith will not care to enter them. Shut yourdoors obdurately against the same gentlemen, and they will use alltheir little diplomacy to effect an entrance. Captain Aylmer, when heheard the hearty tone of the girl's answer, already began almost todoubt whether it was wise on his part to devote the innermost bin ofhis cellar to wine that was so cheap. 

Not that he had any idea of receding. Principle, if not love, prevented that. 'Then the question about the house is decided, ' hesaid, giving his hand to Clara as he spoke. 

'I don't care a bit about the house now, ' she answered. 

'That's unkind. '

'I am thinking so much more of you of you and of myself. What does anold house matter?'

'It's in very good repair, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

'You must not laugh at me, ' she said; and in truth he was notlaughing at her. 'What I mean is that anything about a house isindifferent to me now. It is as though I had got all that I want inthe world. Is it wrong of me to say so?'

'Oh, dear, no not wrong at all. How can it be wrong?' He did not tellher that he also had got all he wanted; but his lack of enthusiasm inthis respect did not surprise her, or at first even vex her. She hadalways known him to be a man careful of his words knowing their valuenot speaking with hurried rashness as would her dear cousin Will. Andshe doubted whether, after all, such hurried words mean as much aswords which are slower and calmer. After all his heat in love andconsequent disappointment, Will Belton had left her apparently wellcontented. His fervour had been short-lived. She loved her cousindearly, and was so very glad that his fervour had been short-lived!

'When you asked me, I could but tell you the truth, ' she said, smiling at him. 

The truth is very well, but he would have liked it better had thetruth come to him by slower degrees. When his aunt had told him tomarry Clara Amedroz, he had been at once reconciled to the order by afeeling on his own part that the conquest of Clara would not be toofacile. She was a woman of value, not to be snapped up easily or byany one. So he had thought then; but he began to fancy now that hehad been wrong in that opinion. 

The walk back to the house was not of itself very exciting, though toClara it was a short period of unalloyed bliss. No doubt had thencome upon her to cloud her happiness, and she was 'wrapped up inmeasureless content. ' It was well that they should both be silent atsuch a moment. Only yesterday had been buried their dear old friendthe friend who had brought them together, and been so anxious fortheir future happiness! And Clara Amedroz was not a young girl, proneto jump out of her shoes with elation because she had got a lover. She could be steadily happy without many immediate words about herhappiness. When they reached the house, and were once more togetherin the drawing-room, she again gave him her hand, and was the firstto speak. And you; are you contented?' she asked. Who does not knowthe smile of triumph with which a girl asks such a question at such amoment as that?

'Contented? well yes; I think I am, ' he said. 

But even those words did not move her to doubt. 'If you are, ' shesaid, ' I am. And now I will leave you till dinner, that you may thinkover what you have done. '

'I had thought about it before, you know, ' he replied. Then hestooped over her and kissed her. It was the first time he had doneso; but his kiss was as cold and proper as though they had been manand wife for years! But it sufficed for her, and she went to her roomas happy as a queen. 

CHAPTER XI

MISS AMEDROZ IS TOO CANDID BY HALF

Clara, when she left her accepted lover in the drawing-room and wentup to her own chamber, had two hours for consideration before shewould see him again and she had two hours for enjoyment. She was veryhappy. She thoroughly believed in the man who was to be her husband, feeling confident that he possessed those qualities which she thoughtto be most necessary for her married happiness. She had quizzed himat times, pretending to make it matter of accusation against him thathis life was not in truth all that his aunt believed it to be but hadit been more what Mrs Winterfield would have wished, it would havebeen less to Clara's taste. She liked his position in the world; sheliked the feeling that he was a man of influence; perhaps she likedto think that to some extent he was a man of fashion. He was nothandsome, but he looked always like a gentleman. He was welleducated, given to reading, prudent, steady in his habits, a manlikely to rise in the world; and she loved him. I fear the reader bythis time may have begun to think that her love should never havebeen given to such a man. To this accusation I will make no plea atpresent, but I will ask the complainant whether such men are notalways loved. Much is said of the rashness of women in giving awaytheir hearts wildly; but the charge when made generally is, I think, an unjust one. I am more often astonished by the prudence of girlsthan by their recklessness. A woman of thirty will often love welland not wisely; but the girls of twenty seem to me to like proprietyof demeanour, decency of outward life, and a competence. It is, ofcourse, good that it should be so; but if it is so, they should notalso claim a general character for generous and passionateindiscretion, asserting as their motto that Love shall still be Lordof All. Clara was more than twenty; but she was not yet so faradvanced in age as to have lost her taste for decency of demeanourand propriety of life. A Member of Parliament, with a small housenear Eaton Square, with a moderate income, and a liking forcommittees, who would write a pamphlet once every two years, and readDante critically during the recess, was, to her, the model for ahusband. For such a one she would read his blue books, copy hispamphlets, and learn his translations by heart. She would be safe inthe hands of such a man, and would know nothing of the miseries whichher brother bad encountered. Her model may not appear, when thusdescribed, to be a very noble one; but I think it is the model mostapproved among ladies of her class in England. 

She made up her mind on various points during those two hours ofsolitude. In the first place, she would of course keep her purpose ofreturning home on the following day. It was not probable that CaptainAylmer would ask her to change it; but let him ask ever so much itmust not be changed. She must at once have the pleasure of tellingher father that all his trouble about her would now be over; andthen, there was the consideration that her further sojourn in thehouse, with Captain Aylmer as her lover, would hardly be more properthan it would have been bad he not occupied that position. And whatwas she to say if he pressed her as to the time of their marriage?Her aunt's death would of course be a sufficient reason why it shouldbe delayed for some few months; and, upon the whole, she thought itwould be best to postpone it till the next session of Parliamentshould have nearly expired. But she would be prepared to yield toCaptain Aylmer, should he name any time after Easter. It was clearlyhis intention to keep up the house in Perivale as his countryresidence. She did not like Perivale or the house, but she would saynothing against such am arrangement. Indeed, with what face could shedo so? She was going to bring nothing to the common accountabsolutely nothing but herself! As she thought of this her love grewwarmer, and she hardly knew how sufficiently to testify to herselfher own gratitude and affection. 

She became conscious, as she was preparing herself for dinner, ofsome special attention to her toilet. She was more than ordinarilycareful with her hair, and felt herself to be aware of an anxiety tolook her best. She had now been for some time so accustomed to dressherself in black, that in that respect her aunt's death had made nodifference to her. Deep mourning had ceased from habit to impress herwith any special feeling of funereal solemnity. But something aboutherself, or in the room, at last struck her with awe, bidding herremember how death had of late been busy among those who had been herdearest and nearest friends; and she sat down, almost frightened ather own heartlessness, in that she was allowing herself to be happyat such a time. Her aunt had been carried away to her grave onlyyesterday, and her brother's death had occurred under circumstancesof peculiar distress within the year and yet she was happy, triumphant almost lost in the joy of her own position! She remainedfor a while in her chair, with her black dress hanging across herlap, as she argued with herself as to her own state of mind. Was it asign of a hard heart within her, that she could be happy at such atime? Ought the memory of her poor brother to have such an effectupon her as to make any joy of spirits impossible to her? Should sheat the present moment be so crushed by her aunt's demise, as to beincapable of congratulating herself upon her own success? Should shehave told him, when he asked her that question upon the bridge, thatthere could be no marrying or giving in marriage between them, notalking on such a subject in days so full of sorrow as these? I donot know that she quite succeeded in recognizing it as a truth thatsorrow should be allowed to bar out no joy that it does not bar outof absolute necessity by its own weight, without reference toconventional ideas; that sorrow should never, under anycircumstances, be nursed into activity, as though it were a thing initself divine or praiseworthy. I do not know that she followed outher arguments till she had taught herself that it is the Love that isdivine the Love which, when outraged by death or other severance, produces that sorrow which man would control if he were strongenough, but which he cannot control by reason of the weakness of hishumanity. I doubt whether so much as this made itself plain to her, as she sat there before her toilet table, with her sombre dresshanging from her hands on to the ground. But something of thestrength of such reasoning was hers. Knowing herself to be full ofjoy, she would not struggle to make herself believe that it behovedher to be unhappy. She told herself that she was doing what was goodfor others as well as for herself what would be very good for herfather, and what should be good, if it might be within her power tomake it so, for him who was to be her husband. The blackness of thecloud of her brother's death would never altogether pass away fromher. It had tended, as she knew well, to make her serious, grave, andold, in spite of her own efforts to the contrary. The cloud had beenso black with her that it had nearly lost for her the prize which wasnow her own. But she told herself that that blackness was an injuryto her, and not a benefit, and that it had now become a duty to herfor his sake, if not for her own to dispel its shadows rather thanencourage them. She would go down to him full of joy, though not fullof mirth, and would confess to him frankly, that in receiving theassurance of his love, she had received everything that had seemed tohave any value for her in the world. 

Hitherto she had been independent she had specially been careful toshow to him her resolve to be independent of him. Now she would putaside all that, and let him know that she recognized in him her lordand master as well as husband. To her father had been left nostrength on which she could lean, and she had been forced thereforeto trust to her own strength. Now she would be dependent on him whowas to be her husband. As heretofore she had rejected his offers ofassistance almost with disdain, so now would she accept them withoutscruple, looking to him to be her guide in all things, putting fromher that carping spirit in which she had been wont to judge of hisactions, and believing in him as a wife should believe in herhusband. 

Such were the resolutions which Clara made in the first hour ofsolitude which came to her after her engagement; and they would havebeen wise resolutions but for this flaw that the stronger wassubmitting itself to the weaker, the greater to the less, the morehonest to the less honest, that which was nearly true to that whichwas in great part false. The theory of man and wife that specialtheory in accordance with which the wife is to bend herself in lovingsubmission before her husband is very beautiful; and would be goodaltogether if it could only be arranged that the husband should bethe stronger and the greater of the two. The theory is based uponthat hypothesis and the hypothesis sometimes fails of confirmation. In ordinary marriages the vessel rights itself, and the stronger andthe greater takes the lead, whether clothed in petticoats, or incoat, waistcoat, and trousers; but there sometimes comes a terribleshipwreck, when the woman before marriage has filled herself fullwith ideas of submission, and then finds that her golden-headed godhas got an iron body and feet of clay. 

Captain Aylmer, when he was left alone, had also something to thinkabout; and as there were two hours left for such thought before hewould again meet Clara, and as he had nothing else with which tooccupy himself during those two hours, he again strolled down to thebridge on which he had made his offer. He strolled down there, thinking that he was thinking, but hardly giving much mind to histhoughts, which he allowed to run away with themselves as theylisted. Of course he was going to be married. That was a thingsettled. And he was perfectly satisfied with himself in that he haddone nothing in a hurry, and could accuse himself of no folly even ifhe had no great cause for triumph. He had been long thinking that heshould like to have Clara Amedroz for his wife long thinking that hewould ask her to marry him; and having for months indulged suchthoughts, he could not take blame to himself for having made to hisaunt that deathbed promise which she had exacted. At the moment inwhich she asked him the question he was himself anxious to do thething she desired of him. How then could he have refused her? And, having given the promise, it was a matter of course with him tofulfil it. He was a man who would have never respected himself againwould have hated himself for ever, had he failed to keep a promisefrom which no living being could absolve him. He had been righttherefore to make the promise, and having made it, had been right tokeep it, and to do the thing at once. And Clara was very good andvery wise, and sometimes looked very well, and would never disgracehim; and as she was in worldly matters to receive much and givenothing, she would probably be willing to make herself amenable toany arrangements as to their future mode of life which he mightpropose. In respect of this matter he was probably thinking oflodgings for himself in London during the parliamentary session, while she remained alone in the big red house upon which his eyeswere fixed at the time. There was much of convenience in all this, which might perhaps atone to him for the sacrifice which he wasundoubtedly making of himself. Had marriage simply been of itself athing desirable, he could doubtless have disposed of himself tobetter advantage. His prospects, present fortune, and generalposition were so favourable, that he might have dared to lift hisexpectations, in regard both to wealth and rank, very high. TheAylmers were a considerable people, and he, though a younger brother, bad much more than a younger brother's portion. His seat inParliament was safe; his position in society was excellent andsecure; he was exactly so placed that marriage with a fortune was theonly thing wanting to put the finishing coping-stone to his edificethat, and perhaps also the useful glory of having some Lady Mary orLady Emily at the top of his table. Lady Emily Aylmer? Yes it wouldhave sounded better, and there was a certain Lady Emily who mighthave suited. Now, as some slight regrets stole upon him gently, hefailed to remember that this Lady Emily had not a shilling in theworld. 

Yes; some faint regrets did steal upon him, though he went on tellinghimself that he had acted rightly. His stars, which were generallyvery good to him, had not perhaps on this occasion been as good asusual. No doubt he had to a certain degree become encumbered withClara Amedroz. Had not the direct and immediate leap with which shehad come into his arms shown him somewhat too plainly that one wordof his mouth tending towards matrimony had been regarded by her asbeing too valuable to be lost? The fruit that falls easily from thetree, though it is ever the best, is never valued by the gardener. Let him have well-nigh broken his neck in gathering it, unripe andcrude, from the small topmost boughs of the branching tree, and thepippin will be esteemed by him as invaluable. On that morning, asCaptain Aylmer had walked home from church, he had doubted much whatwould be Clara's answer to him. Then the pippin was at the end of thedangerous bough. Now it had fallen to his feet, and he did notscruple to tell himself that it was his and always might have beenhis as a matter of course. Well, the apple had come of a good kind, and, though there might be specks upon it, though it might not be fitfor any special glory of show or pride of place among the dessertservice, still it should be garnered and used, and no doubt would bea very good apple for eating. Having so concluded, Captain Aylmerreturned to the house, washed his hands, changed his boots, and wentdown to the drawing-room just as dinner was ready. 

She came up to him almost radiant with joy, and put her hand upon hisarm. 'Martha did not know but what you were here, ' she said, 'andtold them to put dinner on the table. '

'I hope I have not kept you waiting. '

'Oh, dear, no. And what if you did? Ladies never care about thingsgetting cold. It is gentlemen only who have feelings in such mattersas that. '

'I don't know that there is much difference; but, however--' Then theywere in the dining-room, and as the servant remained there duringdinner, there was nothing in their conversation worth repeating. After dinner they still remained down stairs, seating themselves onthe two sides of the fire, Clara having fully resolved that she wouldnot on such an evening as this leave Captain Aylmer to drink hisglass of port wine by himself. 

'I suppose I may stay with you, mayn't I?' she said. 

'Oh, dear, yes; I'm sure I'm very much obliged. I'm not at all weddedto solitude. ' Then there was a slight pause. 

'That's lucky, ' she said 'as you have made up your mind to be weddedin another sort of way. ' Her voice as she spoke was very low, butthere was a gentle ring of restrained joyousness in it which ought tohave gone at once to his heart and made him supremely blessed for thetime. 

'Well yes, ' he answered. 'We are in for it now, both of us are wenot? I hope you have no misgivings about it, Clara. '

'Who? I? I have misgivings! No, indeed. I have no misgivings, Frederic; no doubts, no scruples, no alloy in my happiness. With meit is all as I would have it be. Ah; you haven't understood why ithas been that I have seemed to be harsh to you when we have met. '

'No, I have not, ' said he. This was true; but it is true also that itwould have been well that he should be kept in his ignorance. She wasminded, however, to tell him everything, and therefore she went on. 

'I don't know how to tell you; and yet, circumstanced as we are now, it seems that I ought to tell you everything. '

'Yes, certainly; I think that, ' said Aylmer. He was one of those menwho consider themselves entitled to see, hear, and know every littledetail of a woman's conduct, as a consequence of the circumstances ofhis engagement, and who consider themselves shorn of their privilegeif anything be kept back. If any gentleman had said a soft word toClara eight years ago, that soft word ought to be repeated to himnow. I am afraid that these particular gentlemen sometimes hear somefibs; and I often wonder that their own early passages in thetournays of love do not warn them that it must be so. When James hassat deliciously through all the moonlit night with his arm roundMary's waist and afterwards sees Mary led to the altar by John, doesit not occur to him that some John may have also sat with his armround Anna's waist that Anna whom he is leading to the altar? Thesethings should not be inquired into too curiously; but the curiosityof some men on such matters has no end. For the most part, women liketelling only they do not choose to be pressed beyond their own modesof utterance. 'I should like to know that I have your fullconfidence, ' said he. 

'You have got my full confidence, ' she replied. 

'I mean that you should tell me anything that there is to be told. '

'It was only this, that I had learned to love you before I thoughtthat my love would be returned. '

'Oh was that it?' said Captain Aylmer, in a tone which seemed toimply something like disappointment. 

'Yes. Fred; that was It. And how could I, under such circumstances, trust myself to be gentle with you, or to look to you for assistance?How could I guess then all that I know now?'

'Of course you couldn't. '

'And therefore I was driven to be harsh. My aunt used to speak to meabout it. '

'I don't wonder at that, for she was very anxious that we should bemarried. '

Clara for a moment felt herself to be uncomfortable as she heardthese words, half perceiving that they implied some instigation onthe part of Mrs Winterfield. Could it be that Captain Aylmer's offerhad been made in obedience to a promise? 'Did you know of heranxiety?' she asked. 

'Well yes; that is to say, I guessed it. It was natural enough thatthe same idea should come to her and to me too. Of course, seeing usso much thrown together, she could not but think of our being marriedas a chance upon the cards. '

'She used to tell me that I was harsh to you abrupt, she called it. But what could I do? I'll tell you, Fred, how I first found out thatI really cared for you. What I tell you now is of course a secret;and I should speak of it to no one under any circumstances but thosewhich unite us two together. My Cousin Will, when he was at Belton, made me an offer. '

'He did, did he? You did not tell me that when you were saying allthose fine things in his praise in the railway carriage. '

Of course I did not. Why should I? I wasn't bound to tell you mysecrets then, sir. '

'But did he absolutely offer to you?'

'Is there anything so wonderful in that? But, wonderful or not, hedid. '

'And you refused him?'

'I refused him certainly. '

'It wouldn't have been a bad match, if all that you say about hisproperty is true. '

'If you come to that, it would have been a very good match; andperhaps you think I was silly to decline it?'

'I don't say that. '

'Papa thought so but, then, I couldn't tell papa the whole truth, asI can tell it to you now, Captain Aylmer. I couldn't tell dear papathat my heart was not my own to give to my Cousin Will; nor could Igive Will any such reason. Poor Will! I could only say to him bluntlythat I wouldn't have him. '

'And you would, if it hadn't been hadn't been for me. '

'Nay, Fred; there you tax me too far. What might have come of myheart if you hadn't fallen in my way, who can say? I love Will Beltondearly, and hope that you may do so--'

'I must see him first. '

'Of course;--but, as I was saying, I doubt whether, under anycircumstances, he would have been the man I should have chosen for ahusband. But as it was, --it was impossible. Now you know it all, and Ithink that I have been very frank with you. '

'Oh! very frank. ' He would not take her little jokes, nor understandher little prettinesses. That he was a man not prone to joking sheknew well, but still it went against the grain with her to find thathe was so very hard in his replies to her attempts. 

It was not easy for Clara to carry on the conversation after this, soshe proposed that they should go upstairs into the drawing-room. Sucha change even as that would throw them into a different way oftalking, and prevent the necessity of any further immediate allusionto Will Belton. For Clara was aware, though she hardly knew why, thather frankness to her future husband had hardly been successful, andshe regretted that she had on this occasion mentioned her cousin'sname. They went upstairs and again sat themselves in chairs over thefire; but for a while conversation did not seem to come to themfreely. Clara felt that it was now Captain Aylmer's turn to begin, and Captain Aylmer felt that he wished he could read the newspaper. He had nothing in particular that he desired to say to his lady-love. That morning, as he was shaving himself, he had something to say thatwas very particular as to which he was at that moment so nervous, that he had cut himself slightly through the trembling of his hand. But that had now been said, and he was nervous no longer. That hadnow been said, and the thing settled so easily, that he wondered athis own nervousness. He did not know that there was anything thatrequired much further immediate speech. Clara had thought somewhat ofthe time which might be proposed for their marriage, making somelittle resolves, with which the reader is already acquainted; but noideas of this kind presented themselves to Captain Aylmer. He hadasked his cousin to be his wife, thereby making good his promise tohis aunt. There could be no further necessity for pressing haste. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. 

It is not to be supposed that the thriving lover actually spoke tohimself in such language as that or that he confessed to himself thatClara Amedroz was an evil to him rather than a blessing. But hisfeelings were already so far tending in that direction, that he wasby no means disposed to make any further promise, or to engagehimself in closer connexion with matrimony by the mention of anyspecial day. Clara, finding that her companion would not talk withoutencouragement from her, had to begin again, and asked all thosenatural questions about his family, his brother, his sister, his homehabits, and the old house in Yorkshire, the answers to which must beso full of interest to her. But even on these subjects he was dry, and in-disposed to answer with the full copiousness of freecommunication which she desired. And at last there came a questionand an answer a word or two on one side, and then a word or two onthe other, from which Clara got a wound which was very sore to her. 

'I have always pictured to myself, ' she said 'your mother as a womanwho has been very handsome. '

'She is still a handsome woman, though she is over sixty. '

'Tall, I suppose?'

'Yes, tall, and with something of of what shall I say dignity, abouther. '

'She is not grand, I hope?'

'I don't know what you call grand. '

'Not grand in a bad sense I'm sure she is not that. But there aresome ladies who seem to stand so high above the level of ordinaryfemales as to make us who are ordinary quite afraid of them. '

'My mother is certainly not ordinary, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

'And I am, ' said Clara, laughing. 'I wonder what she'll say to me or, rather, what she will think of me. ' Then there was a moment'ssilence, after which Clara, still laughing, went on. 'I see, Fred, that you have not a word of encouragement to give me about yourmother. '

'She is rather particular, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

Then Clara drew herself up, and ceased to laugh. She had calledherself ordinary with that half-insincere depreciation of self whichis common to all of us when we speak of our own attributes, but whichwe by no means intend that they who hear us shall accept as strictlytrue, or shall re-echo as their own approved opinions. But in thisinstance Captain Aylmer, though he had not quite done that, had donealmost as bad. 

'Then I suppose I had better keep out of her way, ' said Clara, by nomeans laughing as she spoke. 

'Of course when we are married you must go and see her. '

'You do not, at any rate, promise me a very agreeable visit, Fred. But I dare say I shall survive it. After all, it is you that I am tomarry, and not your mother; and as long as you are not majestic tome, I need not care for her majesty. '

'I don't know what you mean by majesty. '

'You must confess that you speak of her as of something veryterrible. '

'I say that she is particular and so she is. And as my respect forher opinion is equal to my affection for her person, I hope that youwill make a great effort to gain her esteem. '

'I never make any efforts of that kind. If esteem doesn't comewithout efforts it isn't worth having. '

'There I disagree with you altogether but I especially disagree withyou as you are speaking about my mother, and about a lady who is tobecome your own mother-in-law. I trust that you will make suchefforts, and that you will make them successfully. Lady Aylmer is nota woman who will give you her heart at once, simply because you havebecome her son's wife. She will judge you by your own qualities andwill not scruple to condemn you should she see cause. '

Then there was a longer silence, and Clara's heart was almost inrebellion even on this, the first day of her engagement. But shequelled her high spirit, and said no further word about Lady Aylmer. Nor did she speak again till she had enabled herself to smile as shespoke. 

'Well, Fred, ' she said, putting her hand upon his arm, 'I'll do mybest, and woman can do no more. And now I'll say good-night, for Imust pack for tomorrow's journey before I go to bed. ' Then he kissedher with a cold, chilling kiss and she left him for the night. 

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 recognized 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 she didso that his manner towards her had become less affectionate, lesslike that of a lover, since the honest tale she had told him of herown early love for him. She should have been less honest, and morediscreet; less bold, and more like in her words to the ordinary runof women. She had known this as she was packing last night, and shetold 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 indifference whichis so often used by ladies when they are wooed. She had been boldlyhonest, and had found her honesty to be bad policy. She thought, atleast, that she had found its policy to be bad. Whether in truth itmay not have been very good have been the best policy in the worldtending to give her the first true intimation which she had ever yetreceived of the real character of the man who was now so much to herthat 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, Frederick, ' 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, hadhad her own misgivings on the same subject little qualms ofconscience that had come to her as she remembered her old friend inthe 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 togetherit 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 full truthhas come out; and we can consider quietly what will be best for us todo, independently of that promise. We will part, therefore, as dearfriends 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 before marriage;and you must therefore yield to me in this matter. I am sure yourjudgment will approve of my decision when you think of it. Thereshall be no engagement between us. I shall consider myself quite freefree to do as I please altogether; and you, of course, will be freealso. '

'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 recognized it as a fact that he was no longer bound to her as herfuture husband. Indeed, he had no power of not recognizing 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 bad done allthat lay in his power to make Clara Amedroz his wife. If she chose torebel against her own good 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 would saynothing. When she reflected on what had taken place between herselfand Captain Aylmer she was more resolved than ever that she would nottouch any portion of that money or of any money that should come fromhim. Nor would she tell her father anything of the marriageengagement which had been made on one day and unmade on the next. Whyshould she add to his distress by showing him what good things mighthave been hers had she only had the wit to keep them? No; she wouldtell her father simply of the will, and then comfort him in hisaffliction 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 mitigate theapparent authoritativeness of her own decision, rather than with anyidea of leaving the matter open for further consideration. She wassure that Captain Aylmer would be glad of a means of escape, and thathe would not again place himself in the jeopardy which the promiseexacted from him by his aunt had made so nearly fatal to him. And forherself, though she still loved the man, --so loved him that she layback in the corner of her carriage weeping behind her veil as shethought of what she had lost, --still she would not take him, though heshould again press his suit upon her with all the ardour at hiscommand. No, indeed. No man should ever be made to regard her as aburden imposed upon him by an extorted promise! What;--let a mansacrifice 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-known olddriver, and was taken home in the accustomed manner. As she drewnearer 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 upstairs 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 asked thequestion; and there came over his face so unusual a look of energy, --ofthe energy of anger, --that Clara was frightened, and knew not how toanswer him with that tone of authority which she was accustomed touse when she found it necessary to exercise control over him. 'Do youmean to say that there is nothing, --nothing?' And as he repeated thequestion he pushed her away from his knees and stood up with aneffort, 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 know thatyou will be a beggar in a year or two probably in a few months andthat is not to distress me! She has been a wicked woman!'

'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 grounds forsuch hope. '

'I say she had even though she may not have made a promise. I say shehad. 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 have madesuch 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 difficult totell him anything that would not bring greater affliction upon him, and would not also lead her into deeper trouble. Should it come topass that her aunt's intention with reference to the fifteen hundredpounds 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 prefer tobeg her bread upon the roads than accept her late lover's generosity. And then again, how could she explain to her father Mrs Winterfield'smistake about her own position without seeming to accuse her fatherof having robbed her? But nevertheless she must say something, as MrAmedroz continued to apply that epithet of heartless to MrsWinterfield, going on with it in a low droning tone, that was moreinjurious to Clara's ears than the first full energy of his anger. 

'Heartless quite heartless shockingly heartless shockinglyheartless!'

'The truth is, papa, ' Clara said at last, 'that when my aunt told meabout 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. Icould 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 checks. 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 which theservant 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 comfortless toboth 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 thought ofit the more bitter did the idea of it become to her. And she couldnot also but think of her cousin. Poor Will! He, at any rate, hadloved 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 but asshe 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 she hadbeen sitting there looking out upon the clouds, with her mind fixedupon things far away. The general cheerfulness of this woman hadoften been cause of wonder to Clara, who knew how many of her hourswere passed in solitude; but there did occasionally come upon herperiods 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 since Ihave 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 Captain Aylmer?'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 as Iknew he would do of course; as I told you that he would? Was that soimproper 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. '

'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. 

CHAPTER XIII

MR WILLIAM BELTON TAKES A WALK IN THE COUNTRY

Clara Amedroz had made one great mistake about her cousin, WillBelton, when she came to the conclusion that she might accept hisproffered friendship without any apprehension that the friend wouldbecome a lover; and she made another, equally great, when sheconvinced herself that his love had been as short-lived as it hadbeen eager. Throughout his journey back to Plaistow, he had thoughtof nothing else but his love, and had resolved to persevere, tellinghimself sometimes that he might perhaps be successful, and feelingsure at other times that he would encounter renewed sorrow andpermanent disappointment but equally resolved in either mood that hewould persevere. Not to persevere in pursuit of any desired objectlet the object be what it might was, to his thinking, unmanly, weak, and destructive of self-respect. He would sometimes say of himself, joking with other men, that if he did not succeed in this or thatthing, he could never speak to himself again. To no man did he talkof his love in such a strain as this; but there was a woman to whomhe spoke of it; and though he could not joke on such a matter, thepurport of what he said showed the same feeling. To be finallyrejected, and to put up with such rejection, would make him almostcontemptible in his own eyes. 

This woman was his sister, Mary Belton. Something has been alreadysaid of this lady, which the reader may perhaps remember. She was ayear or two older than her brother, with whom she always lived, butshe had none of those properties of youth which belonged to him insuch abundance. She was, indeed, a poor cripple, unable to walkbeyond the limits of her own garden, feeble in health, dwarfed instature, robbed of all the ordinary enjoyments of life by physicaldeficiencies, which made even the task of living a burden to her. Toeat was a pain, or at best a trouble. Sleep would not comfort her inbed, and weariness during the day made it necessary that the hourspassed in bed should be very long. She was one of those whose lot inlife drives us to marvel at the inequalities of human destiny, and toinquire curiously within ourselves whether future compensation is tobe given. 

It is said of those who are small and crooked-backed in their bodies, that their minds are equally cross-grained and their tempers asungainly as their stature. But no one had ever said this of MaryBelton. Her friends, indeed, were very few in number; but those whoknew her well loved her as they knew her, and there were three orfour persons in the world who were ready at all times to swear thatshe was faultless. It was the great happiness of her life that amongthose three or four her own brother was the foremost. Will Belton'slove for his sister amounted almost to veneration, and his devotionto her was so great, that in all the affairs of his life he wasprepared to make her comfort one of his first considerations. Andshe, knowing this, had come to fear that she might be an embargo onhis prosperity, and a stumbling-block in the way of his success. Ithad occurred to her that he would have married earlier in life if shehad not been, as it were, in his way; and she had threatened himplayfully, --for she could be playful, --that she would leave him if hedid not soon bring a mistress to Plaistow Hall. 'I will go to uncleRobert, ' she had said. Now uncle Robert was the clergyman inLincolnshire of whom mention has been made, and he was among thosetwo or three who believed in Mary Belton with an implicit faith, --aswas also his wife. 'I will go to uncle Robert, Will, and then youwill be driven to get a wife. '

'If my sister ever leaves my house, whether there be a wife in it ornot, ' Will had answered, 'I will never put trust in any woman again. '

Plaistow Manor-house or Hall was a fine brick mansion, built in thelatter days of Tudor house architecture, with many gables andcountless high chimneys very picturesque to the eye, but not in allrespects comfortable as are the modern houses of the well-to-dosquirearchy of England. And, indeed, it was subject to certainobjectionable characteristics which in some degree justified thescorn which Mr Amedroz intended to throw upon it when he declared itto be a farm-house. The gardens belonging to it were large andexcellent; but they did not surround it, and allowed the farmappurtenances to come close up to it on two sides. The door whichshould have been the front door, opening from the largest room in thehouse, which had been the hall and which was now the kitchen, leddirectly into the farm-yard. From the farther end of this farm-yard amagnificent avenue of elms stretched across the home pasture down toa hedge which crossed it at the bottom. That there had been a roadthrough the rows of trees or, in other words, that there had in truthbeen an avenue to the house on that side was, of course, certain. Butnow there was no vestige of such road, and the front entrance toPlaistow Hall was by a little path across the garden from a modernroad which had been made to run cruelly near to the house. Such wasPlaistow Hall, and such was its mistress. Of the master, the reader, I hope, already knows so much as to need no further description. 

As Belton drove himself home from the railway station late on thatAugust night, he made up his mind that he would tell his sister allhis story about Clara Amedroz. She had ever wished that he shouldmarry, and now he had made his attempt. Little as had been heropportunity of learning the ways of men and women from experience insociety, she had always seemed to him to know exactly what every oneshould do in every position of life. And she would be tender withhim, giving him comfort even if she could not give him hope. MoreoverMary might be trusted with his secret; for Belton felt, as men alwaysdo feel, a great repugnance to have it supposed that his suit to awoman had been rejected. Women, when they have loved in vain, oftenalmost wish that their misfortune should be known. They love totalk about their wounds mystically, --telling their own tales underfeigned names, and extracting something of a bitter sweetness out ofthe sadness of their own romance. But a man, when he has beenrejected, --rejected with a finality that is acknowledged byhimself, --is unwilling to speak or hear a word upon the subject, andwould willingly wash the episode out from his heart if it werepossible. 

But not on that his first night would he begin to speak of ClaraAmedroz. He would not let his sister believe that his heart was toofull of the subject to allow of his thinking of other matters. Marywas still up, waiting for him when he arrived, with tea, and cream, and fruit ready for him. 'Oh, Mary!' he said, 'why are you not inbed? You know that I would have come to you upstairs. ' She excusedherself, smiling, declaring that she could not deny herself thepleasure of being with him for half an hour on his first return fromhis travels. 'Of course I want to know what they are like, ' she said. 

'He is a nice-looking old man, ' said Will 'and she is a nice-lookingyoung woman. '

'That is graphic and short, at any rate. '

'And he is weak and silly, but she is strong and--and--and--'

'Not silly also, I hope?'

'Anything but that. I should say she is very clever. '

'I'm afraid you don't like her, Will. '

'Yes, I do. '

'Really?'

'Yes; really. '

'And did she take your coming well?'

'Very well. I think she is much obliged to me for going. '

'And Mr Amedroz?'

'He liked my coming too very much. '

'What after that cold letter?

'Yes, indeed. I shall explain it all by degrees. I have taken a leaseof all the land, and I'm to go back at Christmas; and as to the oldgentleman he'd have me live there altogether if I would. '

'Why, Will?'

'Is it not odd? I'm so glad I didn't make up my mind not to go when Igot that letter. And yet I don't know. ' These last words he addedslowly, and in a low voice, and Mary at once knew that everything wasnot quite as it ought to be. 

'Is there anything wrong, Will?'

'No, nothing wrong; that is to say, there is nothing to make meregret that I went. I think I did some good to them. '

'It was to do good to them that you went there. '

'They wanted to have some one near them who could be to them as oneof their own family. He is too old too much worn out to be capable ofmanaging things; and the people there were, of course, robbing him. Ithink I have put a stop to that. '

'And you are to go again at Christmas?'

'Yes; they can do without me at my uncle's, and you will be there. Ihave taken the land, and already bought some of the stock for it, andam going to buy more. '

'I hope you won't lose money, Will. '

'No not ultimately, that is. I shall get the place in good condition, and I shall have paid myself when he goes, in that way, if in noother. Besides, what's a little money? I owe it to them for robbingher of her inheritance. '

'You do not rob her, Will. '

'It is hard upon her, though. '

'Does she feel it hard?'

'Whatever may be her feelings on such a matter, she is a woman muchtoo proud to show them. '

'I wish I knew whether you liked her or not. '

'I do like her I love her better than any one in the world; bettereven than you, Mary; for I have asked her to be my wife. '

'Oh, Will!'

'And she has refused me. Now you know the whole of it the wholehistory of what I have done while I have been away. ' And he stood upbefore her, with his thumbs thrust into the arm-holes of hiswaistcoat, with something serious and almost solemn in his gait, inspite of a smile which played about his mouth. 

'Oh, Will!'

'I meant to have told you, of course, Mary to have told youeverything; but I did not mean to tell it to-night; only it hassomehow fallen from me. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, theysay. '

'I never can like her if she refuses your love. '

'Why not? That is unlike you, Mary. Why should she be bound to loveme because I love her?'

'Is there any one else, Will?'

'How can I tell? I did not ask her. I would not have asked her forthe world, though I would have given the world to know. '

'And she is so very beautiful?'

'Beautiful! It isn't that so much though she is beautiful. But but Ican't tell you why but she is the only girl that I ever saw who wouldsuit me for a wife. Oh, dear!'

'My own Will!'

'But I'm not going to keep you up all night, Mary. And I'll tell yousomething else; I'm not going to break my heart for love. Arid I'lltell you something else again; I'm not going to give it up yet. Ibelieve I've been a fool. Indeed, I know I've been a fool. I wentabout it just as if I were buying a horse, and had told the sellerthat that was my price he might take it or leave it. What right had Ito suppose that any girl was to be had in that way; much less such agirl as Clara Amedroz?'

'It would have been a great match for her. '

'I'm not so sure of that, Mary. Her education has been different frommine, and it may well be that she should marry above me. But I swearI will not speak another word to you to-night. Tomorrow, if you'rewell enough, I'll talk to you all day. ' Soon after that he did gether to go up to her room, though, of course, he broke that oath ofhis as to not speaking another word. After that he walked out bymoonlight round the house, wandering about the garden and farm-yard, and down through the avenue, having in his own mind some pretence ofthe watchfulness of ownership, but thinking little of his propertyand much of his love. Here was a thing that he desired with all hisheart, but it seemed to be out of his reach absolutely out of hisreach. He was sick and weary with a feeling of longing sick with thatcovetousness wherewith Ahab coveted the vineyard of Naboth. What wasthe world to him if he could not have this thing on which he had sethis heart? He had told his sister that he would not break his heart;and so much, he did not doubt, would be true. A man or woman with abroken heart was in his estimation a man or woman who should die oflove; and he did not look for such a fate as that. But he experiencedthe palpable misery of a craving emptiness within his breast, and didbelieve of himself that he never could again be in comfort unless hecould succeed with Clara Amedroz. He stood leaning against one of thetrees, striking his hands together, and angry with himself at theweakness which had reduced him to such a state. What could any man beworth who was so little master of himself as he had now become?

After awhile he made his way back through the farm-yard, and in atthe kitchen door, which he locked and bolted; and then, throwinghimself down into a wooden armchair which always stood there, in thecorner of the huge hearth, he took a short pipe from the mantelpiece, filled it with tobacco, and lighting it almost unconsciously, beganto smoke with vehemence. 

Plaistow Hall was already odious to him, and he longed to be back atBelton, which he had left only that morning. Yes, on that verymorning she had brought to him his coffee, looking sweetly into hisface so sweetly as she ministered to him. And he might then well havesaid one word more in pleading his suit, if he had not been tooawkward to know what that word should be. And was it not his ownawkwardness that had brought him to this state of misery? What righthad he to suppose that any girl should fall in love with such a oneas he at first sight without a moment's notice to her own heart? Andthen, when he had her there, almost in his arms, why had he let hergo without kissing her? It seemed to him now that if he might haveonce kissed her, even that would have been a comfort to him in hispresent affliction. 'D----tion!' he said at last, as he jumped to hisfeet and kicked the chair on one side, and threw the pipe among theashes. I trust it will be understood that he addressed himself, andnot his lady-love, in this uncivil way 'D----tion!' Then when the chairhad been well kicked out of his way, he took himself up to bed. Iwonder whether Clara's heart would have been hardened or softenedtowards him had she heard the oath, and understood all the thoughtsand motives which had produced it. 

On the next morning poor Mary Belton was too ill to come down-stairs;and as her brother spent his whole day out upon the farm, remainingamong reapers and wheat stacks till nine o'clock in the evening, nothing was said about Clara on that day. Then there came a Sunday, and it was a matter of course that the subject of which they bothwere thinking should be discussed. Will went to church, and, as wastheir custom on Sundays, they dined immediately on his return. Then, as the afternoon was very warm, he took her out to a favourite seatshe had in the garden, and it became impossible that they couldlonger abstain. 

'And you really mean to go again at Christmas?' she asked. 

'Certainly I shall I promised. '

'Then I am sure you will. '

'And I must go from time to time because of the land I have taken. Indeed there seems to be an understanding that I am to manage theproperty for Mr Amedroz. '

'And does she wish you to go?'

'Yes she says so. '

'Girls, I believe, think sometimes that men are indifferent in theirlove. They suppose that a man can forget it at once when he is notaccepted, and that things can go on just as before. '

'I suppose she thinks so of me, ' said Belton wofully. 

'She must either think that, or else be willing to give herself thechance of learning to like you better. '

'There's nothing of that, I'm sure. She's as true as steel. '

'But she would hardly want you to go there unless she thought youmight overcome either your love or her indifference. She would notwish you to be there that you might be miserable. '

'Before I had asked her to be my wife I had promised to be herbrother. And so I will, if she should ever want a brother. I am notgoing to desert her because she will not do what I want her to do, orbe what I want her to be. She understands that. There is to be noquarrel between us. '

'But she would be heartless if she were to encourage you to be withher simply for the assistance you may give her, knowing at the sametime that you could not be happy in her presence. '

'She is not heartless. '

'Then she must suppose that you are. '

'I dare say she doesn't think that I care much about it. When I toldher, I did it all of a heap, you see; and I fancy she thought I wasjust mad at the time. '

'And did you speak about it again?'

'No; not a word. I shouldn't wonder if she hadn't forgotten it beforeI went away. '

'That would be impossible. '

'You wouldn't say so if you knew how it was done. It was all over inhalf an hour; and she had given me such an answer that I thought Ihad no right to say anything more about it. The morning when I lefther she did seem to be kinder. '

'I wish I knew whether she cares for any one else. '

'Ah! I so often think of that. But I couldn't ask her, you know. Ihad no right to pry into her secrets. When I came away, she got up tosee me off; and I almost felt tempted to carry her into the gig anddrive her off. '

'I don't think that would have done, Will. '

'I don't suppose anything will do. We all know what happens to thechild who cries for the top brick of the chimney. The child has to dowithout it. The child goes to bed and forgets it; but I go to bedand can't forget it. '

'My poor Will!'

Then he got up and shook himself, and stalked about the garden alwayskeeping within a few yards of his sister's chair and carried on astrong battle within his breast, struggling to get the better of theweakness which his love produced, though resolved that the loveitself should be maintained. 

'I wish it wasn't Sunday, ' he said at last, 'because then I could goand do something. If I thought that no one would see me, I'd fill adung-cart or two, even though it is Sunday. I'll tell you what I'llgo and take a walk as far as Denvir Sluice; and I'll be hack to tea. You won't mind?'

'Denvir Sluice is eight miles off. '

'Exactly I'll be there and back in something over three hours. '

'But, Will there's a broiling sun. '

'It will do me good. Anything that will take something out of me iswhat I want. I know I ought to stay and read to you; but I couldn'tdo it. I've got the fidgets inside, if you know what that means. Tohave the big hay-rick on fire, or something of that sort, is whatwould do me most good. '

Then he started, and did walk to Denvir Sluice and back in threehours. The road from Plaistow Hall to Denvir Sluice was not in itselfinteresting. It ran through a perfectly flat country, without a tree. For the greater part of the way it was constructed on the top of agreat bank by the side of a broad dike, and for five miles its coursewas straight as a line. A country walk less picturesque could hardlybe found in England. The road, too, was very dusty, and the sun washot above Belton's head as he walked. But nevertheless, hepersevered, going on till he struck his stick against the waterfallwhich was called Denvir Sluice, and then returned not once slackeninghis pace, and doing the whole distance at a rate somewhat above fivemiles an hour. They used to say in the nursery that cold pudding isgood to settle a man's love; but the receipt which Belton tried was awalk of sixteen miles, along a dusty road, after dinner, in themiddle of an August day. 

I think it did him some good. When he got back he took a long draughtof home-brewed beer, and then went up stairs to dress himself. 

'What a state you are in, ' Mary said to him when he showed himselffor a moment in the sitting-room. 

'I did it from milestone to milestone in eleven minutes, backwardsand forwards, all along the five-mile reach. '

Then Mary knew from his answer that the exercise had been of serviceto him, perceiving that he had been able to take an interest in hisown prowess as a walker. 

'I only hope you won't have a fever, ' she said. 

'The people who stand still are they who get fevers, ' he answered. 'Hard work never does harm to any one. If John Bowden would walk hisfive miles an hour on a Sunday afternoon he wouldn't have the gout sooften. '

John Bowden was a neighbour in the next parish, and Mary wasdelighted to find that her brother could take a pride in hisperformance. 

By degrees Miss Belton began to know with some accuracy the way inwhich Will had managed his affairs at Belton Castle, and was enabledto give him salutary advice. 

'You see, Will, ' she said, 'ladies are different from men in this, that they cannot allow themselves to be in love so suddenly. '

'I don't see how a person is to help it. It isn't like jumping into ariver, which a person can do or not, just as he pleases. '

'But I fancy it is something like jumping into a river, and that aperson can help it. What the person can't help is being in when theplunge has once been made. '

'No, by George! There's no getting out of that river. '

'And ladies don't take the plunge till they've had time to think whatmay come after it. Perhaps you were a little too sudden with ourCousin Clara?'

'Of course I was. Of course I was a fool, and a brute too. '

'I know you were not a brute, and I don't think you were a fool; butyet you were too sudden. You see a lady cannot always make up hermind to love a man, merely because she is asked all in a moment. Sheshould have a little time to think about it before she is called uponfor an answer. '

'And I didn't give her two minutes. '

'You never do give two minutes to anyone do you, Will? But you'll beback there at Christmas, and then she will have had time to turn itover in her mind. '

'And you think that I may have a chance?'

'Certainly you may have a chance. '

'Although she was so sure about it?'

'She spoke of her own mind and her own heart as she knew them then. But it depends chiefly on this, Will whether there is any one else. For anything we know, she may be engaged now. '

'Of course she may. ' Then Belton speculated on the extremeprobability of such a contingency; arguing within his own heart thatof course every unmarried man who might see Clara would want to marryher, and that there could not but be some one whom even she would beable to love. 

When he had been home about a fortnight, there came a letter to himfrom Clara, which was a great treasure to him. In truth, it simplytold him of the completion of the cattle-shed, of her father'shealth, and of the milk which the little cow gave; but she signedherself his affectionate cousin, and the letter was very gratifyingto him. There were two lines of a postscript, which could not butflatter him: 'Papa is so anxious for Christmas, that you may be hereagain and so, indeed, am I also. ' Of course it will be understoodthat this was written before Clara's visit to Perivale, and beforeMrs Winterfield's death. Indeed, much happened in Clara's historybetween the writing of that letter and Will Belton's winter visit tothe Castle. 

But Christmas came at last, all too slowly for Will and he started onhis journey. On this occasion he arranged to stay a week in London, having a lawyer there whom he desired to see; and thinking, perhaps, that a short time spent among the theatres might assist him in hislove troubles. 

CHAPTER XIV

MR WILLIAM BELTON TAKES A WALK IN LONDON

At the time of my story there was a certain Mr Green, a worthyattorney, who held chambers in Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, muchto the profit of himself and family and to the profit and comfortalso of a numerous body of clients a man much respected in theneighbourhood of Chancery Lane, and beloved, I do not doubt, in theneighbourhood of Bushey, in which delightfully rural parish he waspossessed of a genteel villa and ornamental garden. With Mr Green'sprivate residence we shall, I believe, have no further concern; butto him at his chambers in Stone Buildings I must now introduce thereader of these memoirs. He was a man not yet forty years of age, with still much of the salt of youth about him, a pleasant companionas well as a good lawyer, and one who knew men and things in London, as it is given to pleasant clever fellows, such as Joseph Green, toknow them. Now Mr Green and his father before him had been the legaladvisers of the Amedroz family, and our Mr Joseph Green had had but abad time of it with Charles Amedroz in the last years of thatunfortunate young man's life. But lawyers endure these troubles, submitting themselves to the extravagances, embarrassments, and evenvillainy of the bad subjects among their clients' families, with agood-humoured patience that is truly wonderful. That, however, wasall over now as regarded Mr Green and the Amedrozes, and he hadnothing further to do but to save for the father what relics of theproperty he might secure. And he was also legal adviser to our friendWill Belton, there having been some old family connexion among them, and had often endeavoured to impress upon his old client at BeltonCastle his own strong conviction that the heir was a generous fellow, who might be trusted in everything. But this had been taken amiss bythe old squire, who, indeed, was too much disposed to take all thingsamiss and to suspect everybody. 'I understand, ' he had said to hisdaughter. 'I know all about it. Belton and Mr Green have been dearfriends always. I can't trust my own lawyer any longer. ' In all whichthe old squire showed much ingratitude. It will, however, beunderstood that these suspicions were rife before the time ofBelton's visit to the family estate. 

Some four or five days before Christmas there came a visitor to MrGreen with whom the reader is acquainted, and who was no less a manthan the Member for Perivale. Captain Aylmer, when Clara parted fromhim on the morning of her return to Belton Castle, had resolved thathe would repeat his offer of marriage by letter. A month had passedby since then, and he had not as yet repeated it. But his intentionwas not altered. He was a deliberate man, who did not do such thingsquite as quickly as his rival, and who upon this occasion had thoughtit prudent to turn over more than once in his mind all that heproposed to do. Nor had he as yet taken any definite steps as to thatfifteen hundred pounds which he had promised to Clara in her aunt'sname, and which Clara had been, and was, so unwilling to receive. Hehad now actually paid it over, having purchased government stock inClara's name for the amount, and had called upon Mr Green, in orderthat that gentleman, as Clara's lawyer, might make the necessarycommunication to her. 

'I suppose there's nothing further to be done?' asked Captain Aylmer. 

'Nothing further by me, ' said the lawyer. 'Of course I shall write toher, and explain that she must make arrangements as to the interest. I am very glad that her aunt thought of her in her last moments. '

'Mrs Winterfield would have provided for her before, had she knownthat everything had been swallowed up by that unfortunate young man. '

'All's well that ends well. Fifteen hundred pounds are better thannothing. '

'Is it not enough?' said the captain, blushing. 

'It isn't for me to have an opinion about that, Captain Aylmer. Itdepends on the nature of her claim; and that again depends on therelative position of the aunt and niece when they were alivetogether. '

'You are aware that Miss Amedroz was not Mrs Winterfield's niece?'

'Do not think for a moment that I am criticizing the amount of thelegacy. I am very glad of it, as, without it, there was literally noprovision, --no provision at all. '

'You will write to herself?'

'Oh yes, certainly to herself. She is a better man of business thanher father and then this is her own, to do as she likes with it. '

'She can't refuse it, I suppose?'

'Refuse it!'

'Even though she did not wish to take it, it would be legally herproperty, just as though it had been really left by the will?'

'Well; I don't know. I dare say you could have resisted the payment. But that has been made now, and there seems to be an end of it. '

At this moment a clerk entered the room and handed a card to hisemployer. 'Here's the heir himself, ' said Mr Green. 

'What heir?

'Will Belton the heir of the property which Mr Amedroz holds. 'Captain Aylmer had soon explained that he was not personallyacquainted with Mr William Belton; but, having heard much about him, declared himself anxious to make the acquaintance. Our friend Will, therefore, was ushered into the room, and the two rivals for Clara'sfavour were introduced to each other. Each had heard much of theother, and each had heard of the other from the same person. ButCaptain Aylmer knew much more as to Belton than Belton knew inrespect to him. Aylmer knew that Belton had proposed to Clara and hadbeen rejected; and he knew also that Belton was now again going downto Somersetshire. 

'You are to spend your Christmas, I believe, with our friends atBelton Castle?' said the captain. 

'Yes and am now on my way there. I believe you know them alsointimately. ' Then there was some explanation as to the Winterfieldconnexion, a few remarks as to the precarious state of the oldsquire's health, a message or two from Captain Aylmer, which ofcourse were of no importance, and the captain took his leave. 

Then Green and Belton became very comfortably intimate in theirconversation, calling each other Will and Joe for they were old andclose friends. And they discussed matters in that cozy tone ofconfidential intercourse which is so directly at variance with thetones used by men when they ordinarily talk of business. 'He hasbrought me good news for your friend, Miss Amedroz, ' said the lawyer. 

'What good news?'

'That aunt of hers left her fifteen hundred pounds, after all. Orrather, she did not leave it, but desired on her death-bed that itmight be given. '

'That's the same thing, I suppose?'

'Oh quite that is to say, it's the same thing if the person who hasto hand over the money does not dispute the legacy. But it shows howthe old lady's conscience pricked her at last. And after all it was ashabby sum, and should have been three times as much. '

'Fifteen hundred pounds! And that is all she will have when herfather dies?'

'Every farthing, Will. You'll take all the rest. '

'I wish she wasn't going to have that. '

'Why? Why on earth should you of all men grudge her such a moderatemaintenance, seeing that you have not got to pay it?'

'It isn't a maintenance. How could it be a maintenance for such asher? What sort of maintenance would it be?'

'Much better than nothing. And so you would feel if she were yourdaughter. '

'She shall be my daughter, or my sister, or whatever you like to callher. You don't think that I'll take the whole estate and leave her tostarve on the interest of fifteen hundred pounds a year!'

'You'd better make her your wife at once, Will. '

Will Belton blushed as he answered, 'That, perhaps, would be easiersaid than done. That is not in my power even if I should wish it. Butthe other is in my power. '

'Will, take my advice, and don't make any romantic promises when youare down at Belton. You'll be sure to regret them if you do. And youshould remember that in truth Miss Amedroz has no greater claim onyou than any other lady in the land. '

'Isn't she my cousin?'

'Well yes. She is your cousin, but a distant one only; and I'm notaware that cousinship gives any claim. '

'Who is she to have a claim on? I'm the nearest she has got. Besides, am not I going to take all the property which ought to be hers?'

'That's just it. There's no such ought in the case. The property isas much your own as this poker is mine. That's exactly the mistake Iwant you to guard against. If you liked her, and chose to marry her, that would be all very well; presuming that you don't want to getmoney in marriage. '

'I hate the idea of marrying for money. '

'All right. Then marry Miss Amedroz if you please. But don't make anyrash undertakings to be her father, or her brother, or her uncle, orher aunt. Such romance always leads a man into trouble. '

'But I've done it already. '

'What do you mean?'

'I've told her that I would be her brother, and that as long as I hada shilling she should never want sixpence. And I mean it. And as forwhat you say about romance and repenting it, that simply comes fromyour being a lawyer. '

'Thank ye, Will. '

'If one goes to a chemist, of course one gets physic, and has to putup with the bad smells. '

'Thank you again. '

'But the chemist may be a very good sort of fellow at home all thesame, and have a cupboard full of sweetmeats and a garden full offlowers. However, the thing is done as far as I am concerned, and Ican almost find it in my heart to be sorry that Clara has got thisdriblet of money. Fifteen hundred pounds! It would keep her out ofthe workhouse, and that is about all. '

'If you knew how many ladies in her position would think that theheavens had rained wealth upon them if some one would give themfifteen hundred pounds!'

'Very well. At any rate I won't take it away from her. And now I wantyou to tell me something else. Do you remember a fellow we used toknow named Berdmore?'

'Philip Berdmore?'

'He may have been Philip, or Daniel, or Jeremiah, for anything Iknow. But the man I mean was very much given to taking his liquorfreely. '

'That was Jack Berdmore, Philip's brother. Oh yes, I remember him. He's dead now. He drank himself to death at last, out in India. '

'He was in the army?'

'Yes and what a pleasant fellow he was at times! I see Philconstantly, and Phil's wife, but they never speak of Jack. '

'He got married, didn't he, after we used to see him?'

Oh yes he and Phil married sisters. It was a sad affair, that. '

'I remember being with him and her and the sister too, after theywere engaged, and he got so drunk that we were obliged to take himaway. There was a large party of us at Richmond, but I don't thinkyou were there. '

'But I heard of it'

'And she was a Miss Vigo?'

'Exactly. I see the younger sister constantly. Phil isn't very rich, and he's got a lot of children but he's very happy. '

'What became of the other sister?

'Of Jack's wife?'

'Yes. What became of her?'

'I haven't an idea. Something bad, I suppose, as they never speak ofher. '

'And how long is he dead?'

'He died about three years since. I only knew it from Phil's tellingme that he was in mourning for him. Then he did speak of him for amoment or two, and I came to know that he had carried on to the endin the same way. If a fellow takes to drink in this country, he'llnever get cured in India. '

'I suppose not. '

'Never. '

'And now I want to find out something about his widow. '

'And why?'

'Ah I'm not sure that I can tell you why. Indeed I'm sure that Icannot. But still you might be able to assist me. '

'There were heaps of people who used to know the Vigos, ' said thelawyer. 

'No end of people though I couldn't for the life of me say who any ofthem were. '

'They used to come out in London with an aunt, but nobody knew muchabout her. I fancy they had neither father nor mother. '

'They were very pretty. '

'And how well they danced. I don't think I ever knew a girl whodanced so pleasantly giving herself no airs, you know as Mary Vigo. '

'Her name was Mary, ' said Belton, remembering that Mrs Askerton'sname was also Mary. 

'Jack Berdmore married Mary. '

'Well now, Joe, you must find out for me what became of her. Was shewith her husband when he died?'

'Nobody was with him. Phil told me so. No one, that is, but a younglieutenant and his own servant. It was very sad. He had D. T. , and allthat sort of thing. '

'And where was she?'

'At Jericho, for anything that I know. '

'Will you find out?' Then Mr Joseph Green thought for a moment of hiscapabilities in that line, and having made an engagement to dine withhis friend at his club on the evening before Will left London, saidat last that he thought he could find out through certain mutualfriends who had known the Berdmores in the old days. 'But the factis, ' said the lawyer, 'that the world is so good-natured instead ofbeing ill-natured, as people say that it always forgets those whowant to be forgotten. '

We must now go back for a few moments to Captain Aylmer and hisaffairs. Having given a full month to the consideration of hisposition as regarded Miss Amedroz, he made up his mind to two things. In the first place, he would at once pay over to her the money whichwas to be hers as her aunt's legacy, and then he would renew hisoffer. To that latter determination he was guided by mixed motives bymotives which, when joined together, rarely fail to be operative. Hisconscience told him that he ought to do so and then the fact of herhaving, as it were, taken herself away from him, made him again wishto possess her. And there was another cause which, perhaps, operatedin the same direction. He had consulted his mother, and she hadstrongly advised him to have nothing further to do with Miss Amedroz. Lady Aylmer abused her dead sister heartily for having interfered inthe matter, and endeavoured to prove to her son that he was releasedfrom his promise by having in fact performed it. But on this pointhis conscience interfered backed by his wishes and he made hisresolve as has been above stated. On leaving Mr Green's chambers hewent to his own lodgings, and wrote his letter as follows:

'Mount Street, December, 186--. 

'Dearest Clara, 'When you parted from me at Perivale you said certain things about ourengagement which I have come to understand better since then, than Idid at the time. It escaped from me that my dear aunt and I had hadsome conversation about you, and that I had told her what was myintention. Something was said about a promise, and I think it wasthat word which made you unhappy. At such a time as that when I andmy aunt were talking together, and when she was, as she well knew, onher deathbed, things will be said which would not be thought of inother circumstances. I can only assure you now, that the promise Igave her was a promise to do that which I had previously resolvedupon doing. If you can believe what I say on this head, that ought tobe sufficient to remove the feeling which induced you to break ourengagement. 

'I now write to renew my offer to you, and to assure you that I do sowith my whole heart. You will forgive me if I tell you that I cannotfail to remember, and always to bear in my mind, the sweet assuranceswhich you gave me of your regard for myself. As I do not know thatanything has occurred to alter your opinion of me, I write thisletter in strong hope that it may be successful. I believe that yourfear was in respect to my affection for you, not as to yours for me. If this was so, I can assure you that there is no necessity for suchfear. 

'I need not tell you that I shall expect your answer with greatanxiety. 

'Yours most affectionately, 'F. F. AYLMER. 

'P. S. I have today caused to be bought in your name Bank Stock to theamount of fifteen hundred pounds, the amount of the legacy coming toyou from my aunt. '

This letter, and that from Mr Green respecting the money, bothreached Clara on the same morning. Now, having learned so much as tothe position of affairs at Belton Castle, we may return to Will andhis dinner engagement with Mr Joseph Green. 

'And what have you heard about Mrs Berdmore?' Belton asked, almost assoon as the two men were together. 

'I wish I knew why you want to know. '

'I don't want to do anybody any harm. '

'Do you want to do anybody any good?'

'Any good! I can't say that I want to do any particular good. Thetruth is, I think I know where she is, and that she is living under afalse name. '

'Then you know more of her than I do. '

'I don't know anything. I'm only in doubt. But as the lady I meanlives near to friends of mine, I should like to know. '

'That you may expose her?'

'No by no means. But I hate the idea of deceit. The truth is, thatany one living anywhere under a false name should be exposed orshould be made to assume their right name. '

'I find that Mrs Berdmore left her husband some years before he died. There was nothing in that to create wonder, for he was a man withwhom a woman could hardly continue to live. But I fear she left himunder protection that was injurious to her character. 

'And how long ago is that?'

'I do not know. Some years before his death. '

'And how long ago did he die?'

'About three years since. My informant tells me that he believes shehas since married. Now you know all that I know. ' And Belton alsoknew that Mrs Askerton of the cottage was the Miss Vigo with whom hehad been acquainted in earlier years. 

After that they dined comfortably, and nothing passed between themwhich need be recorded as essential to our story till the time camefor them to part. Then, when they were both standing at the clubdoor, the lawyer said a word or two which is essential. 'So you'reoff tomorrow?' said he. 

'Yes; I shall go down by the express. '

'I wish you a pleasant journey. By the by, I ought to tell you thatyou won't have any trouble in being either father or mother, or uncleor aunt to Miss Amedroz. '

'Why not?'

'I suppose it's no secret. '

'What's no secret?

'She's going to be married to Captain Aylmer. '

Then Will Belton started so violently, and assumed on a sudden somanifest a look of anger, that his tale was at once told to Mr Green. 'Who says so?' he asked. 'I don't believe it. '

'I'm afraid it's true all the same, Will. '

'Who says it?'

'Captain Aylmer was with me today, and he told me. He ought to begood authority on such a subject. '

'He told you that he was going to marry Clara Amedroz?'

'Yes, indeed. '

'And what made him come to you, to tell you?'

'There was a question about some money which he had paid to her, andwhich, under existing circumstances, he thought it as well that heshould not pay. Matters of that kind are often necessarily told tolawyers. But I should not have told it to you, Will, if I had notthought that it was good news. '

'It is not good news, ' said Belton moodily. 

'At any rate, old fellow, my telling it will do no harm. You musthave learned it soon. ' And he put his hand kindly almost tenderly, onthe other's arm. But Belton moved himself away angrily. The wound hadbeen so lately inflicted that he could not as yet forgive the handthat had seemed to strike him. 

'I'm sorry that it should be so bad with you, Will. '

'What do you mean by bad? It is not bad with me. It is very well withme. Keep your pity for those who want it. ' Then he walked off byhimself across the broad street before the club door, leaving hisfriend without a word of farewell, and made his way up into St. James's Square, choosing, as was evident to Mr Green, the firststreet that would take him out of sight. 

'He's hit, and hit hard, ' said the lawyer, looking after him. 'Poorfellow! I might have guessed it from what he said. I never knew ofhis caring for any woman before. ' Then Mr Green put on his gloves andwent away home. 

We will now follow Will Belton into St. James's Square, and we shallfollow a very unhappy gentleman. Doubtless he had hitherto known andappreciated the fact that Miss Amedroz had refused his offer, and hadoften declared, both to himself and to his sister, his convictionthat that refusal would never be reversed. But, in spite of thatexpressed conviction, he had lived on hope. Till she belonged toanother man she might yet be his. He might win her at last byperseverance. At any rate he had it in his power to work towards thedesired end, and might find solace even in that working. And themisery of his loss would not be so great to him as he found himselfforced to confess to himself before he had completed his wanderingson this night in not having her for his own, as it would be inknowing that she had given herself to another man. He had often toldhimself that of course she would become the wife of some man, but hehad never yet realized to himself what it would be to know that shewas the wife of any one specified rival. He had been sad enough onthat moonlight night in the avenue at Plaistow when he had leanedagainst the tree, striking his hands together as he thought of hisgreat want; but his unhappiness then had been as nothing to his agonynow. Now it was all over and he knew the man who had supplanted him. 

How he hated him! With what an unchristian spirit did he regard thatworthy captain as he walked across St. James's Square, across JermynStreet, across Piccadilly, and up Bond Street, not knowing whither hewas going. He thought with an intense regret of the laws of modernsociety which forbid duelling forgetting altogether that even had theold law prevailed, the conduct of the man whom he so hated would haveafforded him no casus belli. But he was too far gone in misery andanimosity to be capable of any reason on the matter. Captain Aylmerhad interfered with his dearest wishes, and during this now passinghour he would willingly have crucified Captain Aylmer had it beenwithin his power to do so. Till he had gone beyond Oxford Street, andhad wandered away into the far distance of Portman Square and BakerStreet, he had not begun to think of any interest which Clara Amedrozmight have in the matter on which his thoughts were employed. He wassojourning at an hotel in Bond Street, and had gone thitherwards moreby habit than by thought; but he had passed the door of his inn, feeling it to be impossible to render himself up to his bed in hispresent disturbed mood. As he was passing the house in Bond Street hehad been intent on the destruction of Captain Aylmer and had almostdetermined that if Captain Aylmer could not be made to vanish intoeternity, he must make up his mind to go that road himself. 

It was out of the question that he should go down to Belton. As tothat he had come to a very decided opinion by the time that he hadcrossed Oxford Street. Go down to see her, when she had treated himafter this fashion I No, indeed. She wanted no brother now. She hadchosen to trust herself to this other man, and he, Will Belton, wouldnot interfere further in her affairs. Then he drew upon hisimagination for a picture of the future, in which he portrayedCaptain Aylmer as a ruined man, who would probably desert his wife, and make himself generally odious to all his acquaintance a pictureas to the realization of which I am bound to say that CaptainAylmer's antecedents gave no probability. But it was the looking atthis self-drawn picture which first softened the artist's hearttowards the victim whom he had immolated on his imaginary canvas. When Clara should be ruined by the baseness and villainy and generalscampishness of this man whom she was going to marry to whom she wasabout to be weak enough and fool enough to trust herself then hewould interpose and be her brother once again a broken-heartedbrother no doubt, but a brother efficacious to keep the wolf from thedoor of this poor woman and her children. Then, as he thus createdCaptain Aylmer's embryo family of unprovided orphans for after awhile he killed the captain, making him to die some death that wasvery disgraceful, but not very distinct even to his own imaginationas he thought of those coming pledges of a love which was to him sobitter, he stormed about the streets, performing antics of which noone would have believed him capable who had known him as the thrivingMr William Belton, of Plaistow Hall, among the fens of Norfolk. 

But the character of a man is not to be judged from the pictureswhich he may draw or from the antics which he may play in hissolitary hours. Those who act generally with the most consummatewisdom in the affairs of the world, often meditate very silly doingsbefore their wiser resolutions form themselves. I beg, therefore, that Mr Belton may be regarded and criticized in accordance with hisconduct on the following morning when his midnight rambles, whichfinally took him even beyond the New Road, had been followed by a fewtranquil hours in his Bond Street bedroom for at last he did bringhimself to return thither and put himself to bed after the usualfashion. He put himself to bed in a spirit somewhat tranquillized bythe exercise of the night, and at last wept himself to sleep like ababy. 

But he was by no means like a baby when he took him early on thefollowing morning to the Paddington Station, and booked himselfmanfully for Taunton. He had had time to recognize the fact that hehad no ground of quarrel with his cousin because she had preferredanother man to him. This had happened to him as he was recrossing theNew Road about two o'clock, and was beginning to find that his legswere weary under him. And, indeed, he had recognized one or twothings before he had gone to sleep with his tears dripping on to hispillow. In the first place, he had ill-treated Joe Green, and hadmade a fool of himself in his friend's presence. As Joe Green was asensible, kind-hearted fellow, this did not much signify;--but not onthat account did he omit to tell himself of his own fault. Then hediscovered that it would ill become him to break his word to MrAmedroz and to his daughter, and to do so without a word of excuse, because Clara had exercised a right which was indisputably her own. He had undertaken certain work at Belton which required his presence, and he would go down and do his work as though nothing had occurredto disturb him. To remain away because of this misfortune would be toshow the white feather. It would be unmanly. All this he recognizedas the pictures he had painted faded away from their canvases. As toCaptain Aylmer himself, he hoped that he might never be called uponto meet him. He still hoped that, even as he was resolutely cramminghis shirts into his portmanteau before he began his journey. HisCousin Clara he thought he could meet, and tender to her someexpression of good wishes as to her future life, without giving wayunder the effort. And to the old squire he could endeavour to makehimself pleasant, speaking of the relief from all trouble which thismarriage with Captain Aylmer would afford for now, in his coolermoments, he could perceive that Captain Aylmer was not a man apt toruin himself, or his wife and children. But to Captain Aylmerhimself, he could not bring himself to say pleasant things or toexpress pleasant wishes. She who was to be Captain Aylmer's wife, wholoved him, would of course have told him what had occurred up amongthe rocks in Belton Park; and if that was so, any meeting betweenWill and Captain Aylmer would be death to the former. 

Thinking of all this he journeyed down to Taunton, and thinking ofall this he made his way from Taunton across to Belton Park. 

CHAPTER XV

EVIL WORDS

Clara Amedroz had received her two letters together that, namely, from the attorney, and that from Captain Aylmer and the result ofthose letters is already known. She accepted her lover's renewedoffer of marriage, acknowledging the force of his logic, and puttingfaith in the strength of his assurances. This she did without seekingadvice from any one. Who was there from whom she could seek advice onsuch a matter as that who, at least, was there at Belton? That herfather would, as a matter of course, bid her accept Captain Aylmer, was, she thought, certain; and she knew well that Mrs Askerton woulddo the same. She asked no counsel from any one, but taking the twoletters up to her own room, sat down to consider them. That whichreferred to her aunt's money, together with the postscript in CaptainAylmer's letter on the same subject, would be of the least possiblemoment if she could bring herself to give a favourable answer to theother proposition. But should she not be able to do this should shehesitate as to doing so at once then she must write to the lawyer invery strong terms, refusing altogether to have anything to do withthe money. And in such a case as this, not a word could she say toher father either on one subject or on the other. 

But why should she not accept the offer made to her? Captain Aylmerdeclared that he had determined to ask her to be his wife before hehad made any promise to Mrs Winterfield. If this were in truth so, then the very ground on which she had separated herself from himwould be removed. Why should she hesitate in acknowledging to herselfthat she loved the man and believed him to be true? So she satherself down and answered both the letters writing to the lawyerfirst. To him she said that nothing need be done about the money orthe interest till he should see or hear from Captain Aylmer again. Then to Captain Aylmer she wrote very shortly, but very openly withthe same ill-judged candour which her spoken words to him haddisplayed. Of course she would be his; his without hesitation, nowthat she knew that he expressed his own wishes, and not merely thoseof his aunt. 'As to the money, ' she said, 'it would be simplynonsense now for us to have any talk of money. It is yours in anyway, and you had better manage about it as you please. I have writtenan ambiguous letter to Mr Green, which will simply plague him, andwhich you may go and see if you like. ' Then she added her postscript, in which she said that she should now at once tell her father, as thenews would remove from his mind all solicitude as to her futureposition. That Captain Aylmer did go to Mr Green we already know, andwe know also that he told Mr Green of his intended marriage. 

Nothing was said by Captain Aylmer as to any proposed period fortheir marriage; but that was only natural. It was not probable thatany man would name a day till he knew whether or not he was accepted. Indeed, Clara, on thinking over the whole affair, was now disposed tofind fault rather with herself than with her lover, and forgettinghis coldness and formality at Perivale, remembered only the fact ofhis offer to her, and his assurance now received that he had intendedto make it before the scene which had taken place between him and hisaunt. She did find fault with herself, telling herself that shehad quarrelled with him without sufficient cause and the eagerloving candour of her letter to him was attributable to thoseself-accusations. 

'Papa, ' she said, after the postman had gone away from Belton, sothat there might be no possibility of any recall of her letter, 'Ihave something to tell you which I hope will give you pleasure. '

'It isn't often that I hear anything of that kind, ' said he. 

'But I think that this will give you pleasure. I do indeed. I amgoing to be married. '

'Going to what?'

'Going to be married, papa. That is, if I have your leave. Of courseany offer of that kind that I have accepted is subject to yourapproval. '

'And I have been told nothing about it!'

'It began at Perivale, and I could not tell you then. You do not askme who is to be my husband. '

'It is not Will Belton?'

'Poor Will! No; it is not Will. It is Frederic Aylmer. I think youwould prefer him as a son-in-law even to my Cousin Will. '

'No I shouldn't. Why should I prefer a man whom I don't even know, who lives in London, and who will take you away, so that I shallnever see you again?'

'Dear papa;--don't speak of it in that way. I thought you would be gladto know that I was to be so--so--so happy. '

'But why is it to be done this way, --of a sudden? Why didn't he come tome? Will came to me the very first thing. '

'He couldn't come all the way to Belton very well particularly as hedoes not know you. '

'Will came here. '

'Oh, papa, don't make difficulties. Of course that was different. Hewas here when he first thought of it. And even then he didn't thinkvery much about it. '

'He did all that he could, I suppose?'

'Well yes. I don't know how that might be. ' And Clara almost laughedas she felt the difficulties into which she was creeping. 'Dear Will. He is much better as a cousin than as a husband. '

'I don't see that at all. Captain Aylmer will not have the Beltonestate or Plaistow Hall. '

'Surely he is well enough off to take care of a wife. He will havethe whole of the Perivale estate, you know. '

'I don't know anything about it. According to my ideas of what isproper he should have spoken to me first. If he could not come hemight have written. No doubt my ideas may be old-fashioned, and I'mtold that Captain Aylmer is a fashionable young man. '

'Indeed he is not, papa. He is a hard-working Member of Parliament. '

'I don't know that he is any better for that. People seem to thinkthat if a man is a Member of Parliament he may do what he pleases. There is Thompson, the Member for Minehead, who has bought some sortof place out by the moors. I never saw so vulgar, pigheaded a fellowin my life. Being in Parliament used to be something when I wasyoung, but it won't make a man a gentleman now-a-days. It seems to methat none but brewers, and tallow-chandlers, and lawyers go intoParliament now. Will Belton could go into Parliament if he pleased, but he knows better than that. He won't make himself such a fool. '

This was not comfortable to Clara; but she knew her father, andallowed him to go on with his grumbling. He would come round bydegrees, and he would appreciate, if he could not be induced toacknowledge, the wisdom of the step she was about to take. 

'When is it to be?' he asked. 

'Nothing of that kind has ever been mentioned, papa. '

'It had better be soon, if I am to have anything to do with it. ' Nowit was certainly the case that the old man was very ill. He had notbeen out of the house since Clara had returned home; and, though hewas always grumbling about his food, he could hardly be induced toeat anything when the morsels for which he expressed a wish were gotfor him. 

'Of course you will be consulted, papa, before anything is settled. '

'I don't want to be in anybody's way, my dear. '

'And may I tell Frederic that you have given your consent?

'What's the use of my consenting or not consenting? If you had beenanxious to oblige me you would have taken your Cousin Will. '

'Oh, papa, how could I accept a man I didn't love?'

'You seemed to me to be very fond of him at first; and I must say, Ithought he was ill-treated. '

'Papa, papa; do not say such things as that to me!'

'What am I to do? You tell me, and I can't altogether hold mytongue. ' Then there was a pause. 'Well, my dear, as for my consent, of course you may have it if it's worth anything. I don't know that Iever heard anything bad about Captain Aylmer. '

He had heard nothing bad about Captain Aylmer! Clara, as she left herfather, felt that this was very grievous. Whatever cause she mighthave had for discontent with her lover, she could not but be awarethat he was a man whom any father might be proud to welcome as asuitor for his daughter. He was a man as to whom no ill tales hadever been told who had never been known to do anything wrong orimprudent; who had always been more than respectable, and as to whoseworldly position no exception could be taken. She had been entitledto expect her father's warmest congratulations, and her tidings hadbeen received as though she had proposed to give her hand to onewhose character and position only just made it not imperative on thefather to withhold his consent! All this was hard, and feeling it tobe so, she went upstairs, all alone, and cried bitterly as shethought of it. 

On the next day she went down to the cottage and saw Mrs Askerton. She went there with the express purpose of telling her friend of herengagement desirous of obtaining in that quarter the sympathy whichher father declined to give her. Had her communication to him beenaccepted in a different spirit, she might probably have kept hersecret from Mrs Askerton till something further had been fixed abouther marriage; but she was in want of a few kind words, and pined forsome of that encouragement which ladies in love usually wish toreceive, at any rate from some one chosen friend. But when she foundherself alone with Mrs Askerton she hardly knew how to tell her news;and at first could not tell it at all, as that lady was eager inspeaking on another subject. 

'When do you expect your cousin?' Mrs Askerton asked, almost as soonas Clara was seated. 

'The day after tomorrow. '

'And he is in London now?'

'He may be. I dare say he is. But I don't know anything about it. '

'I can tell you then that he is. Colonel Askerton has heard of hisbeing there. '

'You seem to speak of it as though there were some offence in it. Isthere any reason why he should not be in London if he pleases?'

'None in the least. I would much rather that he should be there thanhere. '

'Why so? Will his coming hurt you?'

'I don't like him. I don't like him at all and now you know thetruth. You believe in him I don't. You think him to be a fine fellowand a gentleman, whereas I don't think him to be either. '

'Mrs Askerton!'

'This is strong language, I know. '

'Very strong language. '

'Yes, my dear; but the truth is, Clara, that you and I, livingtogether here this sort of hermit's life, each seeing so much of theother and seeing nothing of anybody else, must either be realfriends, telling each other what we think, or we must be nothing. Wecan't go on with the ordinary make-believes of society, sayinglittle civil speeches and not going beyond them. Therefore I havemade up my mind to tell you in plain language that I don't like yourcousin, and don't believe in him. '

'I don't know what you mean by believing in a man. '

'I believe in you. Sometimes I have thought that you believe in me, and sometimes I have feared that you do not. I think that you aregood, and honest, and true; and therefore I like to see your face andhear your voice though it is not often that you say very pleasantthings to me. '

'Do I say unpleasant things?'

'I am not going to quarrel with you not if I can help it. Whatbusiness has Mr Belton to go about London making inquiries as to me?What have I done to him, that he should honour me so far?'

'Has he made inquiries?'

'Yes; he has. If you have been contented with me as I am if you aresatisfied, why should he want to learn more? If you have any questionto ask me I will answer it. But what right can he have to be askingquestions among strangers?'

Clara had no question to ask, and yet she could not say that she wassatisfied. She would have been better satisfied to have known more ofMrs Askerton, but yet she had never condescended to make inquiriesabout her friend. But her curiosity was now greatly raised; and, indeed, Mrs Askerton's manner was so strange, her vehemence sounusual, and her eagerness to rush into dangerous subjects so unlikeher usual tranquillity in conversation, that Clara did not know howto answer her. 

'I know nothing of any questioning, ' she said. 

'I am sure you don't. Had I thought you did, much as I love youvaluable as your society is to me down in this desert I would neverspeak to you again. But remember if you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me of me I will answer them, and will not beangry. '

'But I don't want to ask any questions. '

'You may some day; and then you can remember what I say. '

'And am I to understand that you are determined to quarrel with myCousin Will?'

'Quarrel with him! I don't suppose that I shall see him. After what Ihave said it is not probable that you will bring him here, and theservant will have orders to say that I am not at home if he shouldcall. Luckily he and Colonel Askerton did not meet when he was herebefore. '

'This is the most strange thing I ever heard in my life. '

'You will understand it better, my dear, when he makes hiscommunication to you. '

'What communication?'

'You'll find that he'll have a communication to make. He has been sodiligent and so sharp that he'll have a great deal to tell, I do notdoubt. Only, remember, Clara, that if anything that he tells youmakes any difference in your feelings towards me, I shall expect youto come to me and say so openly. If he makes his statement, let memake mine. I have a right to ask for that, after what I havepromised. '

'You may be sure that I will. '

'I want nothing more. I have no distrust in you none in the least. Itell you that I believe in you. If you will do that, and will keep MrWilliam Belton out of my way during his visit to these parts, I shallbe satisfied. ' For some time past Mrs Askerton had been walking aboutthe room, but, as she now finished speaking, she sat herself down asthough the subject was fully discussed and completed. For a minute ortwo she made an effort to resume her usual tranquillity of manner, and in doing so attempted to smile, as though ridiculing her ownenergy. 'I knew I should make a fool of myself when you came, ' shesaid; and now I have done it. '

'I don't think you have been a fool at all, but you may have beenmistaken. '

'Very well, my dear, we shall see. It's very odd what a dislike Itook to that man the first time I saw him. '

'And I am so fond of him!'

'Yes; he has cozened you as he has your father. I am only glad thathe did not succeed in cozening you further than he did. But I oughtto have known you bettor than to suppose you could give your heart ofhearts to one who is--'

'Do not abuse him any more. '

'--Who is so very unlike the sort of people with whom you have lived. Imay, at any rate, say that. '

'I don't know that. I haven't lived much with any one yet--exceptpapa, and my aunt, and you. '

'But you know a gentleman when you see him. '

'Come, Mrs Askerton, I will not stand this. I thought you had donewith the subject, and now you begin again. I had come here on purposeto tell you something of real importance that is, to me; but I mustgo away without telling you, unless you will give over abusing mycousin. '

'I will not say a word more about him not at present. '

'I feel so sure that you are mistaken, you know. '

'Very well;--and I feel sure that you are mistaken. We will leave itso, and go to this matter of importance. ' But Clara felt it to bevery difficult to tell her tidings after such a conversation as thatwhich had just occurred. When she had entered the room her mind hadbeen tuned to the subject, and she could have found fitting wordswithout much difficulty to herself; but now her thoughts had beenscattered and her feelings hurt, and she did not know how to bringherself back to the subject of her engagement. She paused, therefore, and sat with a doubtful, hesitating look, meditating some mode ofescape. 'I am all ears, ' said Mrs Askerton; and Clara thought thatshe discovered something of ridicule or of sarcasm in the tone of herfriend's voice. 

'I believe I'll put it off till another day, ' she said. 

'Why so? You don't think that anything really important to you willnot be important to me also?'

'I'm sure of that, but somehow--'

'You mean to say that I have ruffled you?'

'Well perhaps; a little. '

'Then be unruffled again, like my own dear, honest Clara. I have beenruffled too, but I'll be as tranquil now as a drawing-room cat. ' ThenMrs Askerton got up from her chair, and seated herself by Clara'sside on the sofa. 'Come; you can't go till you've told me; and if youhesitate, I shall think that you mean to quarrel with me. '

'I'll come to you tomorrow. '

'No, no; you shall tell me today. All tomorrow you'll be preparingfor your cousin. '

'What nonsense!'

'Or else you'll come prepared to vindicate him, and then we shan'tget on any further. Tell me what it is today. You can't leave me incuriosity after what you have said. '

'You've heard of Captain Aylmer, I think. '

'Of course I've heard of him. '

'But you've never seen him?'

'You know I never have. '

'I told you that he was at Perivale when Mrs Winterfield died. '

'And now he has proposed, and you are going to accept him? That willindeed be important. Is it so?--say. But don't I know it is so? Whydon't you speak?'

'If you know it, why need I speak?'

'But it is so? Oh, Clara, I am so glad. I congratulate you with allmy heart with all my heart. My dearest, dearest Clara! What a happyarrangement! What a success! It is just as it should be. Dear, goodman! to come forward in that sensible way, and put an end to all thelittle family difficulties!'

'I don't know so much about success. Who is it that is successful?'

'You, to be sure. '

'Then by the same measurement he must be unsuccessful. '

'Don't be a fool, Clara. '

'Of course I have been successful if I've got a man that I can loveas my husband. '

'Now, my dear, don't be a fool. Of course all that is between you andhim, and I don't in the least doubt that it is all as it should be. If Captain Aylmer had been the elder brother instead of the younger, and had all the Aylmer estates instead of the Perivale property, Iknow you would not accept him if you did not like him. '

'I hope not. '

'I am sure you would not. But when a girl with nothing a year hasmanaged to love a man with two or three thousand a year, and hasmanaged to be loved by him in return instead of going through thesame process with the curate or village doctor it is a success, andher friend will always think so. And when a girl marries a gentleman, and a Member of Parliament, instead of well, I'm not going to sayanything personal her friends will congratulate her upon hisposition. It may be very wicked, and mercenary, and all that; butit's the way of the world. '

'I hate hearing about the world. '

'Yes, my dear; all proper young ladies like you do hate it. But Iobserve that such girls as you never offend its prejudices. You can'tbut know that you would have done a wicked as well as a foolish thingto marry a man without an adequate income. '

'But I needn't marry at all. '

'And what would you live on then? Come Clara, we needn't quarrelabout that. I've no doubt he's charming, and beautiful, and--'

'He isn't beautiful at all; and as for charming--'

'He has charmed you at any rate. '

'He has made me believe that I can trust him without doubt, and lovehim without fear. '

'An excellent man! And the income will be an additional comfort;you'll allow that?'

'I'll allow nothing. '

'And when is it to be?'

'Oh, --perhaps in six or seven years. '

'Clara!'

'Perhaps sooner; but there's been no word said about time. '

'Is not Mr Amedroz delighted?'

'Not a bit. He quite scolded me when I told him. '

'Why what did he want?'

'You know papa. '

'I know he scolds at everything, but I shouldn't have thought hewould have scolded at that. And when does he come here?'

'Who come here?'

'Captain Aylmer. '

'I don't know that he is coming at all. '

'He must come to be married. '

'All that is in the clouds as yet. I did not like to tell you, butyou mustn't suppose that because I've told you, everything issettled. Nothing is settled. '

'Nothing except the one thing?'

'Nothing else. '

It was more than an hour after that before Clara went away, and whenshe did so she was surprised to find that she was followed out of thehouse by Colonel Askerton. It was quite dusk at this time, the daysbeing just at their shortest, and Colonel Askerton, according to hiscustom, would have been riding, or returning from his ride. Clara hadbeen over two hours at the cottage, and had been aware when shereached it that he had not as yet gone out. It appeared now that hehad not ridden at all, and, as she remembered to have seen his horseled before the window, it at once occurred to her that he hadremained at home with the view of catching her as she went away. Hecame up to her just as she was passing through the gate, and offeredher his right hand as he raised his hat with his left. It sometimeshappens to all of us in life that we become acquainted with personsintimately that is, with an assumed intimacy whom in truth we do notknow at all. We meet such persons frequently, often eating anddrinking in their company, being familiar with their appearance, andwell-informed generally as to their concerns; but we never findourselves holding special conversations with them, or in any wayfitting the modes of our life to the modes of their life. Accidenthas brought us together, and in one sense they are our friends. Weshould probably do any little kindness for them, or expect the samefrom them; but there is nothing in common between us, and there isgenerally a mutual though unexpressed agreement that there shall benothing in common. Miss Amedroz was intimately acquainted withColonel Askerton after this fashion. She saw him very frequently, andhis name was often on her tongue; but she rarely, if ever, conversedwith him, and knew of his habits only from his wife's wordsrespecting them. When, therefore, he followed her through the gardengate into the park, she was driven to suppose that he had somethingspecial to say to her. 

'I'm afraid you'll have a dark walk, Miss Amedroz, ' he said. 

'It's only just across the park, and I know the way so well. '

'Yes of course. I saw you coming out, and as I want to say a word ortwo, I have ventured to follow you. When Mr Belton was down here Idid not have the pleasure of meeting him. '

'I remember that you missed each other. '

'Yes, we did. I understand from my wife that he will be here again ina day or two. '

'He will be with us the day after tomorrow. '

'I hope you will excuse my saying that it will be very desirable thatwe should miss each other again. ' Clara felt that her face became redwith anger as she listened to Colonel Askerton's words. He spokeslowly, as was his custom, and without any of that violence ofexpression which his wife had used; but on that very account therewas more, if possible, of meaning in his words than in hers. WilliamBelton was her cousin, and such a speech as that which ColonelAskerton had made, spoken with deliberation and unaccompanied by anyprevious explanation, seemed to her almost to amount to insult. Butas she did not know how to answer him at the spur of the moment, sheremained silent. Then he continued, 'You may be sure, Miss Amedroz, that I should not make so strange a request to you if I had not goodreason for making it. '

'I think it a very strange request. '

'And nothing but a strong conviction of its propriety on my partwould have induced me to make it. '

'If you do not want to see my cousin, why cannot you avoid himwithout saying anything to me on the subject?'

'Because you would not then have understood as thoroughly as I wishyou to do why I kept out of his way. For my wife's sake and foryours, if you will allow me to say so I do not wish to come to anyopen quarrel with him; but if we met, a quarrel would, I think, beinevitable. Mary has probably explained to you the nature of hisoffence against us?'

'Mrs Askerton has told me something as to which I am quite sure thatshe is mistaken. '

'I will say nothing about that, as I have no wish at all to set youagainst your cousin. I will bid you good-night now as you are closeat home. ' Then he turned round and left her. 

Clara, as she thought of all this, could not but call to mind hercousin's remembrances about Miss Vigo and Mr Berdmore. What if hemade some inquiry as to the correctness of his old recollections?Nothing, she thought, could be more natural. And then she reflectedthat, in the ordinary way of the world, persons feel none of thatviolent objection to the asking of questions about their antecedentswhich was now evinced by both Colonel and Mrs Askerton. But of onething she felt quite assured that her cousin, Will Belton, would makeno inquiry which he ought not to make; and would make no improper useof any information which he might obtain. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE HEIR'S SECOND VISIT TO BELTON

Clara began to doubt whether any possible arrangement of thecircumstances of her life could be regarded as fortunate. She wasvery fond, in a different degree and after a different fashion, ofboth Captain Aylmer and Mr Belton. As regarded both, her position wasnow exactly what she herself would have wished. The man that sheloved was betrothed to her, and the other man, whom she loved indeedalso as a brother, was coming to her in that guise, --with theunderstanding that that was to be his position. And yet everythingwas going wrong! Her father, though he did not actually say anythingagainst Captain Aylmer, showed by a hundred little signs, of which hewas a skilful master, that the Aylmer alliance was distasteful tohim, and that he thought himself to be aggrieved in that his daughterwould not marry her cousin; whereas, over at the cottage, there was astill more bitter feeling against Mr Belton, --a feeling so bitter, thatit almost induced Clara to wish that her cousin was not coming tothem. 

But the cousin did come, and was driven up to the door in the gigfrom Taunton, just as had been the case on his previous visit. Then, however, he had come in the full daylight, and the hay-carts had beenabout, and all the prettiness and warmth of summer had been there;now it was mid-winter, and there had been some slight beginnings ofsnow, and the wind was moaning about the old tower, and the outsideof the house looked very unpleasant from the hall-door. As it hadbecome dusk in the afternoon, the old squire had been very careful inhis orders as to preparations for Will's comfort, --as though Clarawould have forgotten all those things in the preoccupation of hermind, caused by the constancy of her thoughts towards Will's rival. He even went so far as to creep across the upstairs landing-place tosee that the fire was lighted in Will's room, this being the firsttime that he had left his chamber for many days and bad given specialorders as to the food which was to be prepared for Will's dinner in avery different spirit from that which had dictated some former orderswhen Will was about to make his first visit, and when his coming hadbeen regarded by the old man as a heartless, indelicate, and almosthostile proceeding. 

'I wish I could go down to receive him, ' said Mr Amedroz, plaintively. 'I hope he won't take it amiss. '

'You may be sure he won't do that. '

'Perhaps I can tomorrow. '

'Dear papa, you had better not think of it till the weather ismilder. '

'Milder! how is it to get milder at this time of the year?'

'Of course he'll come up to you, papa. '

'He's very good. I know he's very good. No one also would do asmuch. '

Clara understood accurately what all this meant. Of course she wasglad that her father should feel so kindly towards her cousin, andthink so much of his coming; but every word said by the old man inpraise of Will Belton implied an equal amount of dispraise asregarded Captain Aylmer, and contained a reproach against hisdaughter for having refused the former and accepted the latter. 

Clara was in the hall when Belton arrived, and received him as heentered, enveloped in his damp great-coats. 'It is so good of you tocome in such weather, ' she said. 

'Nice seasonable weather, I call it, ' he said. It was the samecomfortable, hearty, satisfactory voice which had done so muchtowards making his way for him on his first arrival at Belton CastleThe voices to which Clara was most accustomed were querulous asthough the world had been found by the owners of them to be but a badplace. But Belton's voice seemed to speak of cheery days and happyfriends, and a general state of things which made life worth having. Nevertheless, forty-eight hours had not yet passed over his headsince he was walking about London in such misery that he had almostcursed the hour in which he was born. His misery still remained withhim, as black now as it had been then; and yet his voice was cheery. The sick birds, we are told, creep into holes, that they may diealone and unnoticed; and the wounded beasts hide themselves thattheir grief may not be seen of their fellows. A man has the sameinstinct to conceal the weakness of his sufferings; but, if he be aman, he hides it in his own heart, keeping it for solitude and thewatches of the night, while to the outer world he carries a face onwhich his care has made no marks. 

'You will be sorry to hear that papa is too ill to come downstairs. '

'Is he, indeed? I am truly sorry. I had heard he was ill; but did notknow he was so ill as that. '

'Perhaps he fancies himself weaker than he is. '

'We must try and cure him of that. I can see him, I hope?'

'Oh dear, yes. He is most anxious for you to go to him. As soon asever you can come upstairs I will take you. ' He had already strippedhimself of his wrappings, and declaring himself ready, at oncefollowed Clara to the squire's room. 

'I'm sorry, sir, to find you in this way, ' he said. 

'I'm very poorly, Will very, ' said the squire, putting out his handas though he were barely able to lift it above his knee. Now itcertainly was the fact that half an hour before he had been walkingacross the passage. 

'We must see if we can't soon make you better among us, ' said Will. 

The squire shook his head with a slow, melancholy movement, notraising his eyes from the ground. 'I don't think you'll ever see memuch better, Will, ' he said. And yet half an hour since he had beentalking of being down in the dining-room on the next day. 'I shan'ttrouble you much longer, ' said the squire. 'You'll soon have it allwithout paying rent for it. '

This was very unpleasant, and almost frustrated Belton's attempts tobe cheery. But he persevered nevertheless. 'It'll be a long time yetbefore that day comes, sir. '

'Ah; that's easily said. But never mind. Why should I want to remainwhen I shall have once seen her properly settled. I've nothing tolive for except that she may have a home. '

On this subject it was quite impossible that Belton should sayanything. Clara was standing by him, and she, as he knew, was engagedto Captain Aylmer. So circumstanced, what could he say as to Clara'ssettlement in life? That something should be said between him and theold man, and something also between him and Clara, was a matter ofcourse; but it was quite out of the question that he should discussClara's prospects in life in presence of them both together. 

'Papa's illness makes him a little melancholy, ' said Clara. 

'Of course of course. It always does, ' said Will. 

'I think he will be better when the weather becomes milder, ' saidClara. 

'I suppose I may be allowed to know how I feel myself, ' said thesquire. 'But don't keep Will up here when he wants his dinner. There;that'll do. You'd better leave me now. ' Then Will went out to his oldroom, and a quarter of an hour afterwards he found himself seatedwith Clara at the dinner-table; and a quarter of an hour after thatthe dinner was over, and they had both drawn their chairs to thefire. 

Neither of them knew how to begin with the other. Clara was under noobligation to declare her engagement to her cousin, but yet she feltthat it would be unhandsome in her not to do so. Had Will never madethe mistake of wanting to marry her himself, she would have done soas a matter of course. Had she supposed him to cherish any intentionof renewing that mistake she would have felt herself bound to tellhim so that he might save himself from unnecessary pain. But she gavehim credit for no such intention, and yet she could not but rememberthat scene among the rocks. And then was she, or was she not, to sayanything to him about the Askertons? With him also the difficulty wasas great. He did not in truth believe that the tidings which he hadheard from his friend the lawyer required corroboration; but yet itwas necessary that he should know from herself that she had disposedof her hand and it was necessary also that he should say some word toher as to their future standing and friendship. 

'You must be very anxious to see how your farm goes on, ' said she. 

He had not thought much of his agricultural venture at Belton for thelast three or four days, and would hardly have been vexed had he beentold that every head of cattle about the place had died of themurrain. Some general idea of the expediency of going on with a thingwhich he had commenced still actuated him; but it was the principleinvolved, and not the speculation itself, which interested him. Buthe could not explain all this, and he therefore was driven to somecold agreement with her. 'The farm! you mean the stock. Yes; I shallgo and have a look at them early tomorrow. I suppose they're allalive. '

'Pudge says that they are doing uncommonly well. ' Pudge was a leadingman among the Belton labourers, whom Will had hired to look after hisconcerns. 

'That's all right. I dare say Pudge knows quite as much about it as Ido. '

'But the master's eye is everything. '

'Pudge's eye is quite as good as mine; and probably much better, ashe knows the country. '

'You used to say that it was everything for a man to look after hisown interests. '

'And I do look after them. Pudge and I will go and have a look atevery beast tomorrow, and I shall look very wise and pretend to knowmore about it than he does. In stock-farming the chief thing is notto have too many beasts. They used to say that half-stocking waswhole profit, and whole-stocking was half profit. If the animalshave plenty to eat, and the rent isn't too high, they'll take careof their owner. '

'But then there is so much illness. '

'I always insure. '

Clara perceived that the subject of the cattle didn't suit thepresent occasion. When he had before been at Belton he had likednothing so much as talking about the cattle-sheds, and the land, andthe kind of animals which would suit the place; but now the noveltyof the thing was gone and the farmer did not wish to talk of hisfarm. In her anxiety to find a topic which would not be painful, shewent from the cattle to the cow. 'You can't think what a pet Bess hasbeen with us. And she seems to think that she is privileged to goeverywhere, and do anything. '

'I hope they have taken care that she has had winter food. '

'Winter food! Why Pudge, and all the Pudges, and all the family inthe house, and all your cattle would have to want, before Bessy wouldbe allowed to miss a meal. Pudge always says, with his sententiousshake of the head, that the young squire was very particular aboutBessy. '

'Those Alderneys want a little care that's all. '

Bessy was of no better service to Clara in her present difficultythan the less aristocratic herd of common cattle. There was a pausefor a moment, and then she began again. 'How did you leave yoursister, Will?'

'Much the same as usual. I think she has borne the first of the coldweather better than she did last year. '

'I do so wish that I knew her. '

'Perhaps you will some day. But I don't suppose that you ever will. '

'Why not?'

'It's not likely that you'll ever come to Plaistow now and Mary neverleaves it except to go to my uncle's. '

Clara instantly knew that he had heard of her engagement, though shecould not imagine from what source he had heard it. There wassomething in the tone of his voice something especially in theexpression of that word 'now', which told her that it must be so. 'Ishould be so glad to go there if I could, ' she said, with thatspecial hypocrisy which belongs to women, and is allowed to them;'but, of course, I cannot leave papa in his present state. '

'And if you did leave him you would not go to Plaistow. '

'Not unless you and Mary asked me. '

'And you wouldn't if we did. How could you?'

'What do you mean, Will? It seems as though you were almost savage tome. '

'Am I? Well I feel savage, but not to you. '

'Nor to any one, I hope, belonging to me. ' She knew that it was allcoming; that the whole subject of her future life must now bediscussed; and she began to fear that the discussion might not beeasy. But she did not know how to give it a direction. She fearedthat he would become angry, and yet she knew not why. He had acceptedhis own rejection tranquilly, and could hardly take it as an offencethat she should now be engaged to Captain Aylmer. 

'Mr Green has told me', said he, 'that you are going to be married. '

'How could Mr Green have known?'

'He did know at least I suppose he knew, for he told me. '

'How very odd. '

'I suppose it is true?' Clara did not make any immediate answer, andthen he repeated the question. 'I suppose it is true?'

'It is true that I am engaged. '

'To Captain Aylmer?'

'Yes; to Captain Aylmer. You know that I had known him very long. Ihope that you are not angry with me because I did not write and tellyou. Strange as it may seem, seeing that you had heard it already, itis not a week yet since it was settled; and had I written to you, Icould only have addressed my letter to you here. '

'I wasn't thinking about that. I didn't specially want you to writeto me. What difference would it make?'

'But I should have felt that I owed it to your kindness and yourregard for me. '

'My regard! What's the use of regard?'

'You are not going to quarrel with me, Will, because--because--because--. If you had really been my brother, as you once said you would be, youcould not but have approved of what I have done. '

'But I am not your brother. '

'Oh, Will; that sounds so cruel!'

'I am not your brother, and I have no right to approve ordisapprove. '

'I will not say that I could make my engagement with Captain Aylmerdependent on your approval. It would not be fair to him to do so, andit would put me into a false position. '

'Have I asked you to make any such absurd sacrifice?'

'Listen to me, Will. I say that I could not do that. But, short ofthat, there is nothing I would not do to satisfy you. I think so muchof your judgment and goodness, and so very much of your affection; Ilove you so dearly, that Oh, Will, say a kind word to me!'

'A kind word; yes, but what sort of kindness?'

'You must know that Captain Aylmer'

'Don't talk to me of Captain Aylmer. Have I said anything againsthim? Have I ventured to make any objection? Of course, I know hissuperiority to myself. I know that he is a man of the world, and thatI am not; that he is educated, and that I am ignorant; that he has aposition, and that I have none; that he has much to offer, and that Ihave nothing. Of course, I see the difference; but that does not makeme comfortable. '

'Will, I had learned to love him before I had ever seen you. '

'Why didn't you tell me so, that I might have known there was nohope, and have gone away utterly out of the kingdom? If it was allsettled then, why didn't you tell me, and save me from breaking myheart with false hopes?'

'Nothing was settled then. I hardly knew my own mind; but yet I lovedhim. There; cannot you understand it? Have I not told you enough?'

'Yes, I understand it. '

'And do you blame me?'

He paused awhile before he answered her. 'No; I do not blame you. Isuppose I must blame no one but myself. But you should bear with me. I was so happy, and now I am so wretched. '

There was nothing that she could say to comfort him. She hadaltogether mistaken the nature of the man's regard, and had evenmistaken the very nature of the man. So much she now learned, andcould tell herself that had she known him better she would eitherhave prevented this second visit, or would have been careful that heshould have learned the truth from herself before he came. Now shecould only wait till he should again have got strength to hide hissuffering under the veil of his own manliness. 

'I have not a word to say against what you are doing, ' he said atlast; 'not a word. But you will understand what I mean when I tellyou that it is not likely that you will come to Plaistow. '

'Some day, Will, when you have a wife of your own--'

'Very well; but we won't talk about that at present, if you please. When I have, things will be different. In the meantime your courseand mine will be separate. You, I suppose, will be with him inLondon, while I shall be, --at the devil as likely as not. '

'How can you speak to me in that way? Is that like being my brother?'

'I don't feel like being your brother. However, I beg your pardon, and now we will have done with it. Spilt milk can't be helped, and mymilk pans have got themselves knocked over. That's all. Don't youthink we ought to go up to your father again?'

On the following day Belton and Mr Amedroz discussed the samesubject, but the conversation went off very quietly. Will wasdetermined not to exhibit his weakness before the father as he haddone before the daughter. When the squire, with a maundering voice, drawled out some expression of regret that his daughter's choice hadnot fallen in another place, Will was able to say that bygones mustbe bygones. He regretted it also, but that was now over. And when thesquire endeavoured to say a few ill-natured words about CaptainAylmer, Will stopped him at once by asserting that the captain wasall that he ought to be. 

'And it would have made me so happy to think that my daughter's childshould come to live in his grandfather's old house, ' murmured MrAmedroz. 

'And there's no knowing that he mayn't do so yet, ' said Will. 'Butall these things are so doubtful that a man is wrong to fix hishappiness upon them. ' After that he went out to ramble about, theplace, and before the third day was over Clara was able to perceivethat, in spite of what he had said, he was as busy about the cattleas though his bread depended on them. 

Nothing had been said as yet about the Askertons, and Clara hadresolved that their name should not first be mentioned by her. MrsAskerton had prophesied that Will would have some communication tomake about herself, and Clara would at any rate see whether hercousin would, of his own accord, introduce the subject. But threedays passed by, and he had made no allusion to the cottage or itsinhabitants. This in itself was singular, as the Askertons were theonly local friends whom Clara knew, and as Belton had becomepersonally acquainted with Mrs Askerton. But such was the case; andwhen Mr Amedroz once said something about Mrs Askerton in thepresence of both Clara and Belton, they both of them shrank from thesubject in a manner that made Clara understand that any conversationabout the Askertons was to be avoided. On the fourth day Clara sawMrs Askerton, but then Will Belton's name was not mentioned. Therewas therefore, among them all, a sense of some mystery which madethem uncomfortable, and which seemed to admit of no solution. Clarawas more sure than ever that her cousin had made no inquiries that heshould not have made, and that he would put no information that hemight have to an improper use. But of such certainty on her part shecould say nothing. 

Three weeks passed by, and it seemed as though Belton's visit were tocome to an end without any further open trouble. Now and thensomething was said about. Captain Aylmer; but it was very little, andBelton made no further reference to his own feelings. It had come tobe understood that his visit was to be limited to a month; and toboth him and Clara the month wore itself away slowly, neither of themhaving much pleasure in the society of the other. The old squire camedown stairs once for an hour or two, and spent the whole time inbitter complaints. Everything was wrong, and everybody wasill-treating him. Even with Will he quarrelled, or did his best toquarrel, in regard to everything about the place, though at the sametime he did not cease to grumble at his visitor for going awayand leaving him. Belton bore it all so well that the grumblingand quarrelling did not lead to much; but it required all hisgood-humour and broad common sense to prevent serious troubles andmisunderstanding. 

During the period of her cousin's visit at Belton, Clara received twoletters from Captain Aylmer, who was spending the Christmas holidayswith his father and mother, and on the day previous to that of hercousin's departure there came a third. In neither of these letterswas there much said about Sir Anthony, but they were all very full ofLady Aylmer. In the first he wrote with something of the personalenthusiasm of a lover and therefore Clara hardly felt the littledrawbacks to her happiness which were contained in certain innuendoesrespecting Lady Aylmer's ideas, and Lady Aylmer's hopes, and LadyAylmer's fears. Clara was not going to marry Lady Aylmer, and did notfear but that she could hold her own against any mother-in-law in theworld when once they should be brought face to face. And as long asCaptain Aylmer seemed to take her part rather than that of his motherit was all very well. The second letter was more trying to hertemper, as it contained one or two small morsels of advice as toconduct which had evidently originated with her ladyship. Now thereis nothing, I take it, so irritating to an engaged young lady ascounsel from her intended husband's mamma. An engaged young lady, ifshe be really in love, will take almost anything from her lover aslong as she is sure that it comes altogether from himself. He maytake what liberties he pleases with her dress. He may prescribe highchurch or low church if he be not, as is generally the case, in acondition to accept, rather than to give, prescriptions on thatsubject. He may order almost any course of reading providing that hesupply the books. And he may even interfere with the style ofdancing, and recommend or prohibit partners. But he may not thrusthis mother down his future wife's throat. In answer to the secondletter, Clara did not say much to show her sense of objection. Indeedshe said nothing. But in saying nothing she showed her objection, andCaptain Aylmer understood it. Then came the third letter, and as itcontained matter touching upon our story, it shall be given entireand I hope it may be taken by gentlemen about to marry as a fairspecimen of the sort of letter they ought not to write to the girlsof their hearts:

Aylmer Castle, 19th January, 186--. 

'Dearest Clara, --I got your letter of the 16th yesterday, and was sorryyou said nothing in reference to my mother's ideas as to the house atPerivale. Of course she knew that I heard from you, and wasdisappointed when, I was obliged to tell her, that you had notalluded to the subject. She is very anxious about you, and, havingnow given her assent to our marriage, is of course desirous ofknowing that her kindly feeling is reciprocated. I assured her thatmy own Clara was the last person to be remiss in such a matter, andreminded her that young ladies are seldom very careful in their modeof answering letters. Remember, therefore, that I am now yourguarantee, and send some message to relieve me from my liability. 

'When I told her of your father's long illness, which she lamentsgreatly, and of your cousin's continued presence at Belton Castle, she seemed to think that Mr Belton's visit should not be prolonged. When I told her that he was your nearest relative, she remarked thatcousins are the same as any other people, --which indeed they are. Iknow that my Clara will not suppose that I mean more by this than thewords convey. Indeed I mean less. But not having the advantage of amother of your own, you will not be sorry to know what are mymother's opinions on matters which so nearly concern you. 

'And now I come to another subject, as to which what I shall say willsurprise you very much. You know, I think, that my aunt Winterfieldand I had some conversation about your neighbours, the Askertons; andyou will remember that my aunt, whose ideas on such matters werealways correct, was a little afraid that your father had not madesufficient inquiry respecting them before he allowed them to settlenear him as tenants. It now turns out that she is very far, indeed, from what she ought to be. My mother at first thought of writing toyou about this; but she is a little fatigued, and at last resolvedthat under all the circumstances it might be as well that I shouldtell you. It seems that Mrs Askerton was married before to a certainCaptain Berdmore, and that she left her first husband during hislifetime under the protection of Colonel Askerton. I believe they, the Colonel and Mrs Askerton, have been since married. CaptainBerdmore died about four years ago in India, and it is probable thatsuch a marriage has taken place. But under these circumstances, asLady Aylmer says, you will at once perceive that all acquaintancebetween you and the lady should be brought to an end. Indeed, yourown sense of what is becoming to you, either as an unmarried girl oras my future wife, or indeed as a woman at all, will at once make youfeel that this must be so. I think, if I were you, I would tell thewhole to Mr Amedroz; but this I will leave to your own discretion. Ican assure you that Lady Aylmer has full proof as to the truth ofwhat I tell you. 

'I go up to London in February. I suppose I may hardly hope to see youbefore the recess in July or August; but I trust that before that weshall have fixed the day when you will make me the happiest of men. 

'Yours, with truest affection, 'F. F. AYLMER. '

It was a disagreeable, nasty letter from the first line to the last. There was not a word in it which did not grate against Clara'sfeelings not a thought expressed which did not give rise to fears asto her future happiness. But the information which it contained aboutthe Askertons 'the communication, ' as Mrs Askerton herself would havecalled it made her for the moment almost forget Lady Aylmer and herinsolence. Could this story be true? And if true, how far would it beimperative on her to take the hint, or rather obey the order, whichhad been given her? What steps should she take to learn the truth?Then she remembered Mrs Askerton's promise 'If you want to ask anyquestions, and will ask them of me, I will answer them. ' Thecommunication, as to which Mrs Askerton had prophesied, had now beenmade but it had been made not by Will Belton, whom Mrs Askerton hadreviled, but by Captain Aylmer, whose praises Mrs Askerton had soloudly sung. As Clara thought of this, she could not analyse her ownfeelings, which were not devoid of a certain triumph. She had knownthat Belton would not put on his armour to attack a woman. CaptainAylmer had done so, and she was hardly surprised at his doing it. YetCaptain Aylmer was the man she loved! Captain Aylmer was the man shehad promised to marry. But, in truth, she hardly knew which was theman she loved!

This letter came on a Sunday morning, and on that day she and Beltonwent to church together. On the following morning early he was tostart for Taunton. At church they saw Mrs Askerton, whose attendancethere was not very frequent. It seemed, indeed, as though she hadcome with the express purpose of seeing Belton once during his visit. As they left the church she bowed to him, and that was all they sawof each other throughout the month that he remained in Somersetshire. 

'Come to me tomorrow Clara, ' Mrs Askerton said as they all passedthrough the village together. Clara muttered some reply, having notas yet made up her mind as to what her conduct must be. Early on thenext morning Will Belton went away, and again Clara got up to givehim his breakfast. On this occasion he had no thought of kissing her. He went away without having had a word said to him about MrsAskerton, and then Clara settled herself down to the work ofdeliberation. What should she do with reference to the communicationthat had been made to her by Captain Aylmer?

CHAPTER XVII

AYLMER PARK

Aylmer Park and the great house of the Aylmers together formed animportant and, as regarded in some minds, an imposing countryresidence. The park was large, including some three or four hundredacres, and was peopled, rather thinly, by aristocratic deer. It wassurrounded by an aristocratic paling, and was entered, at threedifferent points, by aristocratic lodges. The sheep were morenumerous than the deer, because Sir Anthony, though he had a largeincome, was not in very easy circumstances. The ground was quiteflat; and though there were thin belts of trees, and some ornamentaltimber here and there, it was not well wooded. It had no specialbeauty of its own, and depended for its imposing qualities chiefly onits size, on its three sets of double lodges, and on its oldestablished character as an important family place in the county. Thehouse was of stone, with a portico of Ionic columns which looked asthough it hardly belonged of right to the edifice, and stretcheditself out grandly, with two pretentious wings, which certainly gaveit a just claim to be called a mansion. It required a great manyservants to keep it in order, and the numerous servants required anexperienced duenna, almost as grand in appearance as Lady Aylmerherself, to keep them in order. There was an open carriage and aclosed carriage, and a butler, and two footmen, and threegamekeepers, and four gardeners, and there was a coachman, and therewere grooms, and sundry inferior men and boys about the place to dothe work which the gardeners and game-keepers and grooms did notchoose to do themselves. And they all became fat, and lazy, andstupid, and respectable together; so that, as the reader will at onceperceive, Aylmer Park was kept up in the proper English style. SirAnthony very often discussed with his steward the propriety oflessening the expenditure of his residence, and Lady Aylmer alwaysattended and probably directed these discussions; but it was foundthat nothing could be done. Any attempt to remove a gamekeeper or agardener would evidently throw the whole machinery of Aylmer Park outof gear. If retrenchment was necessary Aylmer Park must be abandoned, and the glory of the Aylmers must be allowed to pale. But things werenot so bad as that with Sir Anthony. The gardeners, grooms, andgamekeepers were maintained; ten domestic servants sat down to fourheavy meals in the servants' hall every day, and Lady Aylmercontented herself with receiving little or no company, and withstingy breakfasts and bad dinners for herself and her husband anddaughter. By all this it must be seen that she did her duty as thewife of an English country gentleman, and properly maintained hisrank as a baronet. 

He was a heavy man, over seventy years of age, much afflicted withgout, and given to no pursuit on earth which was available for hiscomfort. He had been a hunting man, and he had shot also; but notwith that energy which induces a sportsman to carry on thoseamusements in opposition to the impediments of age. He had been, andstill was, a county magistrate; but he had never been very successfulin the justice-room, and now seldom troubled the county with hisjudicial incompetence. He had been fond of good dinners and goodwine, and still, on occasions, would make attempts at enjoyment inthat line; but the gout and Lady Aylmer together were too many forhim, and he had but small opportunity for filling up the blanks ofhis existence out of the kitchen or cellar. He was a big man, with abroad chest, and a red face, and a quantity of white hair and wasmuch given to abusing his servants. He took some pleasure instanding, with two sticks, on the top of the steps before his ownfront door, and railing at any one who came in his way. But he couldnot do this when Lady Aylmer was by; and his dependents, knowing hishabits, had fallen into an ill-natured way of deserting the side ofthe house which he frequented. With his eldest son, Anthony Aylmer, he was not on very good terms; and though there was no positivequarrel, the heir did not often come to Aylmer Park. Of his sonFrederic he was proud and the best days of his life were probablythose which Captain Aylmer spent at the house. The table was thensomewhat more generously spread, and this was an excuse for having upthe special port in which he delighted. Altogether his life was notvery attractive; and though he had been born to a baronetcy, andeight thousand a-year, and the possession of Aylmer Park, I do notthink that he was, or had been, a happy man. 

Lady Aylmer was more fortunate. She had occupations of which herhusband knew nothing, and for which he was altogether unfit. Thoughshe could not succeed in making retrenchments, the could and didsucceed in keeping the household books. Sir Anthony could only blowup the servants when they were thoughtless enough to come in his way, and in doing that was restricted by his wife's presence. But LadyAylmer could get at them day and night. She had no gout to impede herprogress about the house and grounds, and could make her way toplaces which the master never saw; and then she wrote many lettersdaily, whereas Sir Anthony hardly ever took a pen in his hand. Andshe knew the cottages of all the poor about the place, and knew alsoall their sins of omission and commission. She was driven out, too, every day, summer and winter, wet and dry, and consumed enormouspackets of wool and worsted, which were sent to her monthly fromYork. And she had a companion in her daughter, whereas Sir Anthonyhad no companion. Wherever Lady Aylmer went, Miss Aylmer went withher, and relieved what might otherwise have been the tedium of herlife. She had been a beauty on a large scale, and was still awarethat she had much in her personal appearance which justified pride. She carried herself uprightly, with a commanding nose and broadforehead; and though the graces of her own hair had given way to afront, there was something even in the front which added to herdignity, if it did not make her a handsome woman. 

Miss Aylmer, who was the eldest of the younger generation, and whowas now gently descending from her fortieth year, lacked the strengthof her mother's character, but admired her mother's ways, andfollowed Lady Aylmer in all things at a distance. She was very goodas indeed was Lady Aylmer entertaining a high idea of duty, and awarethat her own life admitted of but little self-indulgence. She had nopleasures, she incurred no expenses; and was quite alive to the factthat as Aylmer Park required a regiment of lazy, gormandizingservants to maintain its position in the county, the Aylmersthemselves should not be lazy, and should not gormandize. No one wasmore careful with her few shillings than Miss Aylmer. She had, indeed, abandoned a life's correspondence with an old friend becauseshe would not pay the postage on letters to Italy. She knew that itwas for the honour of the family that one of her brothers should sitin Parliament, and was quite willing to deny herself a new dressbecause sacrifices must be made to lessen electioneering expenses. She knew that it was her lot to be driven about slowly in a carriagewith a livery servant before her and another behind her, and then eata dinner which the cook-maid would despise. She was aware that it washer duty to be snubbed by her mother, and to encounter her father'sill-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 hardlyhope to make friends for the comfort of her coming age. But still shewas contented, and felt that she had consolation for it all in thefact that she was am. Aylmer. She read many novels, and it cannot butbe supposed that something of regret would steal over her as sheremembered that nothing of the romance of life had ever, or couldever, come in her way. She wept over the loves of many women, thoughshe had never been happy or unhappy in her own. She read of gaiety, though she never encountered it, and must have known that the worldelsewhere was less dull than it was at Aylmer Park. But she took herlife as it came, without a complaint, and prayed that God would makeher humble in the high position to which it had pleased Him to callher. She hated Radicals, and thought that Essays and Reviews, andBishop Colenso, came direct from the Evil One. She taught the littlechildren in the parish, being specially urgent to them always tocourtesy 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 hisclub and was accustomed to life in London, would feel the dullness ofthe paternal roof to be almost unendurable. In truth, he was not veryfond of Aylmer Park, but he was more gifted with patience than mostmen of his age and position, and was aware that it behoved him tokeep the Fifth Commandment if he expected to have his own daysprolonged in the land. He therefore made his visits periodically, andcontented himself with clipping a few days at both ends from thelength prescribed by family tradition, which his mother was desirousof exacting. September was always to be passed at Aylmer Park, because of the shooting. In September, indeed, the eldest son himselfwas wont to be there probably with a friend or two and the fat oldservants bestirred themselves, and there was something of life aboutthe place. At Christmas, Captain Aylmer was there as the onlyvisitor, and Christmas was supposed to extend from the middle ofDecember to the opening of Parliament. It must, however, beexplained, that on the present occasion his visit had been a matterof treaty and compromise. He had not gone to Aylmer Park at all tillhis mother had in some sort assented to his marriage with ClaraAmedroz. To this Lady Aylmer had been very averse, and there had beenmany serious letters. Belinda Aylmer, the daughter of the house, hadhad a bad time in pleading her brother's cause and some very harshwords 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 hercondescension, and almost prepared to make himself very disagreeableto Clara by way of atoning to his family for his folly in desiring tomarry her. 

Lady Aylmer was very plain-spoken on the subject of all Clara'sshortcomings very plain-spoken, and very inquisitive. 'She will neverhave one shilling, I suppose?' she said. 

'Yes, ma'am. ' Captain Aylmer always called his mother 'ma'am'. 'Shewill have that fifteen hundred pounds that I told you of. '

'That is to say, you will have back the money which you yourself havegiven her, Fred. I suppose that is the English of it?' Then LadyAylmer 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 sheis penniless. '

'It is no good harping on that, ' said Captain Aylmer, somewhatsharply. 

'Not in the least, my dear; no good at all. Of course you have lookedit all in the face. You will be a poor man instead of a rich man, butyou will have enough to live on that is if she doesn't have a largefamily 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 atPerivale, keeping up the old family house there, and having noexpenses; but you'll find even that close enough with your seat inParliament, and the necessity there is that you should be half theyear in London. Of course she won't go to London. She can't expectit. All that had better be made quite clear at once. ' Hence had comethe letter about the house at Perivale, containing Lady Aylmer'sadvice on that subject, as to which Clara made no reply. 

Lady Aylmer, though she had given her assent, was still notaltogether without hope. It might be possible that the two youngpeople could be brought to see the folly and error of their waysbefore it would be too late; and that Lady Aylmer, by a judiciouscourse of constant advice, might be instrumental in opening the eyes, if not of the lady, at any rate of the gentleman. She had greatreliance on her own powers, and knew well that a falling drop willhollow a stone. Her son manifested no hot eagerness to complete hisfolly 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 whocould use time with patience. Having, through her son, dispatched heradvice about the house at Perivale, --which simply amounted to this, that Clara should expressly state her willingness to live there alonewhenever it might suit her husband to be in London or elsewhere, --shewent to work on other points, connected with the Amedroz family, andeventually succeeded in learning something very much like the truthas to poor Mrs Askerton and her troubles. At first she was socomfortably horror-stricken by the iniquity she had unravelled, --sodelightfully shocked and astounded, --as to believe that the facts asthey then stood would suffice to annul the match. 

'You don't tell me', she said to Belinda, 'that Frederic's wife willhave been the friend of such a woman as that!' And Lady Aylmer, sitting upstairs with her household books before her, put up hergreat fat hands and her great fat arms, and shook her head, --front andall, --in most satisfactory dismay. 

'But I suppose Clara did not know it. ' Belinda had considered it tobe an act of charity to call Miss Amedroz Clara since the familyconsent had been given. 

'Didn't know it! They have been living in that sort of way that theymust have been confidantes in everything. Besides, I always hold thata woman is responsible for her female friends. '

'I think if she consents to drop her at once that is, absolutely tomake a promise that she will never speak to her again Frederic oughtto take that as sufficient. That is, of course, mamma, unless she hashad anything to do with it herself. '

'After this I don't know how I'm to trust her. I don't indeed. Itseems to me that she has been so artful throughout. It has been aregular case of catching. '

'I suppose, of course, that she has been anxious to marry Fredericbut perhaps that was natural. '

'Anxious look at her going there just when he had to meet hisconstituents. How young women can do such things passes me! And howit is that men don't see it all, when it's going on just under theirnoses, I can't understand. And then, her getting my poor dear sisterto speak to him when she was dying! I didn't think your aunt wouldhave been so weak. ' It will be thus seen that there was entireconfidence 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 MissAmedroz, still was disposed to believe that that lady would showrather a high spirit on this occasion; and trusted to that highspirit as the means for making the breach which she still hoped toaccomplish. It had been intended or rather desired that CaptainAylmer's letter should have been much sharper and authoritative thanhe had really made it; but the mother could not write the letterherself, and had felt that to write in her own name would not haveserved to create anger on Clara's part against her betrothed. But shehad quite succeeded in inspiring her son with a feeling of horroragainst the iniquity of the Askertons. He was prepared to beindignantly moral; and perhaps the misguided Clara might be sillyenough to say a word for her lost friend! Such being the presentposition of affairs, there was certainly ground for hope. 

And now they were all waiting for Clara's answer. Lady Aylmer hadwell calculated the course of post, and knew that a letter mightreach them by Wednesday morning. 'Of course she will not write onSunday, ' she had said to her son, 'but you have a right to expectthat not another day should go by. ' Captain Aylmer, who felt thatthey were putting Clara on her trial, shook his head impatiently, andmade no immediate answer. Lady Aylmer, triumphantly feeling that shehad the culprit on the hip, did not care to notice this. She wasdoing the best she could for his happiness as she had done for hishealth, when in days gone by she had administered to him hisinfantine rhubarb and early senna; but as she had never then expectedhim to like her doses, neither did she now expect that he should bewell pleased at the remedial measures to which he was to besubjected. 

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 hadcome 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 waswith her brother. 

'Isn't it odd, Frederic, that Clara shouldn't write about thosepeople at Belton?'

'Somersetshire is the other side of London, and letters take a longtime. '

'But if she had written on Monday, her answer would have been here onWednesday morning indeed, you would have had it Tuesday evening, asmamma sent over to Whitby for the day mail letters. ' Poor Belinda wasa bad lieutenant, and displayed too much of her senior officer'stactics in thus showing how much calculation and how much solicitudethere 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 gotyour letter, you know, it would be so necessary that you should writeagain, so that the--the--contamination should be stopped as soon aspossible. ' Captain Aylmer shook his head and walked away. He was, nodoubt, prepared to be morally indignant, --morally very indignant, --atthe Askerton iniquity; but he did not like the word contamination asapplied to his future wife. 

'Frederic, ' said his mother, later on the same day when thehardly-used groom had returned from his futile afternoon's inquiry atthe neighbouring post town, --'I think you should do something in thisaffair. '

'Do what, ma'am? Go off to Belton myself?'

'No, no. I certainly would not do that. In the first place it wouldbe very inconvenient to you, and in the next place it would not befair upon us. I did not mean that at all. But I think that somethingshould 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 yourwife. '

'What is it that you wish me to do? I have written to her, and canonly wait for her answer. '

'It may be that she feels a delicacy in writing to you on such asubject; though I own However, to make a long story short, if youlike, I will write to her myself. '

'I don't see that that would do any good. It would only give heroffence. '

'Give her offence, Frederic, to receive a letter from her futuremother-in-law from me! Only think, Frederic, what you are saying. '

'If she thought she was being bullied about this, she would turnrusty at once. '

'Turn rusty! What am I to think of a young lady who is prepared toturn rusty at once, too because she is cautioned by the mother of theman she professes to love against an improper acquaintance against anacquaintance so very improper?' Lady Aylmer's eloquence should havebeen heard to be appreciated. It is but tame to say that she raisedher fat arms and fat hands, and wagged her front her front that wasthe more formidable as it was the old one, somewhat rough anddishevelled, which she was wont to wear in the morning. The emphasisof her words should have been heard, and the fitting solemnity of heraction should have been seen. 'If there were any doubt, ' shecontinued to say, 'but there is no doubt. There are the damningproofs. ' There are certain words usually confined to the vocabulariesof men, which women such as Lady Aylmer delight to use on specialoccasions, when strong circumstances demand strong language. As shesaid this she put her hand below the table, pressing it apparentlyagainst her own august person; but she was in truth indicating theposition of a certain valuable correspondence, which was locked up inthe drawer of her writing-table. 

'You can write if you like it, of course; but I think you ought towait a few more days. '

'Very well, Frederic; then I will wait. I will wait till Sunday. I donot wish to take any step of which you do not approve. If you havenot heard by Sunday morning, then I will write to her on Monday. '

On the Saturday afternoon life was becoming inexpressiblydisagreeable to Captain Aylmer, and he began to meditate an escapefrom 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 toClara's wickedness, at any rate till Sunday after post-hour, LadyAylmer had twice attacked him on the Saturday, and had expressed heropinion that affairs were in a very frightful position. Belinda wentabout the house in melancholy guise, with her eyes rarely lifted offthe ground, as though she were prophetically weeping the utter ruinof her brother's respectability. And even Sir Anthony had raised hiseyes and shaken his head, when, on opening the post-bag at thebreakfast-table an operation which was always performed by LadyAylmer in person her ladyship had exclaimed, 'again no letter!' ThenCaptain Aylmer thought that he would fly, and resolved that, in theevent of such flight, he would give special orders as to there-direction of his own letters from the post-office at Whitby. 

That evening, after dinner, as soon as his mother and sister had leftthe room, he began the subject with his father. 'I think I shall goup 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 bettergo at once. '

'Your mother will be greatly disappointed. '

'I shall be sorry for that;--but business is business, you know. ' Thenthe father filled his glass and passed the bottle. He himself did notat 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 toowould 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 ofsubdued confidence in the old man's voice as he made this suggestion, which, though it was by no means a customary tone, his son wellunderstood. 'Don't you think she will be eh, a little?'

'She shouldn't go on as she does with me about Clara, ' said thecaptain. 

'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 way altogether--' 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 whatthose 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 tobe very happy as you are. By heavens, I don't know any one who oughtto be happier. If I were you, I know--'

'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 fortyyears. That's her way. The best woman in the world, as we were sayingbut that's her way. And it's the way with most of them. They can doanything if they keep it up anything. The best thing is to bear it ifyou'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 everythingon earth that you want as a bachelor, I can't understand. I can'tindeed, 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 hebelonged, but which he never entered of the old days in which he hadbeen master of a bedroom near St. James's Street of his old friendswhom he never saw now, and of whom he never heard, except as one andanother, year after year, shuffled away from their wives to thatworld 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 issettled, I suppose it is settled. But it really seems to me that yourmother 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 tohis going, but as he thought of his prospects in the solitude of hisbedroom, he felt really grateful to his father for the solicitudewhich Sir Anthony had displayed on his behalf. It was not often thathe received paternal counsel, but now that it had come heacknowledged its value. That Clara Amedroz was a self-willed woman hethought that he was aware. She was self-reliant, at any rate and byno means ready to succumb with that pretty feminine docility which hewould like to have seen her evince. He certainly would not wish to be'nagged' by his wife Indeed he knew himself well enough to assurehimself that he would not stand it for a day. In his own house hewould be master, and if there came tempests he would rule them. Hecould at least promise himself that. As his mother had been strong, so had his father been weak. But he had as he felt thankful inknowing inherited his mother's strength rather than his father'sweakness. But, for all that, why have a tempest to rule at all? Eventhough a man do rule his domestic tempests, he cannot have a veryquiet house with them. Then again he remembered how very easily Clarahad been won. He wished to be just to all men and women, and to Claraamong the number. He desired even to be generous to her with amoderate generosity. But above all things he desired not to be duped. What if Clara had in truth instigated her aunt to that deathbedscene, as his mother had more than once suggested! He did not believeit. He was sure that it had not been so. But what if it were so? Hisdesire to be generous and trusting was moderate but his desire not tobe cheated, not to be deceived, was immoderate. Upon the whole mightit not be well for him to wait a little longer, and ascertain howClara really intended to behave herself in this emergency of theAskertons? Perhaps, after all, his mother might be right. 

On the Sunday the expected letter came but before its contents aremade known, it will be well that we should go back to Belton, and seewhat was done by Clara in reference to the tidings which her loverhad sent her. 

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 had spokensome customary word to Clara, begging her to come to the cottage onthe following day, Clara had been unable to answer not having as yetmade up her mind whether she would or would not go to the cottageagain. Of course the idea of consulting her father occurred to her orrather the idea of telling him; but any such telling would lead tosome advice from him which she would find it difficult to obey, andto which she would be unable to trust. And, moreover, why should sherepeat this evil story against her neighbours?

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 such away 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. But ifthis friend of hers having been thus unfortunate had since redeemed, or in part redeemed, her position by a second marriage, would it bethen imperative upon her to remember the past for ever, and todeclare that the stain was indelible? Clara felt that with a previousknowledge of such a story she would probably have avoided anyintimacy with Mrs Askerton. She would then have been justified inchoosing whether such intimacy should or should not exist, and wouldso have chosen out of deference to the world's opinion. But now itwas too late for that. Mrs Askerton had for years been her friend;and Clara had to ask herself this question: was it now needful didher own feminine purity demand that she should throw her friend overbecause 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 whomher future obedience would be due. Whatever might be her immediatedecision, he would have a right to call upon her to be guided by hisjudgment as soon as she would become his wife. And indeed, she feltthat he had such right now unless she should decide that no suchright should be his, now or ever. It was still within her power tosay that she could not submit herself to such a rule as his buthaving received his commands she must do that or obey them. Then shedeclared to herself, not following the matter out logically, buturged to her decision by sudden impulse, that at any rate she wouldnot obey Lady Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, in any suchmatter, with Lady Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god to her. Thatquestion about the house at Perivale had been very painful to her. She felt that she could have endured the dreary solitude at Perivalewithout 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 of her, to know that the Aylmer people were arranging that he, if he wouldmarry her, should be as little troubled with his wife as possible allthis had been very grievous to her. She had tried to console herselfby the conviction that Lady Aylmer not Frederic had been the sinner;but even in that consolation there had been the terrible flaw thatthe words had come to her written by Frederic's hand. Could WillBelton have written such a letter to his future 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 CaptainAylmer, 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 then indoing so she must own from whence her information had come. MrsAskerton had told her that the 'communication' would be made by herCousin Will. Her Cousin Will had gone away without a word of MrsAskerton, 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 MrsAskerton. '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 I shallthink 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 into herpocket, 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, forshe had tried to think that this was a virtue rather than a fault;--butnow, --with a full knowledge of what she was doing, but without anyintention of doing it, --she acquitted him of that one fault. Now thatshe could acquit him, she owned that it would have been a fault. Tohave loved, and so soon to have forgotten it! No; he had loved hertruly, and alas! he was one who could not be made to forget it. Thenshe went on to the cottage, exercising her thoughts rather on thecontrast between the two men than on the subject to which she shouldhave 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 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 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 about meand my antecedents certain matters as to which Mr Belton had beeninquiring into in a manner that I thought to be most unjustifiable Iwould 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 as I amliving here without a female friend, or even acquaintance, exceptyourself should often feel a longing for that comfort which fullconfidence 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 but shedid not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. Shesincerely wished that Mrs Askerton should be made acquainted with thetruth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did notmake 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 you totell. 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 you hadsaid 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 was marriedto Captain Berdmore. I left him, and went away with my presenthusband. 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. Nowyou know it all all all though doubtless your informant has made abetter story of it. After that, perhaps, I have been very wicked tosully 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' 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 of them, --Clarakept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak; and though shelonged to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. At last shetoo 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 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; but asthe embrace became warmer the poor woman yielded herself to it, andallowed 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 episode ofher life she would accept no lesson whatever from Lady Aylmer'steaching no, nor any lesson whatever from the teaching of any Aylmerin existence. And as for the world's rules, she would fit herself tothem as best she could; but no such fitting should drive her to theunwomanly cruelty of deserting this woman whom she had known andloved and whom she now loved with a fervour which she had neverbefore 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 stillcloser. '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 not tothink. '

'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 takesme, he must take me as I am, not as he might possibly have wished meto 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 think youwould 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 of itthan he has heard. Nor would Clara have desired any closerrevelation; but as it is often difficult to obtain a confidence, sois it impossible to stop it in the midst of its effusion. MrsAskerton 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, 'as Ido 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, andcould 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 teeth ofthat truth, she intended to maintain her acquaintance with MrsAskerton. From that there was now no escape. She had been carriedaway by impulse in what she had done and said at the cottage, but shecould not bring herself to regret it. She could not believe that itwas 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 minutesto 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 determined thatit should be finished that night before she went to bed. And it wasso 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 notanswer it sooner, as it required much consideration, and also someinformation which I have only obtained today. About the plan ofliving at Perivale I will not say much now, as my mind is so full ofother things. I think, however, I may promise that I will never makeany needless difficulty as to your plans. My cousin Will left us onMonday, so your mother need not have any further anxiety on thathead. It does papa good to have him here, and for that reason I amsorry that he has gone. I can assure you that I don't think what yousaid about him meant anything at all particular. Will is my nearestcousin, and of course you would be glad that I should like him whichI do, very much. 

'And now about the other subject, which I own has distressed me, asyou supposed it would;--I mean about Mrs Askerton. I find it verydifficult in your letter to divide what comes from your mother andwhat from yourself. Of course I want to make the division, as everyword from you has great weight with me. At present I don't know LadyAylmer 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 deferencefor her that I have for the man who is to be my husband. I only saythis, as I fear that Lady Aylmer and I may not perhaps agree aboutMrs Askerton. 

'I find that your story about Mrs Askerton is in the main true. Butthe person who told it you does not seem to have known any of theprovocations which she received. She was very badly treated byCaptain Berdmore, who, I am afraid, was a terrible drunkard; and atlast she found it impossible to stay with him. So she went away. Icannot tell you how horrid it all was, but I am sure that if I couldmake you understand it, it would go a long way in inducing you toexcuse her. She was married to Colonel Askerton as soon as CaptainBerdmore died, and this took place before she came to Belton. I hopeyou will remember that. It all occurred out in India, and I reallyhardly know what business we have to inquire about it now. 

'At any rate, as I have been acquainted with her a long time, and veryintimately, and as I am sure that she has repented of anything thathas 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 totell you the whole truth, and that is the truth. 

'Pray give my regards to your mother, and tell her that I am sure shewould judge differently if she were in my place. This poor woman hasno other friend here; and who am I, that I should take upon myself tocondemn her? I cannot do it. Dear Frederic, pray do not be angry withme for asserting my own will in this matter. I think you would wishme to have an opinion of my own. In my present position I am bound tohave one, as I am, as yet, responsible for what I do myself. I shallbe very, very sorry, if I find that you differ from me; but still Icannot be made to think that I am wrong. I wish you were here, thatwe might talk it over together, as I think that in that case youwould agree with me. 

'If you can manage to come to us at Easter, or any other time whenParliament does not keep you in London, we shall be so delighted tosee you. 

'Dear Frederic, Yours very affectionately, 'Clara Amedroz. '

CHAPTER XIX

MISS AMEDROZ HAS ANOTHER CHANCE

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 thebreakfast-table. Domestic habits at Aylmer Park had grown with thegrowth of years till they had become adamantine, and domestic habitsrequired prayers every morning at a quarter before nine o'clock. Attwenty minutes before nine Lady Aylmer would always be in thedining-room to make the tea and open the post-bag, and as she wasalways there alone, she knew more about other people's letters thanother people ever knew about hers. When these operations were overshe rang the bell, and the servants of the family, who by that timehad already formed themselves into line in the hail, would march in, and settle themselves on benches prepared for them near the sideboardwhich benches were afterwards carried away by the retiringprocession. Lady Aylmer herself always read prayers, as Sir Anthonynever appeared till the middle of breakfast. Belinda would usuallycome down in a scurry as she heard her mother's bell, in such a wayas to put the army in the hail to some confusion; but FredericAylmer, when he was at home, rarely entered the room till after theservice was over. At Perivale no doubt he was more strict in hisconduct; but then at Perivale he had special interests and influenceswhich were wanting to him at Aylmer Park. During those five minutesLady Aylmer would deal round the letters to the several plates of theinmates of her house not without looking at the post-office marksupon them; and on this occasion she had dealt a letter from Clara toher son. 

The arrival of the letter was announced to Frederic Aylmer before hetook his seat. 

'Frederic, ' said her ladyship, in her most portentous voice, 'I amglad 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 putit into his pocket. Having done this, he began very slowly with histea and egg. For three minutes his mother was contented to make, orto pretend to make, some effort in the same direction. Then herimpatience 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 much importance--' 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 tobe guided by you in this matter; and of course we feel quite surethat she will. '

'If you are quite sure that must be sufficient for you. '

'I really think you need not quarrel with your sister, ' said LadyAylmer, 'because she is anxious as to the--the respectability, I mustsay, for there is no other word, of a young lady whom you propose tomake your wife. I can assure you that I am very anxious myself, --veryanxious indeed. '

Captain Aylmer made no answer to this, but he did not take the letterfrom his pocket. He drank his tea in silence, and in silence sent uphis cup to be refilled. In silence also was it returned to him. Heate his two eggs and his three bits of toast, according to hiscustom, and when he had finished, sat out his three or four minutesas was usual. Then he got up to retire to his room, with the envelopestill 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 sothat you need not wait for me. '

Then both the mother and sister knew that the Member for Perivale didnot intend to go to church on that occasion. To morning service SirAnthony always went, the habits of Aylmer Park having in them more ofadamant in reference to him than they had as regarded his son. 

When the father, mother, and daughter returned, Captain Aylmer hadread his letter, and had, after doing so, received further tidingsfrom Belton Castle further tidings which for the moment prevented thenecessity of any reference to the letter, and almost drove it fromhis own thoughts. When his mother entered the library he was standingbefore 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. MrAmedroz 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 theladies into the room. 'Dead! Why, Fred, he was five years youngerthan I am!'

Then Captain Aylmer read the words of the message:--'Mr Amedroz diedthis morning at five o'clock. I have sent word to the lawyer and toMr Belton. '

'Who does it come from?' asked Lady Aylmer. 

'From Colonel Askerton. '

Lady Aylmer paused, and shook her head, and moved her foot uneasilyupon the carpet. The tidings, as far as they went, might beunexceptionable, but the source from whence they had come hadevidently polluted them in her ladyship's judgment. Then she uttereda series of inter-ejaculations, expressions of mingled sorrow andanger. 

'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, --it looks-- But I amthe last person in the world to form a harsh judgment of a youngwoman at such a moment as this. What did she say in her letter, Fred?'

Captain Aylmer had devoted two hours of consideration to the letterbefore 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 ofcomfort out of the document. It was, as he felt, a stubborn, stiff-necked, disobedient, almost rebellious letter. It contained amanifest defiance of his mother, and exhibited doctrines of mostquestionable morality. It had become to him a matter of doubt whetherhe could possibly marry a woman who could entertain such ideas andwrite such a letter. If the doubt was to be decided in his own mindagainst 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, ashe well knew, her ladyship would not be slow to undertake. But he hadnot succeeded in answering the question satisfactorily to himselfwhen the telegram arrived and diverted all his thoughts. Now that MrAmedroz was dead, the whole thing might be different. Clara wouldcome away from Belton and Mrs Askerton, and begin life, as it were, afresh It seemed as though in such an emergency she ought to haveanother chance; and therefore he did not hasten to pronounce hisjudgment. Lady Aylmer also felt something of this, and forbore topress 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 noplace that she can call her home?'

'Would it not be a good thing to ask her here?' said Belinda. Such aquestion as that was very rash on the part of Miss Aylmer. In thefirst place, the selection of guests for Aylmer Park was rarely leftto her; and in this special case she should have understood that sucha proposal should have been fully considered by Lady Aylmer before itreached 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 hassaid about that unfortunate connexion before I offer to take her bythe hand myself. I'm sure Fred will feel that I ought to do so. '

But Fred retreated from the room without showing the letter. Heretreated from the room and betook himself to solitude, that he mightagain endeavour to make up his mind as to what he would do. He put onhis hat and his great-coat and gloves, and went off without hisluncheon that he might consider it all. Clara Amedroz had now no homeand, indeed, very little means of providing one. If he intended thatshe should be his wife, he must furnish her with a home at once. Itseemed to him that three houses might possibly be open to her ofwhich one, the only one which under such circumstances would beproper, was Aylmer Park. The other two were Plaistow Hall and MrsAskerton's cottage at Belton. As to the latter should she ever takeshelter there, everything must be over between him and her. On thatpoint there could be no doubt. He could not bring himself to marry awife out of Mrs Askerton's drawing-room, nor could he expect hismother to receive a young woman brought into the family under suchcircumstances. And Plaistow Hall was almost as bad. It was as bad tohim, though it would, perhaps, be less objectionable in the eyes ofLady Aylmer. Should Clara go to Plaistow Hall there must be an end toeverything. Of that also he taught himself to be quite certain. Thenhe took out Clara's letter and read it again. She acknowledged thestory about the woman to be true such a story as it was too and yetrefused to quarrel with the woman had absolutely promised the womannot to quarrel with her! Then he read and re-read the passage inwhich Clara claimed the right of forming her own opinion in suchmatters. Nothing could be more indelicate nothing more unfit for hiswife. He began to think that he had better show the letter to hismother, and acknowledge that the match must be broken off. Thatsoftening of his heart which had followed upon the receipt of thetelegraphic message departed from him as he dwelt upon the stubborn, stiff-necked, unfeminine obstinacy of the letter. Then he rememberedthat nothing had as yet been done towards putting his aunt's fifteenhundred pounds absolutely into Clara's hands; and he remembered alsothat she might at the present moment be in great want. William Beltonmight, not improbably, assist her in her want, and this idea waswormwood to him in spite of his almost formed resolution to give uphis own claims. He calculated that the income arising from fifteenhundred pounds would be very small, and he wished that he hadcounselled his aunt to double the legacy. He thought very much aboutthe amount of the money and the way in which it might be beatexpended, and was, after his cold fashion, really solicitous as toClara's welfare. If he could have fashioned her future life, and hisown too, in accordance with his own now existing wishes, I think hewould have arranged that neither of them should marry at all, andthat to him should be assigned the duty and care of being Clara'sprotector with full permission to tell her his mind as often as hepleased on the subject of Mrs Askerton. Then he went in and wrote anote to Mr Green, the lawyer, desiring that the interest of thefifteen hundred pounds for one year might be at once remitted to MissAmedroz. 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 intheir present position? Were he now to condole with her on herfather's death, without any reference to the great Askerton iniquity, he would thereby be condoning all that was past, and acknowledgingthe truth and propriety of her arguments. And he would be doing evenworse than that. He would be cutting the ground absolutely frombeneath his own feet as regarded that escape from his engagementwhich he was contemplating. 

What a cold-hearted, ungenerous wretch he must have been! That willbe the verdict against him. But the verdict will be untrue. Cold-hearted and ungenerous he was; but he was no wretch as men andwomen are now-a-days called wretches. He was chilly hearted, but yetquite 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 natureof his temperament, he was not close-fisted or over covetous. And hewas a just man, desirous of obtaining nothing that was not fairly hisown. But, in truth, the artists have been so much in the habit ofpainting for us our friends' faces without any of those flaws andblotches with which work and high living are apt to disfigure us, that we turn in disgust from a portrait in which the roughnesses andpimples are made apparent. 

But it was essential that he should now do something, and before hesat down to dinner he did show Clara's letter to his mother. 'Mother, 'he said, as he sat himself down in her little room upstairs;--andshe 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 deliberativecouncil on the present existing family difficulty, --'mother, of courseI have intended to let you know what is the nature of Clara's answerto my letter. '

'I am glad there is to be no secret between us, Frederic. You knowhow I dislike secrets in families. ' As she said this she took theletter out of her son's hands with an eagerness that was almostgreedy. As she read it, he stood over her, watching her eyes, as theymade their way down the first page and on to the second, and acrossto the third, and so, gradually on, till the whole reading wasaccomplished. What Clara had written about her Cousin Will, LadyAylmer did not quite understand; and on this point now she was solittle anxious that she passed over that portion of the letterreadily. But when she came to Mrs Askerton and the allusions toherself, she took care to comprehend the meaning and weight of everyword. 'Divide your words and mine! Why should we want to divide them?Not agree with me about Mrs Askerton! How is it possible that anydecent young woman should not agree with me! It is a matter in whichthere is no room for a doubt. True the story true! Of course it istrue. Does she not know that it would not have reached her fromAylmer Park if it were not true? Provocation! Badly treated! Wentaway! Married to Colonel Askerton as soon as Captain Berdmore died!Why, Frederic, she cannot have been taught to understand the firstprinciple of morals in life! And she that was so much with my poorsister! Well, well!' The reader should understand that the late MrsWinterfield and Lady Aylmer had never been able to agree with eachother on religious subjects. 'Remember that they are married. Whyshould we remember anything of the kind? It does not make an atom ofdifference to the woman's character. Repented! How can Clara saywhether 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 areconcerned. ' When she had finished her reading, she returned theletter, 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 giveyou 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 isobstinately 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 withoutmore 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 enoughin that to make such a marriage quite out of the question? What doyou 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 haveheard the conversation between Lady Aylmer and her betrothed husband, and have known that her lover was proposing to give her 'anotherchance?' But it is lucky for us that we seldom know what our bestfriends say on our behalf, when they discuss us and our faults behindour backs. 

'What chance, Frederic, can she have? She knows all about this horridwoman, and yet refuses to give her up! What chance can she have afterthat?'

'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 rightin supposing that such shaking of her head was a sufficient reply toher son's proposition. What talking could possibly be of service tosuch a one as this Miss Amedroz? Why should she throw her pearlsbefore swine? 'We must either ask her to come here, or else I must goto 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 nohome; and I think it would be very horrid that she should be driveninto that woman's house, simply because she has no other shelter forher 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 hercousin can turn her out at a moment's notice. '

'But that would not entitle her to come here, unless--'

'No;--I quite understand that. But you cannot wonder that I shouldfeel the hardship of her position. '

'Who is to be blamed if it be hard? You see, Frederic, I take mystanding upon that letter her own letter. How am I to ask a youngwoman into my house who declares openly that my opinion on such amatter goes for nothing with her? How am I to do it? That's what Iask you. How am I to do it? It's all very well for Belinda to suggestthis 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 onthe Monday, nor on the Tuesday. The question was closely debated, andat last the anxious mother perceived that the giving of theinvitation would be more safe than withholding it. Captain Aylmer atlast expressed his determination to go to Belton unless theinvitation were given; and then, should he do that, there might bedanger that he would never be again seen at Aylmer Park till hebrought Clara Amedroz with him as his wife. The position was one ofgreat difficulty, but the interests at stake were so immense thatsomething must be risked. It might be that Clara would not come wheninvited, and in that case her obstinacy would be a great pointgained. And if she did come--! Well; Lady Aylmer admitted to herselfthat the game would be difficult, --difficult and very troublesome; butyet it might be played, and perhaps won. Lady Aylmer was a woman whohad great confidence in herself. Not so utterly had victory in suchcontests deserted her hands, that she need fear to break a lance withMiss Amedroz beneath her own roof, when the occasion was so pressing. 

The invitation was therefore sent in a note written by herself, andwas enclosed in a letter from her son. After much consultation andmany doubts on the subject, it was at last agreed that nothingfurther should now be urged about Mrs Askerton. 'She shall have herchance, ' said Lady Aylmer over and over again, repeating her son'swords. 'She shall have her chance. ' Lady Aylmer, therefore, in hernote, confined herself strictly to the giving of the invitation, andto a suggestion that, as Clara had now no settled home of her own, atemporary sojourn at Aylmer Park might be expedient. And CaptainAylmer in his letter hardly said much more. He knew, as he wrote thewords, that they were cold and comfortless, and that he ought on suchan occasion to have written words that should have been warm at anyrate, even though they might not have contained comfort. But, to havewritten with affection, he should have written at once, and he hadpostponed his letter from the Sunday till the Wednesday. It had beenabsolutely necessary that that important question as to theinvitation should be answered before he could write at all. 

When all this was settled he went up to London; and there was anunderstanding between him and his mother that he should return toAylmer Park with Clara, in the event of her acceptance of theinvitation. 

'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. 

CHAPTER XX

WILLIAM BELTON DOES NOT GO OUT HUNTING

WE will now follow the other message which was sent down intoNorfolk, and which did not get into Belton's hands till the Mondaymorning. He was sitting with his sister at breakfast, and wasprepared for hunting, when the paper was brought into the room. Telegraphic messages were not very common at Plaistow Hall, and onthe arrival of any that had as yet reached that house, something ofthat awe had been felt with which such missives were alwaysaccompanied in their earliest days. 'A telegruff message, mum, for MrWilliam, ' said the maid, looking at her mistress with eyes openedwide, as she handed the important bit of paper to her master. Willopened it rapidly, laying down the knife and fork with which he wasabout to operate upon a ham before him. He was dressed in boots andbreeches, and a scarlet coat in which garb he was, in his sister'seyes, the most handsome man in Norfolk. 

'Oh, Mary!' he exclaimed. 

'What is it, Will?'

'Mr Amedroz is dead. '

Miss Belton put out her hand for the paper before she spoke again, asthough she could better appreciate the truth of what she heard whenreading it herself on the telegraph slip than she had done from herbrother's words. 'How sudden! how terribly sudden!' she said. 

'Sudden indeed. When I left him he was not well, certainly, but Ishould have said that he might have lived for twenty years. Poor oldman! I can hardly say why it was so, but I had taken a liking tohim. '

'You take a liking to everybody, Will. '

'No I don't. I know people I don't like. ' Will Belton as he said thiswas thinking of Captain Aylmer, and he pressed the heel of his boothard against the floor. 

'And Mr Amedroz is dead! It seems to be so terribly sudden. What willshe do, Will?'

'That's what I'm thinking about. '

'Of course you are, my dear. I can see that. I wish I wish'

'It's no good wishing anything, Mary. I don't think wishing ever didany good yet. If I might have my wish, I shouldn't know how to haveit. '

'I was wishing that you didn't think so much about it. '

'You need not be troubled about me. I shall do very well. But what isto become of her now at once? Might she not come here? You are nowthe nearest female relation that she has. '

Mary looked at him with her anxious, painful eyes, and he knew by herlook that she did not approve of his plan. 'I could go away, ' hecontinued. 'She could come to you without being troubled by seeingme. '

'And where would you go, Will?'

'What does it matter? To the devil, I suppose. '

'Oh, Will, Will!'

'You know what I mean. I'd go anywhere. Where is she to find a hometill, --till she is married?' He had paused at the word; but wasdetermined not to shrink from it, and bolted it out in a loud, sharptone so that both he and she recognized all the meaning of the wordall that was conveyed in the idea. He hated himself when heendeavoured to conceal from his own mind any of the misery that wascoming upon him. He loved her. He could not get over it. The passionwas on him like a palsy, for the shaking off of which no sufficientphysical energy was left to him. It clung to him in his goings outand comings in with a painful, wearing tenacity, against which hewould now and again struggle, swearing that it should be so no longerbut against which he always struggled in vain. It was with him whenhe was hunting. He was ever thinking of it when the bird rose beforehis gun. As he watched the furrow, as his men and horses would driveit straight and deep through the ground, he was thinking of her andnot of the straightness and depth of the furrow, as had been his wontin former years. Then he would turn away his f toe, and stand alonein his field, blinded by the salt drops in his eyes, weeping at hisown weakness. And when he was quite alone, he would stamp his foot onthe ground, and throw abroad his arms, and curse himself. WhatNessus's shirt was this that had fallen upon him, and unmanned himfrom the sole of his foot to the top of his head? He went through theoccupations of the week. He hunted, and shot, and gave his orders, and paid his men their wages but he did it all with a palsy of loveupon him as he did it. He wanted her, and he could not overcome thewant. He could not bear to confess to himself that the thing by whichhe had set so much store could never belong to him. His sisterunderstood it all, and sometimes he was almost angry with her becauseof her understanding it. She sympathized with him in all his moods, and sometimes he would shake away her sympathy as though it scaldedhim. 'Where is she to find a home till till she is married?' he said. 

Not a word had as yet been said between them about the property whichwas now his estate. He was now Belton of Belton, and it must besupposed that both he and she had remembered that it was so. Buthitherto not a word had been said between them on that point. Now shewas compelled to allude to it. 'Cannot she live at the Castle for thepresent?

'What all alone?'

'Of course she is remaining there now. '

'Yes, ' said he, 'of course she is there now. Now! Why, remember whatthese telegraphic messages are. He died only on yesterday morning. Ofcourse she is there, but I do not think it can be good that sheshould remain there. There is no one near her where she is but thatMrs Askerton. It can hardly be good for her to have no other femalefriend at such a time as this. '

'I do not think that Mrs Askerton will hurt her. '

'Mrs Askerton will not hurt her at all, --and as long as Clara does notknow the story, Mrs Askerton may serve as well as another. But yet--'

'Can I go to her, Will?'

'No, dearest. The journey would kill you in winter. And he would notlike it. We are bound to think of that for her sake cold-hearted, thankless, meagre-minded creature as I know he is. '

'I do not know why he should be so bad. '

'No, nor I. But I know that he is. Never mind. Why should we talkabout him? I suppose she'll have to go there to Aylmer Park. Isuppose they will send for her, and keep her there till it's allfinished. I'll tell you what, Mary I shall give her the place. '

'What Belton Castle?'

'Why not? Will it ever be of any good to you or me? Do you want to goand live there?'

'No, indeed not for myself. '

'And do you think that I could live there? Besides why should she beturned out of her father's house?'

'He would not be mean enough to take it. '

'He would be mean enough for anything. Besides, I should take verygood care that it should be settled upon her. '

'That's nonsense, Will it is indeed. You are now William Belton ofBelton, and you must remain so. '

'Mary, --I would sooner be Will Belton with Clara Amedroz by my side toget through the world with me, and not the interest of an acre eitherat Belton Castle or at Plaistow Hall! And I believe I should be thericher man at the end if there were any good in that. ' Then he wentout of the room, and she heard him go through the kitchen, and knewthat he passed out into the farm-yard, towards the stable, by theback-door. He intended, it seemed, to go on with his hunting in spiteof this death which had occurred. She was sorry for it, but she couldnot venture to stop him. And she was sorry also that nothing had beensettled as to the writing of any letter to Clara. She, however, wouldtake upon herself to write while he was gone. 

He went straight out towards the stables, hardly conscious of what hewas doing or where he was going, and found his hack ready saddled forhim in the stall. Then he remembered that he must either go or cometo some decision that he would not go. The horse that he intended toride had been sent on to the meet, and if he were not to be used, some message must be dispatched as to the animal's return. But Willwas half inclined to go, although he knew that the world would judgehim to be heartless if he were to go hunting immediately on thereceipt of the tidings which had reached him that morning. He thoughtthat he would like to set the world at defiance in this matter. LetFrederic Aylmer go into mourning for the old man who was dead. LetFrederic Aylmer be solicitous for the daughter who was left lonely inthe old house. No doubt he, Will Belton, had inherited the deadman's estate, and should, therefore, in accordance with all theordinary rules of the world on such matters, submit himself at anyrate to the decency of funereal reserve. An heir should not be seenout hunting on the day on which such tidings as to his heritage hadreached him. But he did not wish, in his present mood, to berecognized as the heir. He did not want the property. He would havepreferred to rid himself altogether of any of the obligations whichthe ownership of the estate entailed upon him. It was not permittedto him to have the custody of the old squire's daughter, andtherefore he was unwilling to meddle with any of the old squire'sconcerns. 

Belton had gone into the stable, and had himself loosed the animal, leading him out into the yard as though he were about to mount him. Then he had given the reins to a stable boy, and had walked awayamong the farm buildings, not thinking of what he was doing. The ladstood staring at him with open mouth, not at all understanding hismaster's hesitation. The meet, as the boy knew, was fourteen milesoff, and Belton had not allowed himself above an hour and a half forthe journey. It was his practice to jump into the saddle and bustleout of the place, as though seconds were important to him. He wouldlook at his watch with accuracy, and measure his pace from spot tospot, as though minutes were too valuable to be lost. But now hewandered away like one distraught, and the stable boy knew thatsomething was wrong. 'I thout he was a thinken of the white cow aschoked 'erself with the tunnup that was skipped in the chopping, 'said the boy, as he spoke of his master afterwards to the old groom. At last, however, a thought seemed to strike Belton. 'Do you get onBrag, ' he said to the boy, 'and ride off to Goldingham Corner, andtell Daniel to bring the horse home again. I shan't hunt today. And Ithink I shall go away from home. If so, tell him to be sure thehorses are out every morning and tell him to stop their beans. Imightn't hunt again for the next month. ' Then he returned into thehouse, and went to the parlour in which his sister was sitting. 'Ishan't go out today, ' he said. 

'I thought you would not, Will, ' she answered. 

'Not that I see any harm in it. '

'I don't say that there is any harm, but it is as well on suchoccasions to do as others do. '

'That's humbug, Mary. '

'No, Will; I do not think that. When any practice has become thefixed rule of the society in which we live, it is always wise toadhere to that rule, unless it call upon us to do something that isactually wrong. One should not offend the prejudices of the world, even if one is quite sure that they are prejudices. '

'It hasn't been that that has brought me back, Mary. I'll tell youwhat. I think I'll go down to Belton after all. '

His sister did not know what to say in answer to this. Her chiefanxiety was, of course, on behalf of her brother. That he should bemade to forget Clara Amedroz, if that were only possible, was hergreat desire; and his journey at such a time as this down to Beltonwas not the way to accomplish such forgetting. And then she felt thatClara might very possibly not wish to see him. Had Will simply beenher cousin, such a visit might be very well; but he had attempted tobe more than her cousin, and therefore it would probably not be well. Captain Aylmer might not like it; and Mary felt herself bound toconsider even Captain Aylmer's likings in such a matter. And yet shecould not bear to oppose him in anything. 'It would be a very longjourney, ' she said. 

'What does that signify?'

'And then it might so probably be for nothing. '

'Why should it be for nothing?'

'Because--'

'Because what? Why don't you speak out? You need not be afraid ofhurting me. Nothing that you can say can make it at all worse than itis. '

'Dear Will, I wish I could make it better. '

'But you can't. Nobody can make it either better or worse. I promisedher once before that I would go to her when she might be in trouble, and I will be as good as my word. I said I would be a brother toher;--and so I will. So help me God, I will!' Then he rushed out of theroom, striding through the door as though he would knock it down, andhurried upstairs to his own chamber. When there he stripped himselfof his hunting things, and dressed himself again with all theexpedition in his power; and then he threw a heap of clothes into alarge portmanteau, and set himself to work packing as thougheverything in the world were to depend upon his catching a certaintrain. And he went to a locked drawer, and taking out a cheque-book, folded it up and put it into his pocket. Then he rang the bellviolently; and as he was locking the portmanteau, pressing down thelid with all his weight and all his strength, he ordered that acertain mare should be put into a certain dog-cart and that somebodymight be ready to drive over with him to the Downham Station. Withintwenty minutes of the time of his rushing upstairs he appeared againbefore his sister with a greatcoat on, and a railway rug hanging overhis arm. 'Do you mean that you are going today?' said she. 

'Yes. I'll catch the 11. 40 up-train at Downham. What's the good ofgoing unless I go at once? If I can be of any use it will be at thefirst. It may be that she will have nobody there to do anything forher. '

'There is the clergyman, and Colonel Askerton even if Captain Aylmerhas not gone down. '

'The clergyman and Colonel Askerton are nothing to her. And if thatman is there I can come back again. '

'You will not quarrel with him?'

'Why should I quarrel with him? What is there to quarrel about? I'mnot such a fool as to quarrel with a man because I hate him. If he isthere I shall see her for a minute or two, and then I shall comeback. '

'I know it is no good my trying to dissuade you. '

'None on earth. If you knew it all you would not try to dissuade me. Before I thought of asking her to be my wife and yet I thought ofthat very soon but before I ever thought of that, I told her thatwhen she wanted a brother's help I would give it her. Of course I wasthinking of the property that she shouldn't be turned out of herfather's house like a beggar. I hadn't any settled plan then howcould I? But I meant her to understand that when her father died Iwould be the same to her that I am to you. If you were alone, indistress, would I not go to you?'

'But I have no one else, Will, ' said she, stretching out her hand tohim where he stood. 

'That makes no difference, ' he replied, almost roughly. A promise isa promise, and I resolved from the first that my promise should holdgood in spite of my disappointment. Dear, dear it seems but the otherday when I made it and now, already, everything is changed. ' As hewas speaking the servant entered the room, and told him that thehorse and gig were ready for him. 'I shall just do it nicely, ' saidhe, looking at his watch. 'I have over an hour. God bless you, Mary. I shan't be away long. You may be sure of that. '

'I don't suppose you can tell as yet, Will. '

'What should keep me long? I shall see Green as I go by, and that ishalf of my errand. I dare say I shan't stay above a night down inSomersetshire. '

'You'll have to give some orders about the estate. '

'I shall not say a word on the subject to anybody; that is, not toanybody there. I am going to look after her, and not the estate. 'Then he stooped down and kissed his sister, and in another minute wasturning the corner out of the farm-yard on to the road at a quickpace, not losing a foot of ground in the turn, in that fashion ofrapidity which the horses at Plaistow Hall soon learned from theirmaster. The horse is a closely sympathetic beast, and will make histurns, and do his trottings, and comport himself generally in strictunison with the pulsation of his master's heart. When a horse won'tjump it is generally the case that the inner man is declining to jumpalso, let the outer man seem ever so anxious to accomplish the feat. 

Belton, who was generally very communicative with his servants, always talking to any man he might have beside him in his dog-cartabout the fields and cattle and tillage around him, said not a wordto the boy who accompanied him on this occasion. He had a good manythings to settle in his mind before he got to London, and he beganupon the work as soon as he had turned the corner out of thefarm-yard. As regarded this Belton estate, which was now altogetherhis own, he had always bad doubts and qualms qualms of feeling ratherthan of conscience; and he had, also, always entertained a strongfamily ambition. His people, ever so far back, had been Beltons ofBelton. They told him that his family could be traced back to veryearly days before the Plantagenets, as he believed, though on thispoint of the subject he was very hazy in his information and he likedthe idea of being the man by whom the family should be reconstructedin its glory. Worldly circumstances had been so kind to him, that hecould take up the Belton estate with more of the prestige of wealththan had belonged to any of the owners of the place for many yearspast. Should it come to pass that living there would be desirable, hecould rebuild the old house, and make new gardens, and fit himselfout with all the pleasant braveries of a well-to-do English squire. There need be no pinching and scraping, no question whether acarriage would be possible, no doubt as to the prudence of preservinggame. All this had given much that was delightful to his prospects. And he had, too, been instigated by a somewhat weak desire to emergefrom that farmer's rank into which he knew that many connected withhim had supposed him to have sunk. It was true that he farmed landthat was half his own and that, even at Plaistow, he was a wealthyman; but Plaistow Hall, with all its comforts, was a farm-house; andthe ambition to be more than a farmer had been strong upon him. 

But then there had been the feeling that in taking the Belton estatehe would be robbing his Cousin Clara of all that should have beenhers. It must be remembered that he had not been brought up in thebelief that he would ever become the owner of Belton. All his highambition in that matter had originated with the wretched death ofClara's brother. Could he bring himself to take it all with pleasure, seeing that it came to him by so sad a chance by a catastrophe sodeplorable? When he would think of this, his mind would revolt fromits own desires, and he would declare to himself that his inheritancewould come to him with a stain of blood upon it. He, indeed, wouldhave been guiltless; but how could he take his pleasure in the shadesof Belton without thinking of the tragedy which had given him theproperty? Such had been the thoughts and desires, mixed in theirnature and militating against each other, which had induced him tooffer his first visit to his cousin's house. We know what was theeffect of that visit, and by what pleasant scheme he had endeavouredto overcome all his difficulties, and so to become master of Beltonthat Clara Amedroz should also be its mistress. There had been a waywhich, after two days' intimacy with Clara, seemed to promise himcomfort and happiness on all sides. But he had come too late, andthat way was closed against him! Now the estate was his, and what washe to do with it? Clara belonged to his rival, and in what way wouldit become him to treat her? He was still thinking simply of thecruelty of the circumstances which had thrown Captain Aylmer betweenhim and his cousin, when he drove himself up to the railway stationat Downham. 

'Take her back steady, Jem, ' he said to the boy. 

'I'll be sure to take her wery steady, ' Jem answered, 'and tellCompton to have the samples of barley ready for me. I may be back anyday, and we shall be sowing early this spring. '

Then he left his cart, followed the porter who had taken his luggageeagerly, knowing that Mr Belton was always good for sixpence, and infive minutes' time he was again in motion. 

On his arrival in London he drove at once to the chambers of hisfriend, Mr Green, and luckily found the lawyer there. Had he misseddoing this, it was his intention to go out to his friend's house; andin that case he could not have gone down to Taunton till the nextmorning; but now he would be able to say what he wished to say, andhear what he wished to hear, and would travel down by the night-mailtrain. He was anxious that Clara should feel that he had hurried toher without a moment's delay. It would do no good. He knew that. Nothing that he could do would alter her, or be of any service tohim. She had accepted this man, and had herself no power of making achange, even if she should wish it. But still there was to himsomething of gratification in the idea that she should be made tofeel that he, Belton, was more instant in his affection, more urgentin his good offices, more anxious to befriend her in herdifficulties, than the man whom she had consented to take for herhusband. Aylmer would probably go down to Belton, but Will was veryanxious to be the first on the ground very anxious though his doingso could be of no use. All this was wrong on his part. He knew thatit was wrong, and he abused himself for his own selfishness. But suchself-abuse gave him no aid in escaping from his own wickedness. Hewould, if possible, be at Belton before Captain Aylmer; and he would, if possible, make Clara feel that, though he was not a Member ofParliament, though he was not much given to books, though he was onlya farmer, yet he had at any rate as much heart and spirit as the finegentleman whom she preferred to him. 

'I thought I should see you, ' said the lawyer; 'but I hardly expectedyou so soon as this. '

'I ought to have been a day sooner, only we don't get our telegraphicmessages on a Sunday. '

He still kept his greatcoat on; and it seemed by his manner that hehad no intention of staying where he was above a minute or two. 

'You'll come out and dine with me today?' said Mr Green. 

'I can't do that, for I shall go down by the mail train. '

'I never saw such a fellow in my life. What good will that do? It isquite right that you should be there in time for the funeral; but Idon't suppose he will be buried before this day week. '

But Belton had never thought about the funeral. When he had spoken tohis sister of saying but a few words to Clara and then returning, hehad forgotten that there would be any such ceremony, or that he wouldbe delayed by any such necessity. 

'I was not thinking about the funeral, ' said Belton. 'You'll onlyfind yourself uncomfortable there. '

'Of course I shall be uncomfortable. '

'You can't do anything about the property, you know. '

'What do you mean by doing anything?' said Belton, in an angry tone. 

'You can't very well take possession of the place, at any rate, tillafter the funeral. It would not be considered the proper thing todo. '

'You think, then, that I'm a bird of prey, smelling the feast fromafar off, and hurrying at the dead man's carcase as soon as thebreath is out of his body?'

'I don't think anything of the kind, my dear fellow. '

'Yes, you do, or you wouldn't talk to me about doing the properthing! I don't care a straw about the proper thing! If I find thatthere's anything to be done tomorrow that can be of any use, I shalldo it, though all Somersetshire should think it improper! But I'm notgoing to look after my own interests!'

'Take off your coat and sit down, Will, and don't look angry at me. Iknow that you're not greedy, well enough. Tell me what you are goingto do, and let me see if I can help you. '

Belton did as he was told; he pulled off his coat and sat himselfdown by the fire. 'I don't know that you can do anything to help meat least, not as yet. But I must go and see after her. Perhaps shemay be all alone. '

'I suppose she is all alone. '

'He hasn't gone down, then?'

'Who Captain Aylmer? No he hasn't gone down, certainly. He is inYorkshire. '

'I'm glad of that!'

'He won't hurry himself. He never does, I fancy. I had a letter fromhim this morning about Miss Amedroz. '

'And what did he say?'

'He desired me to send her seventy-five pounds the interest of heraunt's money. '

'Seventy-five pounds!' said Will Belton, contemptuously. 

'He thought she might want money at once; and I sent her the chequetoday. It will go down by the same train that carries you. '

'Seventy-five pounds! And you are sure that he has not gone himself?'

'It isn't likely that he should have written to me, and passedthrough London himself, at the same time but it is possible, nodoubt. I don't think he even knew the old squire; and there is noreason why he should go to the funeral. '

'No reason at all, ' said Belton who felt that Captain Aylmer'spresence at the Castle would be an insult to himself. 'I don't knowwhat on earth he should do there except that I think him just thefellow to intrude where he is not wanted. ' And yet Will was in hisheart despising Captain Aylmer because he had not already hurrieddown to the assistance of the girl whom he professed to love. 

'He is engaged to her, you know, ' said the lawyer, in a low voice. 

'What difference does that make with such a fellow as he is acold-blooded fish of a man, who thinks of nothing in the world butbeing respectable? Engaged to her! Oh, damn him!'

'I've not the slightest objection. I don't think, however, thatyou'll find him at Belton before you. No doubt she will have heardfrom him; and it strikes me as very possible that she may go toAylmer Park. '

'What should she go there for?'

'Would it not be the best place for her?'

'No. My house would be the best place for her. I am her nearestrelative. Why should she not come to us?'

Mr Green turned round his chair and poked the fire, and fidgetedabout for some moments before he answered. 'My dear fellow, you mustknow that that wouldn't do. ' He then said, 'You ought to feel that itwouldn't do you ought indeed. '

'Why shouldn't my sister receive Miss Amedroz as well as that oldwoman down in Yorkshire?'

'If I may tell you, I will. '

'Of course you may tell me. '

'Because Miss Amedroz is engaged to be married to that old woman'sson, and is not engaged to be married to your sister's brother. Thething is done, and what is the good of interfering? As far as she isconcerned, a great burden is off your hands. '

'What do you mean by a burden?'

'I mean that her engagement to Captain Aylmer makes it unnecessaryfor you to suppose that she is in want of any pecuniary assistance. You told me once before that you would feel yourself called upon tosee that she wanted nothing. '

'So I do now. '

'But Captain Aylmer will look after that. '

'I tell you what it is, Joe; I mean to settle the Belton property insuch a way that she shall have it, and that he shan't be able totouch it. And it shall go to some one who shall have my name WilliamBelton. That's what I want you to arrange for me. '

'After you are dead, you mean. '

'I mean now, at once. I won't take the estate from her. I hate theplace and everything belonging to it. I don't mean her. There is noreason for hating her. '

'My dear Will, you are talking nonsense. '

'Why is it nonsense? I may give what belongs to me to whom I please. '

'You can do nothing of the kind at any rate, not by my assistance. You talk as though the world were all over with you as though youwere never to be married or have any children of your own. '

'I shall never marry. '

'Nonsense, Will. Don't make such an ass of yourself as to supposethat you'll not get over such a thing as this. You'll be married andhave a dozen children yet to provide for. Let the eldest have BeltonCastle, and everything will go on then in the proper way. '

Belton had now got the poker into his hands, and sat silent for sometime, knocking the coals about. Then he got up, and took his hat, andput on his coat. Of course I can't make you understand me, ' he said;at any rate not all at once. I'm not such a fool as to want to giveup my property just because a girl is going to be married to a man Idon't like. I'm not such an ass as to give him my estate for such areason as that for it will be giving it to him, let me tie it up as Imay. But I've a feeling about it which makes it impossible for me totake it. How would you like to get a thing by another fellow havingdestroyed himself?'

'You can't help that. It's yours by law. '

'Of course it is. I know that. And as it's mine I can do what I likewith it. Well good-bye. When I've got anything to say, I'll write. 'Then he went down to his cab and had himself driven to the GreatWestern Railway Hotel. 

Captain Aylmer had sent to his betrothed seventy-five pounds; theexact interest at five per cent, for one year of the sum which hisaunt had left her. This was the first subject of which Belton thoughtwhen he found himself again in the railway carriage, and he continuedthinking of it half the way down to Taunton. Seventy-five pounds! Asthough this favoured lover were prepared to give her exactly her due, and nothing more than her due! Had he been so placed, he, WillBelton, what would he have done? Seventy-five pounds might have beenmore money than she would have wanted, for he would have taken her tohis own house to his own bosom as soon as she would have permitted, and would have so laboured on her behalf, taking from her shouldersall money troubles, that there would have been no question as toprincipal or interest between them. At any rate he would not haveconfined himself to sending to her the exact sum which was her due. But then Aylmer was a cold-blooded man more like a fish than a man. Belton told himself over and over again that he had discovered thatat the single glance which he had had when he saw Captain Aylmer inGreen's chambers. Seventy-five pounds indeed! He himself was preparedto give his whole estate to her, if she would take it even though shewould not marry him, even though she was going to throw herself awayupon that fish! Then he felt somewhat as Hamlet did when he jumpedupon Laertes at the grave of Ophelia. Send her seventy-five poundsindeed, while he was ready to drink up Esil for her, or to make overto her the whole Belton estate, and thus abandon the idea for ever ofbeing Belton of Belton!

He reached Taunton in the middle of the night during the small hoursof the morning in a winter night; but yet he could not bring himselfto go to bed. So he knocked up an ostler at the nearest inn, andordered out a gig. He would go down to the village of Redicote, onthe Minehead road, and put up at the public-house there. He could notnow have himself driven at once to Belton Castle, as he would havedone had the old squire been alive. He fancied that his presencewould be a nuisance if he did so. So he went to the little inn atRedicote, reaching that place between four and five o'clock in themorning; and very uncomfortable he was when he got there. But in hispresent frame of mind he preferred discomfort. He liked being tiredand cold, and felt, when he was put into a chill room, without fire, and with a sanded floor, that things with him were as they ought tobe. 

Yes he could have a fly over to Belton Castle after breakfast. Havinglearned so much, and ordered a dish of eggs and bacon for hismorning's breakfast, he went upstairs to a miserable little bedroom, to dress himself after his night's journey. 

CHAPTER XXI

MRS ASKERTON'S GENEROSITY

The death of the old man at Belton Castle had been very sudden. Atthree o'clock in the morning Clara had been called into his room, andat five o'clock she was alone in the world having neither father, mother, nor brother; without a home, without a shilling that shecould call her own with no hope as to her future life, if as she hadso much reason to suppose Captain Aylmer should have chosen to accepther last letter as a ground for permanent separation. But at thismoment, on this saddest morning, she did not care much for thatchance. It seemed to be almost indifferent to her, that question ofLady Aylmer and her anger. The more that she was absolutely in needof external friendship, the more disposed was she to reject it, andto declare to herself that she was prepared to stand alone in theworld. 

For the last week she had understood from the doctor that her fatherwas in truth sinking, and that she might hardly hope ever to see himagain convalescent. She had therefore in some sort prepared herselffor her loneliness, and anticipated the misery of her position. Assoon as it was known to the women in the room that life had left theold man, one of them had taken her by the hand and led her back toher own chamber. 'Now, Miss Clara, you had better lie down on the bedagain you had indeed; you can do nothing sitting up. ' She took theold woman's advice, and allowed them to do with her as they would. Itwas true that there was no longer any work by which she could makeherself useful in that house in that house, or, as far as she couldsee, in any other. Yes; she would go to bed, and lying there wouldfeel how convenient it would be for many persons if she also could betaken away to her long rest, as her father, and aunt, and brother hadbeen taken before her. 

Her name and family had been unfortunate, and it would be well thatthere should be no Amedroz left to trouble those more fortunatepersons who were to come after them. In her sorrow and bitterness sheincluded both her Cousin Will and Captain Aylmer among those morefortunate ones for whose sake it might be well that she should bemade to vanish from off the earth. She had read Captain Aylmer'sletter over and over again since she had answered it, and had readnearly as often the copy of her own reply and had told herself, asshe read them, that of course he would not forgive her. He mightperhaps pardon her, if she would submit to him in everything; butthat she would not submit to his commands respecting Mrs Askerton shewas fully resolved, --and, therefore, there could be no hope. Then, whenshe remembered how lately her dear father's spirit had fled, shehated herself for having allowed her mind to dwell on anythingbeyond her loss of him. 

She was still in her bedroom, having fallen into that half-wakingslumber which the numbness of sorrow so often produces, when word wasbrought to her that Mrs Askerton was in the house. It was the firsttime that Mrs Askerton had ever crossed the door, and the remembrancethat it was so came upon her at once. During her father's lifetime ithad seemed to be understood that their neighbour should have noadmittance there but now now that her father was gone the barrier wasto be overthrown. And why not? Why should not Mrs Askerton come toher? Why, if Mrs Askerton chose to be kind to her, should she notaltogether throw herself into her friend's arms? Of course her doingso would give mortal offence to everybody at Aylmer Park; but whyneed she stop to think of that? She had already made up her mind thatshe would not obey orders from Aylmer Park on this subject. 

She had not seen Mrs Askerton since that interview between them whichwas described some few chapters back. Then everything had been toldbetween them, so that there was no longer any mystery either on theone side or on the other. Then Clara had assured her friend of herloving friendship in spite of any edicts to the contrary which mightcome from Aylmer Park; and after that what could be more natural thanthat Mrs Askerton should come to her in her sorrow? 'She says she'llcome up to you if you'll let her, ' said the servant. But Claradeclined this proposition, and in a few minutes went down to thesmall parlour in which she had lately lived, and where she found hervisitor. 

'My poor dear, this has been very sudden, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

'Very sudden very sudden. And yet, now that he has gone, I know thatI expected it. '

'Of course I came to you as soon as I heard of it, because I knew youwere all alone. If there had been any one else I should not havecome. '

'It is very good of you. '

'Colonel Askerton thought that perhaps he had better come. I told himof all that which we said to each other the other day. He thought atfirst that it would be better that I should not see you. '

'It was very good of you to come, ' said Clara again, and as she spokeshe put out her hand and took Mrs Askerton's continuing to hold itfor awhile; 'very good indeed. '

'I told him that I could not but go down to you that I thought youwould not understand it if I stayed away. '

'At any rate it was good of you to come to me. '

'I don't believe, ' said Mrs Askerton, 'that what people callconsolation is ever of any use. It is a terrible thing to lose afather. '

'Very terrible. Ah, dear, I have hardly yet found out how sad it is. As yet I have only been thinking of myself, and wishing that I couldbe with him. '

'Nay, Clara. '

'How can I help it? What am I to do? Or where am I to go? Of what useis life to such a one as me? And for him who would dare to wish himback again? When people have fallen and gone down in the world, it isbad for them to go on living. Everything is a trouble, and there isnothing but vexation. '

'Think what I have suffered, dear. '

'But you have had somebody to care for you somebody whom you couldtrust. '

'And have not you?'

'No; no one. '

'What do you mean, Clara?'

'I mean what I say. I have no one. It is no use asking questions notnow, at such a time as this. And I did not mean to complain. Complaining is weak and foolish. I have often told myself that Icould bear anything, and so I will. When I can bring myself to thinkof what I have lost in my father I shall be better, even though Ishall be more sorrowful. As it is, I hate myself for being soselfish. '

'You will let me come and stay with you today, will you not?'

'No, dear; not today. '

'Why not today, Clara?'

'I shall be better alone. I have so many things to think of. '

'I know well that it would be better that you should not be alonemuch better. But I will not press it. I cannot insist with you asanother woman would. '

'You are wrong there; quite wrong. I would be led by you sooner thanby any woman living. What other woman is there to whom I would listenfor a moment?' As she said this, even in the depth of her sorrow shethought of Lady Aylmer, and strengthened herself in her resolution torebel against her lover's mother. Then she continued, 'I wish I knewmy Cousin Mary Mary Bolton; but I have never seen her. '

'Is she nice?'

'So Will tells me; and I know that what he says must be true evenabout his sister. '

'Will, Will! You are always thinking of your Cousin Will. If he bereally so good he will show it now. '

'How can he show it? What can he do?'

'Does he not inherit all the property?'

'Of course he does. And what of that? When I say that I have nofriend I am not thinking of my poverty. '

'If he has that regard for you which he pretends, he can do much toassist you. Why should he not come here at once?'

'God forbid. '

'Why? Why do you say so? He is your nearest relative. '

'If you do not understand I cannot explain. '

'Has he been told what has happened?' Mrs Askerton asked. 

'Colonel Askerton sent a message to him, I believe. '

'And to Captain Aylmer also?'

'Yes; and to Captain Aylmer. It was Colonel Askerton who sent it. '

'Then he will come, of course. '

'I think not. Why should he come? He did not even know poor papa. '

'But, my dear Clara, has he not known you?'

'You will see that he will not come. And I tell you beforehand thathe will be right to stay away. Indeed, I do not know how he couldcome and I do not want him here. '

'I cannot understand you, Clara. '

'I suppose not. I cannot very well understand myself. '

'I should not be at all surprised if Lady Aylmer were to comeherself. '

'Oh, heavens! How little you can know of Lady Aylmer's position andcharacter!'

'But if she is to be your mother-in-law?'

'And even if she were! The idea of Lady Aylmer coming away fromAylmer Park all the way from Yorkshire, to such a house as this! Ifthey told me that the Queen was coming it would hardly disconcert memore. But, dear, there is no danger of that at least. '

'I do not know what may have passed between you and him; but unlessthere has been some quarrel he will come. That is, he will do so ifhe is at all like any men whom I have known. '

'He will not come. '

Then Mrs Askerton made some half-whispered offers of services to berendered by Colonel Askerton, and soon afterwards took her leave, having first asked permission to come again in the afternoon, andwhen that was declined, having promised to return on the followingmorning. As she walked back to the cottage she could not but thinkmore of Clara's engagement to Captain Aylmer than she did of thesquire's death. As regarded herself, of course she could not grievefor Mr Amedroz; and as regarded Clara, Clara's father had for sometime past been apparently so insignificant, even in his own house, that it was difficult to acknowledge the fact that the death of sucha one as he might leave a great blank in the world. But what hadClara meant by declaring so emphatically that Captain Aylmer wouldnot visit Belton, and by speaking of herself as one who had neitherposition nor friends in the world? If there had been a quarrel, indeed, then it was sufficiently intelligible and if there was anysuch quarrel, from what source must it have arisen? Mrs Askerton feltthe blood rise to her cheeks as she thought of this, and told herselfthat there could be but one such source. Mrs Askerton knew that Clarahad received orders from Aylmer Castle to discontinue allacquaintance with herself, and, therefore, there could be no doubt asto the cause of the quarrel. It had come to this then, that Clara wasto lose her husband because she was true to her friend; or ratherbecause she would not consent to cast an additional stone at one whofor some years past had become a mark for many stones. 

I am not prepared to say that Mrs Askerton was a high-minded woman. Misfortunes had come upon her in life of a sort which are too apt toquench high nobility of mind in woman. There are calamities which, bytheir natural tendencies, elevate the character of women and addstrength to the growth of feminine virtues but then, again, there areother calamities which few women can bear without some degradation, without some injury to that delicacy and tenderness which isessentially necessary to make a woman charming as a woman. In this, Ithink, the world is harder to women than to men; that a woman oftenloses much by the chance of adverse circumstances which a man onlyloses by his own misconduct. That there are women whom no calamitycan degrade is true enough and so it is true that there are some menwho are heroes; but such are exceptions both among men and women. Notsuch a one had Mrs Askerton been. Calamity had come upon her partly, indeed, by her own fault, though that might have been pardoned butthe weight of her misfortunes had been too great for her strength, and she had become in some degree hardened by what she had endured;if not unfeminine, still she was feminine in an inferior degree, withwomanly feelings of a lower order. And she had learned to intrigue, not being desirous of gaining aught by dishonest intriguing, butbelieving that she could only hold her own by carrying on her battleafter that fashion. In all this I am speaking of the generalcharacter of the woman, and am not alluding to the one sin which shehad committed. Thus, when she had first become acquainted with MissAmedroz, her conscience had not rebuked her in that she was deceivingher new friend. When asked casually in conversation as to her maidenname, she had not blushed as she answered the question with afalsehood. When, unfortunately, the name of her first husband had insome way made itself known to Clara, she had been ready again withsome prepared fib. And when she had recognized William Belton, shehad thought that the danger to herself of having any one near her whomight know her quite justified her in endeavouring to create ill-willbetween Clara and her cousin. 'Self-preservation is the first law ofnature, ' she would have said; and would have failed to remember, asshe did always fail to remember that nature does not require by anyof its laws that self-preservation should be aided by falsehood. 

But though she was not high-minded, so also was she not ungenerous;and now, as she began to understand that Clara was sacrificingherself because of that promise which had been given when they twohad stood together at the window in the cottage drawing-room, she wascapable of feeling more for her friend than for herself. She wascapable even of telling herself that it was cruel on her part even towish for any continuance of Clara's acquaintance. 'I have made mybed, and I must lie upon it, ' she said to herself; and then sheresolved that, instead of going up to the house on the following day, she would write to Clara, and put an end to the intimacy whichexisted between them. 'The world is hard, and harsh, and unjust, ' shesaid, still speaking to herself. 'But that is not her fault; I willnot injure her because I have been injured myself. '

Colonel Askerton was up at the house on the same day, but he did notask for Miss Amedroz, nor did she see him. Nobody else came to thehouse then, or on the following morning, or on that afternoon, thoughClara did not fail to tell herself that Captain Aylmer might havebeen there if he had chosen to take the journey and to leave home assoon as he had received the message; and she made the samecalculation as to her Cousin Will though in that calculation, as weknow, she was wrong. These two days had been very desolate with her, and she had begun to look forward to Mrs Askerton's coming wheninstead of that there came a messenger with a letter from thecottage. 

'You can do as you like, my dear, ' Colonel Askerton had said on theprevious evening to his wife. He had listened to all she had beensaying without taking his eyes from off his newspaper, though she hadspoken with much eagerness. 

'But that is not enough. You should say more to me than that. '

'Now I think you are unreasonable. For myself, I do not care how thismatter goes; nor do I care one straw what any tongues may say. Theycannot reach me, excepting so far as they may reach me through you. '

'But you should advise me. '

'I always do copiously, when I think that I know better than you; butin this matter I feel so sure that you know better than I, that Idon't wish to suggest anything. ' Then he went on with his newspaper, and she sat for a while looking at him, as though she expected thatsomething more would be said. But nothing more was said, and she wasleft entirely to her own guidance. 

Since the days in which her troubles had come upon Mrs Askerton, Clara Amedroz was the first female friend who had come near her tocomfort her, and she was very loth to abandon such comfort. Therehad, too, been something more than comfort, something almostapproaching to triumph, when she found that Clara had clung to herwith affection after hearing the whole story of her life. Though herconscience had not pricked her while she was exercising all herlittle planned deceits, she had not taken much pleasure in them. Howshould any one take pleasure in such work? Many of us daily deceiveour friends, and are so far gone in deceit that the deceit alone ishardly painful to us. But the need of deceiving a friend is alwayspainful. The treachery is easy; but to be treacherous to those welove is never easy never easy, even though it be so common. There hadbeen a double delight to this poor woman in the near neighbourhood ofClara Amedroz since there had ceased to be a necessity for falsehoodon her part. But now, almost before her joy had commenced, almostbefore she had realized the sweetness of her triumph, had come uponher this task of doing that herself which Clara in her generosity hadrefused to do. 'I have made my bed and I must lie upon it, ' she said. And then, instead of going down to the house as she had promised, shewrote the following letter to Miss Amedroz:--

'The Cottage, Monday. 

'Dearest Clara, --I need not tell you that I write as I do now with ableeding heart. A few days since I should have laughed at any woman whoused such a phrase of herself, and declared her to be an affected fool;but now I know how true such a word may be. My heart is bleeding, and Ifeel myself to be overcome by my disgrace. You told me that I did notunderstand you yesterday. Of course I understood you. Of course Iknow how it all is, and why you spoke as you did of Captain Aylmer. He has chosen to think that you could not know me without pollution, and has determined that you must give up either me or him. Though hehas judged me, I am not going to judge him. The world is on his side;and, perhaps, he is right. He knows nothing of my trials anddifficulties and why should he? I do not blame him for demanding thathis future wife shall not be intimate with a woman who is supposed tohave lost her fitness for the society of women. 

'At any rate, dearest, you must obey him and we will see each other nomore. I am quite sure that I should be very wicked were I to allowyou to injure your position in life on my account. You at any ratelove him, and would be happy with him, and as you are engaged to him, you have no just ground for resenting his interference. 

'You will understand me now as well as though I were to fill sheetsand sheets of paper with what I could say on the subject. The simplefact is, that you and I must forget each other, or simply rememberone another as past friends. You will know in a day or two what yourplans are. If you remain here, we will go away. If you go away, wewill remain here that is, if your cousin will keep us as tenants. Ido not, of course, know what you may have written to Captain Aylmersince our interview up here, but I beg that you will write to himnow, and make him understand that he need have no fears in respect ofme. You may send him this letter if you will. Oh, dear! If you couldknow what I suffer as I write this. 

'I feel that I owe you an apology for harassing you on such a subjectat such a time; but I know that I ought not to lose a day in tollingyou that you are to see nothing more of the friend who has loved you. 

'MARY ASKERTON. '

Clara's first impulse on receiving this letter was to go off at onceto the cottage, and insist on her privilege of choosing her ownfriends. If she preferred Mrs Askerton to Captain Aylmer, that was noone's business but her own. And she would have done so had she notbeen afraid of meeting with Colonel Askerton. To him she would nothave known how to speak on such a subject nor would she have knownhow to conduct herself at the cottage without speaking of it. Andthen, after a while, she felt that were she to do so should she nowdeliberately determine to throw herself into Mrs Askerton's arms shemust at the same time give up all ideas of becoming Captain Aylmer'swife. As she thought of this she asked herself various questionsconcerning him, which she did not find it easy to answer. Did shewish to be his wife? Could she assure herself that if they weremarried they would make each other happy? Did she love him? She wasstill able to declare to herself that the answer to the last questionshould be an affirmative; but, nevertheless, she thought that shecould give him up without great unhappiness. And when she began tothink of Lady Aylmer, and to remember that Frederic Aylmer'simperative demands upon her obedience had, in all probability, beendictated by his mother, she was again anxious to go at once to thecottage, and declare that she would not submit to any interferencewith her own judgment. 

On the next morning the postman brought to her a letter which was ofmuch moment to her but he brought to her also tidings which moved hermore even than the letter. The letter was from the lawyer, andenclosed a cheque for seventy-five pounds, which he had beeninstructed to pay to her, as the interest of the money left to her byher aunt. What should be her answer to that letter she knew verywell, and she instantly wrote it, sending back the cheque to MrGreen. The postman's news, more important than the letter, told herthat William Belton was at the inn at Redicote. 

CHAPTER XXII

PASSIONATE PLEADING

Clara wrote her letter to the lawyer, returning the cheque, beforeshe would allow herself a moment to dwell upon the news of hercousin's arrival. She felt that it was necessary to do that beforeshe should even see her cousin thus providing against any difficultywhich might arise from adverse advice on his part; and as soon as theletter was written she sent it to the post-office in the village. Shewould do almost anything that Will might tell her to do, butCaptain Aylmer's money she would not take, even though Will might sodirect her. They would tell her, no doubt, among them, that the moneywas her own, --that she might take it without owing any thanks for it toCaptain Aylmer. But she knew better than that, --as she told herselfover and over again. Her aunt had left her nothing, and nothing wouldshe have from Captain Aylmer, --unless she had all that Captain Aylmerhad to give, after the fashion in which women best love to take suchgifts. 

Then, when she had done that, she was able to think of her cousin'svisit. 'I knew he would come, ' she said to herself, as she satherself in one of the old chairs in the hall, with a large shawlwrapped round her shoulders. She had just been to the front door, with the nominal purpose of dispatching her messenger thence to thepost-office; but she had stood for a minute or two under the portico, looking in the direction by which Belton would come from Redicote, expecting, or rather hoping, that she might see his figure or hearthe sound of his gig. But she saw nothing and heard nothing, and soreturned into the hall, slowly shutting the door. 'I knew that hewould come, ' she said, repeating to herself the same words over andover again. Yet when Mrs Askerton had told her that he would do thisthing which he had now done, she had expressed herself as almostfrightened by the idea. 'God forbid, ' she had said. Nevertheless nowthat he was there at Redicote, she assured herself that his comingwas a thing of which she had been certain; and she took a joy in theknowledge of his nearness to her which she did not attempt to defineto herself. Had he not said that he would be a brother to her, andwas it not a brother's part to go to a sister in affliction? 'I knewthat he would come. I was sure of it. He is so true. ' As to CaptainAylmer's not coming she said nothing, even to herself; but she feltthat she had been equally sure on that subject. Of course, CaptainAylmer would not come! He had sent her seventy-five pounds in lieu ofcoming, and in doing so was true to his character. Both men weredoing exactly that which was to have been expected of them. So atleast Clara Amedroz now assured herself. She did not ask herself howit was that she had come to love the thinner and the meaner of thetwo men, but she knew well that such had been her fate. 

On a sudden she rose from her chair, as though remembering a duty tobe performed, and went to the kitchen and directed that breakfastmight be got ready for Mr Belton. He would have travelled all nightand would be in want of food. Since the old squire's death there hadbeen no regular meal served in the house, and Clara had taken suchscraps of food and cups of tea as the old servant of the house hadbrought to her. But now the cloth must be spread again, and as shedid this with her own hands she remembered the dinners which had beenprepared for Captain Aylmer at Perivale after his aunt's death. Itseemed to her that she was used to be in the house with death, andthat the sadness and solemn ceremonies of woe were becoming thingsfamiliar to her. There grew upon her a feeling that it must be sowith her always. The circumstances of her life would ever be sad. What right had she to expect any other fate after such a catastropheas that which her brother had brought upon the family? It was clearto her that she had done wrong in supposing that she could marry andlive with a prosperous man of the world like Captain Aylmer. Theirnatures were different, and no such union could lead to any good. Soshe told herself, with much misery of spirit, as she was preparingthe breakfast-table for William Belton. 

But William Belton did not come to eat the breakfast. He got what hewanted in that way at the inn at Redicote, and even then hesitated, loitering at the bar, before he would go over. What was he to say, and how would he be received? After all, had he not done amiss incoming to a house at which he probably might not be wanted? Would itnot be thought that his journey had been made solely with a view tohis own property? He would be regarded as the heir pouncing upon theinheritance before as yet the old owner was under the ground. At anyrate it would be too early for him to make his visit yet awhile; and, to kill time, he went over to a carpenter who had been employed byhim about the place at Belton. The carpenter spoke to him as thougheverything were his own, and was very intent upon futureimprovements. This made Will more disgusted with himself than ever, and before he could get out of the carpenter's yard he thoroughlywished himself back at Plaistow. But having come so far, he couldhardly return without seeing his cousin, and at last he had himselfdriven over, reaching the house between eleven and twelve o'clock inthe day. 

Clara met him in the hall, and at once led him into the room whichshe had prepared for him. He had given her his hand in the hall, butdid not speak to her till she had spoken to him after the closing ofthe room door behind them. 'I thought that you would come' she said, still holding him by the hand. 

'I did not know what to do, ' he answered. 'I couldn't say which wasbest. Now I am here I shall only be in your way. ' He did not dare topress her hand, nor could he bring himself to take his away from her. 

'In my way yes; as an angel, to tell me what to do in my trouble. Iknew you would come, because you are so good. But you will havebreakfast see, I have got it ready for you. '

'Oh no; I breakfasted at Redicote. I would not trouble you. '

'Trouble me, Will! Oh, Will, if you knew!' Then there came tears inher eyes, and at the sight of them both his own were filled. How washe to stand it? To take her to his bosom and hold her there foralways; to wipe away her tears so that she should weep no more; todevote himself and all his energy and all that was his comfort to herthis he could have done; but he knew not how to do anything short ofthis. Every word that she spoke to him was an encouragement to this, and yet he knew that it could not be so. To say a word of his love, or even to look it, would now be an unmanly insult. And yet, how washe not to look it not to speak of it? 'It is such a comfort that youshould be here with me, ' she said. 

'Then I am glad I am here, though I do not know what I can do. Did hesuffer much, Clara?'

'No, I think not; very little. He sank at last quicker than Iexpected, but just as I thought he would go. He used to speak of youso often, and always with regard and esteem!'

'Dear old man!'

'Yes, Will; he was, in spite of his little faults. No father everloved his daughter better than he loved me. '

After a while the servant brought in the tea, explaining to Beltonthat Miss Clara had neither eaten nor drank that morning. 'Shewouldn't take anything till you came, sir. ' Then Will added hisentreaties, and Clara was persuaded, and by degrees there grewbetween them more ease of manner and capability for talking than hadbeen within their reach when they first met. And during the morningmany things were explained, as to which Clara would a few hourspreviously have thought it to be almost impossible that she shouldspeak to her cousin. She had told him of her aunt's money, and theway in which she had on that very morning sent back the cheque to thelawyer; and she had said something also as to Lady Aylmer's views, and her own views as to Lady Aylmer. With Will this subject was onemost difficult of discussion; and he blushed and fidgeted in hischair, and walked about the room, and found himself unable to lookClara in the face as she spoke to him. But she went on, goading himwith the name, which of all names was the most distasteful to him;and mentioning that name almost in terms of reproach of reproachwhich he felt it would be ungenerous to reciprocate, but which hewould have exaggerated to unmeasured abuse if he had given his tonguelicence to speak his mind. 

'I was right to send back the money wasn't I, Will? Say that I wasright. Pray tell me that you think so!'

'I don't understand it at present, you see; I am no lawyer. '

'But it doesn't want a lawyer to know that I couldn't take the moneyfrom him. I am sure you feel that. '

'If a man owes money of course he ought to pay it. '

'But he doesn't owe it, Will. It is intended for generosity. '

'You don't want anybody's generosity, certainly. ' Then he reflectedthat Clara must, after all, depend entirely on the generosity of someone till she was married; and he wanted to explain to her thateverything he had in the world was at her service was indeed her own. Or he would have explained, if he knew how, that he did not intend totake advantage of the entail that the Belton estate should belong toher as the natural heir of her father. But he conceived that themoment for explaining this had hardly as yet arrived, and that he hadbetter confine himself to some attempt at teaching her that noextraneous assistance would be necessary to her, 'In money matters, 'said he, 'of course you are to look to me. That is a matter ofcourse. I'll see Green about the other affairs. Green and I arefriends. We'll settle it. '

'That's not what I meant, Will. '

'But it's what I mean. This is one of those things in which a man hasto act on his own judgment. Your father and I understood each other. '

'He did not understand that I was to accept your bounty. '

'Bounty is a nasty word, and I hate it. You accepted me as yourbrother, and as such I mean to act. ' The word almost stuck in histhroat, but he brought it out at last in a fierce tone, of which sheunderstood accurately the cause and meaning. 'All money matters aboutthe place must be settled by me. Indeed, that's why I came down. '

'Not only for that, Will?'

'Just to be useful in that way, I mean. '

'You came to see me because you knew I should want you. ' Surely thiswas malice prepense! Knowing what was his want, how could sheexasperate it by talking thus of her own? 'As for money, I have noclaim on any one. No creature was ever more forlorn. But I will nottalk of that. '

'Did you not say that you would treat me as a brother?'

'I did not mean that I was to be a burden on you. '

'I know what I meant, and that is sufficient. ' Belton had been at thehouse some hours before he made any signs of leaving her, and when hedid so he had to explain something of his plans. He would remain, hesaid, for about a week in the neighbourhood. 

She of course was obliged to ask him to stay at the house at thehouse which was in fact his own; but he declined to do this, blurtingout his reason at last very plainly. 'Captain Aylmer would not likeit, and I suppose you are bound to think of what he likes anddislikes. ' 'I don't know what right Captain Aylmer would have todislike any such thing, ' said Clara. But, nevertheless, she allowedthe reason to pass as current, and did not press her invitation. Willdeclared that he would stay at the inn at Redicote, striving toexplain in some very unintelligible manner that such an arrangementwould be very convenient. He would remain at Redicote, and would comeover to Belton every day during his sojourn in the country. Then heasked one question in a low whisper as to the last sad ceremony, and, having received an answer, started off with the declared intention ofcalling on Colonel Askerton. 

The next two or three days passed uncomfortably enough with WillBelton. He made his head-quarters at the little inn of Redicote, anddrove himself backwards and forwards between that place and theestate which was now his own. On each of these days he saw ColonelAskerton, whom he found to be a civil pleasant man, willing enough torid himself of the unpleasant task he had undertaken, but at the sametime, willing also to continue his services if any further serviceswere required of him. But of Mrs Askerton on these occasions Will sawnothing, nor had he ever spoken to her since the time of his firstvisit to the Castle. Then came the day of the funeral, and after thatrite was over he returned with his cousin to the house. There was nowill to be read. The old squire had left no will, nor was thereanything belonging to him at the time of his death that he couldbequeath. The furniture in the house, the worn-out carpets andold-fashioned chairs, belonged to Clara; but, beyond that, propertyhad she none, nor had it been in her father's power to endow her withanything. She was alone in the world, penniless, with a conviction onher own mind that her engagement with Frederic Aylmer must ofnecessity come to an end, and with a feeling about her cousin whichshe could hardly analyse, but which told her that she could not go tohis house in Norfolk, nor live with him at Belton Castle, nor trustherself in his hands as she would into those of a real brother. 

On the afternoon of the day on which her father had been buried, shebrought to him a letter, asking him to read it, and tell her what sheshould do. The letter was from Lady Aylmer, and contained aninvitation to Aylmer Castle. It had been accompanied, as the readermay possibly remember, by a letter from Captain Aylmer himself. Ofthis she of course informed her cousin; but she did not find it to benecessary to show the letter of one rival to the other. Lady Aylmer'sletter was cold in its expression of welcome, but very dictatorial inpointing out the absolute necessity that Clara should accept theinvitation so given. 'I think you will not fail to agree with me, dear Miss Amedroz, ' the letter said, 'that under these strange andperplexing circumstances, this is the only roof which can, with anypropriety, afford you a shelter. ' 'And why not the poor-house?' shesaid, aloud to her cousin, when she perceived that his eye haddescended so far on the page. He shook his head angrily, but saidnothing; and when he had finished the letter he folded it and gave itback still in silence. 'And what am I to do?' she said. 'You tell methat I am to come to you for advice in everything. '

'You must decide for yourself here. '

'And you won't advise me. . You won't tell me whether she is right?'

'I suppose she is right. '

'Then I had better go?'

'If you mean to marry Captain Aylmer, you had better go. '

'I am engaged to him. '

'Then you had better go. '

'But I will not submit myself to her tyranny. '

'Let the marriage take place at once, and you will have to submitonly to his. I suppose you are prepared for that?'

'I do not know. I do not like tyranny. '

Again he stood silent for awhile, looking at her, and then heanswered: 'I should not tyrannize over you, Clara. '

'Oh, Will, Will, do not speak like that. Do not destroy everything. '

'What am I to say?'

'What would you say if your sister, your real sister, asked advice insuch a strait? If you had a sister, who came to you, and told you allher difficulty, you would advise her. You would not say words to makethings worse for her. '

'It would be very different. '

'But you said you would be my brother. '

'How am I to know what you feel for this man? It seems to me that youhalf hate him, half fear him, and sometimes despise him. '

'Hate him! No I never hate him. '

'Go to him, then, and ask him what you had better do. Don't ask me. 'Then he hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Butbefore he had half gone down the stairs he remembered the ceremony atwhich he had just been present, and how desolate she was in theworld, and he returned to her. 'I beg your pardon, Clara, ' he said, 'I am passionate; but I must be a beast to show my passion to you onsuch a day as this. If I were you I should accept Lady Aylmer'sinvitation merely thanking her for it in the ordinary way. I shouldthen go and see how the land lay. That is the advice I should give mysister. '

'And I will if it is only because you tell me. '

'But as for a home tell her you have one of your own at BeltonCastle, from which no one can turn you out, and where no one canintrude on you. This house belongs to you. ' Then, before she couldanswer him, he had left the room and she listened to his heavy quickfootsteps as he went across the hall and out of the front door. 

He walked across the park and entered the little gate of ColonelAskerton's garden, as though it were his habit to go to the cottagewhen he was at Belton. There had been various matters on which thetwo men had been brought into contact concerning the old squire'sdeath and the tenancy of the cottage, so that they had become almostintimate. Belton had nothing new that he specially desired to say toColonel Askerton, whom, indeed, he had seen only a short time beforeat the funeral; but he wanted the relief of speaking to some onebefore he returned to the solitude of the inn at Redicote. On thisoccasion, however, the colonel was out, and the maid asked him if hewould see Mrs Askerton. When he said something about not troublingher, the girl told him that her mistress wished to speak to him, andthen he had no alternative but to allow himself to be shown into thedrawing-room. 

'I want to see you a minute, ' said Mrs Askerton, bowing to himwithout putting out her hand, 'that I might ask you how you find yourcousin. '

'She is pretty well, I think. '

'Colonel Askerton has seen more of her than I have since her father'sdeath, and he says that she does not bear it well. He thinks that sheis ill. '

'I do not think her ill. Of course she is not in good spirits. '

'No; exactly. How should she be? But he thinks she seems so worn. Ihope you will excuse me, Mr Belton, but I love her so well that Icannot bear to be quite in the dark as to her future. Is anythingsettled yet?'

'She is going to Aylmer Castle. '

'To Aylmer Castle! Is she indeed? At once?'

'Very soon. Lady Aylmer has asked her. '

'Lady Aylmer! Then I suppose--'

'You suppose what?' Will Belton asked. 

'I did not think she would have gone to Aylmer Castle though I daresay it is the best thing she could do She seemed to me to dislike theAylmers that is, Lady Aylmer so much! But I suppose she is right?'

'She is right to go if she likes it. '

'She is circumstanced so cruelly! Is she not? Where else could shego? I do so feel for her. I believe I need hardly tell you, MrBelton, that, she would be as welcome here as flowers in May but thatI do not dare to ask her to come to us. ' She said this in a lowvoice, turning her eyes away from him, looking first upon the ground, and then again up at the window but still not daring to meet his eye. 

'I don't exactly know about that, ' said Belton awkwardly. 

'You know, I hope, that I love her dearly. '

'Everybody does that, ' said Will. 

'You do, Mr Belton. '

'Yes I do; just as though she were my sister. '

'And as your sister would you let her come here to us?' He sat silentfor awhile, thinking, and she waited patiently for his answer. Batshe spoke again before he answered her. 'I am well aware that youknow all my history, Mr Belton. '

'I shouldn't tell it her, if you mean that, though she were mysister. If she were my wife I should tell her. '

'And why your wife?'

'Because then I should be sure it would do no harm. '

'Then I find that you can be generous, Mr Belton. But she knows itall as well as you do. '

'I did not tell her. '

'Nor did I but I should have done so had not Captain Aylmer beenbefore me. And now tell me whether I could ask her to come here. '

'It would be useless, as she is going to Aylmer Castle'. 

'But she is going there simply to find a home having no other. '

'That is not so, Mrs Askerton. She has a home as perfectly her own asany woman in the land. Belton Castle is hers, to do what she mayplease with it. She can live here if she likes it, and nobody can saya word to her. She need not go to Aylmer Castle to look for a home. '

'You mean you would lend her the house?'

'It is hers. '

'I do not understand you, Mr Belton. '

'It does not signify we will say no more about it. '

'And you think she likes going to Lady Aylmer's?'

'How should I say what she likes?'

Then there was another pause before Mrs Askerton spoke again. 'I cantell you one thing, ' she said: 'she does not like him. '

'That is her affair. '

'But she should be taught to know her own mind before she throwsherself away altogether. You would not wish your cousin to marry aman whom she does not love because at one time she had come to thinkthat she loved him. That is the truth of it, Mr Belton. If she goesto Aylmer Castle she will marry him and she will be an unhappy womanalways afterwards. If you would sanction her coming here for a fewdays, I think all that would be cured. She would come in a moment, ifyou advised her. '

Then he went away, allowing himself to make no further answer at themoment, and discussed the matter with himself as he walked back toRedicote, meditating on it with all his mind, and all his heart, andall his strength. And, as he meditated, it came on to rain bitterly acold piercing February rain and the darkness of night came upon him, and he floundered on through the thick mud of the Somersetshirelanes, unconscious of the weather and of the darkness. There was away open to him by which he might even yet get what he wanted. Hethought he saw that there was a way open to him through the policy ofthis woman, whom he perceived to have become friendly to him. He saw, or thought that he saw, it all. No day had absolutely been fixed forthis journey to Yorkshire; and if Clara were induced to go first tothe cottage, and stay there with Mrs Askerton, no such journey mightever be taken. He could well understand that such a visit on her partwould give a mortal offence to all the Aylmers. That tyranny of whichClara spoke with so much dread would be exhibited then withoutreserve, and so there would be an end altogether of the Aylmeralliance. But were she once to start for Aylmer Park, then therewould be no hope for him. Then her fate would be decided, --and his. Asfar as he could see, too, --as far as he could see then, there would beno dishonesty in this plan. Why should Clara not go to Mrs Askerton'shouse? What could be more natural than such a visit at such a time?If she were in truth his sister he would not interfere to prevent itif she wished it. He had told himself that the woman should beforgiven her offence, and had thought that that forgiveness should becomplete. If the Aylmers were so unreasonable as to quarrel with heron this ground, let them quarrel with her. Mrs Askerton had told himthat Clara did not really like Captain Aylmer. Perhaps it was so; andif so, what greater kindness could he do her than give her anopportunity for escaping such a union?

The whole of the next day he remained at Redicote, thinking, doubting, striving to reconcile his wishes and his honesty. It rainedall day, and as he sat alone, smoking in the comfortless inn, he toldhimself that the rain was keeping him but in truth it was not therain. Had he resolved to do his best to prevent this visit toYorkshire, or had he resolved to further it, I think he would havegone to Belton without much fear of the rain. On the second day afterthe funeral he did go, and he had then made up his mind. Clara, ifshe would listen to him, should show her independence of Lady Aylmerby staying a few days with the Askertons before she went toYorkshire, and by telling Lady Aylmer that such was her intention. 'If she really loves the man, ' he said to himself, 'she will go atonce, in spite of anything that I can say. If she does not, I shallbe saving her. '

'How cruel of you not to come yesterday!' Clara said, as soon as shesaw him. 

'It rained hard, ' he answered. 

'But men like you care so little for rain; but that is when you havebusiness to take you out or pleasure. '

'You need not be so severe. The truth is I had things to trouble me. '

'What troubled you, Will. I thought all the trouble was mine. '

'I suppose everybody thinks that his own shoe pinches the hardest. '

'Your shoe can't pinch you very bad, I should think. Sometimes when Ithink of you it seems that you are an embodiment of prosperity andhappiness. '

'I don't see it myself that's all. Did you write to Lady Aylmer, Clara?'

'I wrote; but I didn't send it. I would not send any letter till Ihad shown it to you, as you are my confessor and adviser. There; readit. Nothing, I think, could be more courteous or less humble. ' Hetook the letter and read it. Clara had simply expressed herselfwilling to accept Lady Aylmer's invitation, and asked her ladyship tofix a day. There was no mention of Captain Aylmer's name in the note. 

'And you think this is best?' he said. His voice was hardly like hisown as he spoke. There was wanting to it that tone of self-assurancewhich his voice almost always possessed, even when self-assurancewas lacking to his words. 

'I thought it was your own advice, ' she said. 

'Well yes; that is, I don't quite know. You couldn't go for a week orso yet, I suppose. '

'Perhaps in about a week. '

'And what will you do till then?'

'What will I do!'

'Yes where do you mean to stay?'

'I thought, Will, that perhaps you would let me remain here. '

'Let you! Oh, heavens! Look here, Clara. '

'Before heaven I want what may be the best for you without thinkingof you, if I could only help it. '

'I have never doubted you. I never will doubt you. I believe in younext to my God. I do, Will; I do. ' He walked up and down the roomhalf-a-dozen times before he spoke again, while she stood by thetable watching him. 'I wish, ' she said, 'I knew what it is thattroubles you. ' To this he made no answer, but went on walking tillshe came up to him, and putting both her hands upon his arm said, 'Itwill be better, Will, that I should go will it not? Speak to me, andsay so. I feel that it will be better. ' Then he stopped in his walkand looked down upon her, as her hands still rested upon hisshoulder. He gazed upon her for some few seconds, remaining quitemotionless, and then, opening his arms, he surrounded her with hisembrace, and pressing her with all his strength close to his bosom, kissed her forehead, and her cheeks, and her lips, and her eyes. Hiswill was so masterful, his strength so great, and his motion soquick, that she was powerless to escape from him till he relaxed hishold. Indeed she hardly struggled, so much was she surprised and sosoon released. But the moment that he left her he saw that her facewas burning red, and that the tears were streaming from her eyes. Shestood for a moment trembling, with her hands clenched, and with alook of scorn upon her lips and brow that he had never seen before;and then she threw herself on a sofa, and, burying her face, sobbedaloud; while her whole body was shaken as with convulsions. He leanedover her repentant, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to speak. All ideas of his scheme had gone from him now. He had offended herfor ever past redemption. What could be the use now of any scheme?And as he stood there he hated himself because of his scheme. Theutter misery and disgrace of the present moment had come upon himbecause he had thought more of himself than of her. It was but a fewmoments since she had told him that she trusted him next to her God;and yet in those few moments, he had shown himself utterly unworthyof that trust, and had destroyed all her confidence. But he could notleave, her without speaking to her. 'Clara!' he said 'Clara. ' But shedid not answer him. 'Clara; will you not speak to me? Will you notlet me ask you to forgive me?' But still she only sobbed. For her, atthat moment, we may say that sobbing was easier than speech. How wasshe to pardon so great an offence? How was she to resent suchpassionate love?

But he could not continue to stand there motionless, all butspeechless, while she lay with her face turned away from him. He mustat any rate in some manner take himself away out of the room; andthis he could not do, even in his present condition of unlimiteddisgrace, without a word of farewell. 'Perhaps I had better go andleave you, ' he said. 

Then at last there came a voice, 'Oh, Will, why have you done this?Why have you treated me so badly?' When he had last seen her face hermouth had been full of scorn, but, there was, no scorn now in hervoice. 'Why why why?'

Why indeed except that it was needful for him that she should knowthe depth of his passion. 'If you will forgive me, Clara, I will notoffend you so again, ' he said. 

'You have offended me. What am I to say? What am I to do? I have noother friend. '

'I am a wretch. I know that I am a wretch. '

'I did not suspect that you would be so cruel. Oh, Will!'

But before he went she told him that she had forgiven him, and shehad preached to him a solemn, sweet sermon on the wickedness ofyielding, to momentary impulses. Her low, grave words sank into hisears as though they were divine; and when she said a word to him, blushing as she spoke, of the sin of his passion and of what her sinwould be, if she were to permit it, he sat by her weeping like aninfant, tears which were certainly tears of innocence. She had beenvery angry with him; but I think she loved him better when, hersermon was finished than she had ever loved him before. 

There was no further question as to her going to Aylmer Castle, norwas any mention made of Mrs Askerton's invitation to the cottage. Theletter for Lady Aylmer was sent, and it was agreed between them thatWill should remain at Redicote till the answer from Yorkshire shouldcome, and should then convey Clara as far as London on her journey. And when he took leave of her that afternoon, she was able to givehim her hand in her old hearty, loving way, and to call him Will withthe old hearty, loving tone. And he, --he was able to accept thesetokens of her graciousness, as though they were signs of a pardonwhich she had been good to give, but which he certainly had notdeserved. 

As he went back to Redicote, he swore to himself that he would neverlove any woman but her, --even though she must be the wife of CaptainAylmer. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE LAST DAY AT BELTON

In course of post there came an answer from Lady Aylmer, naming a dayfor Clara's journey to Yorkshire, and also a letter from CaptainAylmer, in, which he stated that he would meet her in London andconvey her down to Aylmer Park. 'The House is sitting, ' he said, 'andtherefore I shall be a little troubled about my time; but I cannotallow that your first meeting with my mother should take place in myabsence. ' This was all very well, but at the end of the letter therewas a word of caution that was not so well. 'I am sure, my dearClara, that you will remember how much is due to my mother's age, andcharacter, and position. Nothing will be wanted to the happiness ofour marriage, if you can succeed in gaining her affection, andtherefore I make it my first request to you, that you shouldendeavour to win her good opinion. ' There was nothing perhaps reallyamiss, certainly nothing unreasonable, in such words from a futurehusband to his future wife; but Clara, as she read them, shook herhead and pressed her foot against the ground in anger. It would notdo. Sorrow would come and trouble and disappointment. She did not sayso, even to herself in words; but the words, though not spoken, wereaudible enough to herself. She could not, would not, bend to LadyAylmer, and she knew that trouble would come of this visit. 

I fear that many ladies will condemn Miss Amedroz when I tell themthat she showed this letter to her Cousin Will. It does not promisewell for any of the parties concerned when a young woman with twolovers can bring herself to show the love-letters of him to whom sheis engaged to the other lover whom she has refused! But I have twoexcuses to put forward in Clara's defence. In the first place, Captain Aylmer's love-letters were not in truth love-letters, butwere letters of business; and in the next place, Clara was teachingherself to regard Will Belton as her brother, and to forget that hehad ever assumed the part of a lover. 

She was so teaching herself, but I cannot say that the lesson was oneeasily learned; nor had the outrage upon her of which Will had beenguilty, and which was described in the last chapter, made theteaching easier. But she had determined, nevertheless, that it shouldbe so. When she thought of Will her heart would become very softtowards him; and sometimes, when she thought of Captain Aylmer, herheart would become anything but soft towards him. Unloving feelingswould be very strong within her bosom as she re-read his letters, andremembered that he had not come to her, but had sent her seventy-fivepounds to comfort her in her trouble! Nevertheless, he was to be herhusband, and she would do her duty. What might have happened had WillBelton come to Belton Castle before she had known Frederic Aylmer ofthat she stoutly resolved that she would never think at all; andconsequently the thought was always intruding upon her. 

'You will sleep one night in town, of course?' said Will. 

'I suppose so. You know all about it. I shall do as I'm told. '

'You can't go down to Yorkshire from here in one day. Where would youlike to stay in London?'

'How on earth should I know? Ladies do sleep at hotels in Londonsometimes, I suppose?'

'Oh yes. I can write and have rooms ready for you. '

'Then that difficulty is over, ' said Clara. 

But in Belton's estimation the difficulty was not exactly over. Captain Aylmer would, of course, be in London that night, and it wasa question with Will whether or no Clara was not bound in honour totell the--accursed beast, I am afraid Mr Belton called him in hissoliloquies--where she would lodge on the occasion. Or would itsuffice that he, Will, should hand her over to the enemy at thestation of the Great Northern Railway on the following morning? Allthe little intricacies of the question presented themselves to Will'simagination. How carefully he would be with her, that the innaccommodation should suffice for her comfort! With what pleasurewould he order a little dinner for them two, making something of agentle _fete_ of the occasion! How sedulously would he wait upon herwith those little attentions, amounting almost to worship, with whichsuch men as Will Belton are prone to treat all women in exceptionablecircumstances when the ordinary routine of life has been disturbed!If she had simply been his cousin, and if he had never regarded herotherwise, how happily could he have done all this! As things nowwere, if it was left to him to do, he should do it, with whatpatience and grace might be within his power; he would do it, thoughhe would be mindful every moment of the bitterness of the transferwhich he would so soon be obliged to make; but he doubted whether itwould not be better for Clara's sake that the transfer should be madeovernight. He would take her up to London, because in that way hecould be useful; and then he would go away and hide himself. 'HasCaptain Aylmer said where he would meet you?' he asked after a pause. 

'Of course I must write and tell him. '

'And is he to come to you when you reach London?'

'He has said nothing about that. 'He will probably be at the House ofCommons, or too busy somewhere to come to me then. But why do youask? Do you wish to hurry through town?'

'Oh dear, no. '

'Or perhaps you have friends you want to see. Pray don't let me be inyour way. I shall do very well, you know. '

Belton rebuked her by a look before he answered her. 'I was onlythinking, ' he said, 'of what would be most convenient for yourself. Ihave nobody to see, and nothing to do, and nowhere to go to. ' ThenClara understood it all, and said that she would write to CaptainAylmer and ask him, to join them at the hotel. 

She determined that she would see Mrs Askerton before she went; andas that lady did not come to the Castle, Clara called upon her at thecottage. This she did the day before she left, and she took hercousin with her. Belton had been at the cottage once or twice sincethe day on which Mrs Askerton had explained to him how the Aylmeralliance might be extinguished, but Colonel Askerton had always beenthere, and no reference had been made to the former conversation. Colonel Askerton was not there now, and Belton was almost afraid thatwords would be spoken to which he would hardly know how to listen. 

'And so you are really going?' said Mrs Askerton. 

'Yes; we start tomorrow, ' said Clara. 

'I am not thinking of the journey to London, ' said Mrs Askerton, 'butof the danger and privations of your subsequent progress to theNorth. '

'I shall do very well. I am not afraid that any one will eat me. '

'There are so many different ways of eating people! Are there not, MrBelton?'

'I don't know about eating, but there are a great many ways of boringpeople, ' said he. 

'And I should think they will be great at that kind of thing atAylmer Castle. One never hears of Sir Anthony, but I can fancy LadyAylmer to be a terrible woman. '

'I shall manage to hold my own, I dare say, ' said Clara. 

'I hope you will; I do hope you will, ' said Mrs Askerton. 'I don'tknow whether you will be powerful to do so, or whether you will fail;my heart is not absolute; but I do know what will be the result ifyou are successful. '

'It is much more then than I know myself. '

'That I can believe too. Do you travel down to Yorkshire alone?'

'No; Captain Aylmer will meet me in town. '

Then Mrs Askerton looked at Mr Belton, but made no immediate reply;nor did she say anything further about Clara's journey. She looked atMr Belton, and Will caught her eye, and understood that he was beingrebuked for not having carried out that little scheme which, had beenprepared for him. But he had come to hate the scheme, and almosthated Mrs Askerton for proposing it. He had declared to himself thather welfare, Clara's welfare, was the one thing which the shouldregard; and he had told himself that he was not strong enough, eitherin purpose or in wit, to devise schemes for her welfare. She wasbetter able to manage things for herself than he was to manage themfor her. If she loved this 'accursed beast, ' let her marry him; onlyfor that was now his one difficulty only he could not bring himselfto think it possible that she should love him. 

'I suppose you will never see this place again?' said Mrs Askertonafter a long pause. 

'I hope I shall, very often, ' said Clara. 'Why should I not see itagain? It is not going out of the family. '

'No not exactly out of the family. That is, it will belong to yourcousin. '

'And cousins may be as far apart as strangers, you mean; but Will andI are not like that; are we, Will?'

'I hardly know what we are like, ' said he. 

'You do not mean to say that you will throw me over? But the truthis, Mrs Askerton, that I do not mean to be thrown over. I look uponhim as my brother, and I intend to cling to him as sisters do cling. '

'You will hardly come back here before you are married, ' said MrsAskerton. It was a terrible speech for her to make, and could only beexcused on the ground that the speaker was in truth desirous of doingthat which she thought would benefit both of those whom sheaddressed. 

'Of course you are going to your wedding now?'

'I am doing nothing of the kind, ' said Clara. 'How can you speak inthat way to me so soon after my father's death? It is a rebuke to mefor being here at all. '

'I intend no rebuke, as you well know. What I mean is this; if you donot stay in Yorkshire till you are married, let the time be when itmay, where do you intend to go in the meantime?'

'My plans are not settled yet. '

'She will have this house if she pleases, ' said Will. 'There will beno one else here. It will be her own, to do as she likes with it. '

'She will hardly come here to be alone. '

'I will not be inquired into, my dear, ' said Clara, speaking withrestored good-humour. 'Of course I am an unprotected female, andsubject to disadvantages. Perhaps I have no plans for the future; andif I have plans, perhaps I do not mean to divulge them. '

'I had better come to the point at once, ' said Mrs Askerton. 'If ifif it should ever suit you, pray come here to us. Flowers shall notbe more welcome in May. It is difficult to speak of it all, thoughyou both understand everything as well as I do. I cannot press myinvitation as another woman might. '

'Yes, you can, ' said Clara with energy. 'Of course you can. '

'Can I? Then I do. Dear Clara, do come to us. ' And then as she spokeMrs Askerton knelt on the ground at her visitor's knees. 'Mr Belton, do tell her that when she is tired with the grandeur of Aylmer Parkshe may come to us here. '

'I don't know anything about the grandeur of Aylmer Park, ' said Will, suddenly. 

'But she may come here may she not?'

'She will not ask my leave, ' said he. 

'She says that you are her brother. Whose leave should she ask?'

'He knows that I should ask his rather than that of any livingperson, ' said Clara. 

'There, Mr Belton. Now you must say that she may come or that she maynot. '

'I will say nothing. She knows what to do much better than I can tellher. '

Mrs Askerton was still kneeling, and again appealed to Clara. 'Youhear what he says. What do you say yourself? Will you come to us?that is, if such a visit will suit you in point of convenience?'

'I will make no promise; but I know no reason why I should not. '

'And I must be content with that? Well: I will be content. ' Then shegot up. 'For such a one as I am, that is a great deal. And, MrBelton, let me tell you this I can be grateful to you, though youcannot be gracious to me. '

'I hope I have not been ungracious, ' said he. 

'Upon my word, I cannot compliment you. But there is something somuch better than grace, that I can forgive you. You know, at anyrate, how thoroughly I wish you well. '

Upon this Clara got up to take her leave, and the demonstrativeaffection of an embrace between the two women afforded a remedy forthe awkwardness of the previous conversation. 

'God bless you, dearest, ' said Mrs Askerton. 'May I write to you?'

'Certainly, ' said Clara. 

'And you will answer my letters?'

'Of course I will. You must tell me everything about the place andespecially as to Bessy. Bessy is never to be sold is she, Will? Bessywas the cow which Belton had given her. 

'Not if you choose to keep her. '

'I will go down and see to her myself, ' said Mrs Askerton, and willutter little prayers of my own over her horns that certain eventsthat I desire may come to pass. Good-bye, Mr Belton. You may be asungracious as you please, but it will not make any difference. '

When Clara and her cousin left the cottage they did not return to thehouse immediately, but took a last walk round the park, and throughthe shrubbery, and up to the rocks on which a remarkable scene badonce taken place between them. Few words were spoken as they werewalking, and there had been no agreement as to the path they wouldtake. Each seemed to understand that there was much of melancholy intheir present mood, and that silence was more fitting than speech. But when they reached the rocks Belton sat himself down, askingClara's leave to stop there for a moment. 'I don't suppose I shallever come to this place again, ' said he. 

'You are as bad as Mrs Askerton, ' said Clara. 

'I do not think I shall ever come to this place again, ' said he, repeating his words very solemnly. At any rate, I will never do sowillingly, unless--'

'Unless what?'

'Unless you are either my wife, or have promised to become so. '

'Oh, Will; you know that that is impossible. '

'Then it is impossible that I should come here again. '

'You know that I am engaged to another man. '

'Of course I do. I am not asking you to break your engagement. I amsimply telling you that in spite of that engagement I love you aswell as I did love you before you had made it. I have a right to letyou know the truth. ' As if she had not known it without his tellingit to her now! 'It was here that I told you that I loved you. I nowrepeat it here; and will never come here again unless I may say thesame thing over and over and over. That is all. We might as well goon now. ' But when he got up she sat down, as though unwilling toleave the spot. It was still winter, and the rock was damp with colddrippings from the trees, and the moss around was wet, and littlepools of water had formed themselves in the shallow holes upon thesurface. She did not speak as she seated herself; but he was ofcourse obliged to wait till she should be ready to accompany him. 'Itis too cold for you to sit there, ' he said. 'Come, Clara; I will nothave you loiter here. It is cold and wet. '

'It is not colder for me than for you. '

'You are not used to that sort of thing as I am. '

'Will, ' she said, 'you must never speak to me again as you spokejust now. Promise me that you will not. '

'Promises will do no good in such a matter. '

'It is almost a repetition of what you did before though of course itis not so bad as that. '

'Everything I do is bad. '

'No, Will dear Will! Almost everything you do is good. But of whatuse can it be to either of us for you to be thinking of that whichcan never be? Cannot you think of me as your sister and only as yoursister?

'No; I cannot. '

'Then it is not right that we should be together. '

'I know nothing of right. You ask me a question, and I suppose youdon't wish that I should tell you a lie. '

'Of course I do not wish that. '

'Therefore I tell you the truth. I love you as any other man lovesthe girl that he does love; and, as far as I know myself now, I nevercan be happy unless you are my own. '

'Oh, Will, how can that be when I am engaged to marry another man?'

'As to your engagement I should care nothing. Does he love you as Ilove you? If he loves you, why is he not here? If he loves you, whydoes he let his mother ill-use you, and treat you with scorn? If heloves you as I love you, how could he write to you as he does write?Would I write to you such a letter as that? Would I let you be herewithout coming to you to be looked after by any one else? If you hadsaid that you would be my wife, would I leave you in solitude andsorrow, and then send you seventy-five pounds to console you? If youthink he loves you, Clara--'

'He thought he was doing right when he sent me the money. '

'But he shouldn't have thought it right. Never mind. I don't want toaccuse him; but this I know, --and you know; he does not love you as Ilove you. '

'What can I say to answer you?'

'Say that you will wait till you have seen him. Say that I may have ahope, --a chance; that if he is cold, and hard, and, --and, --and, justwhat we know he is, then I may have a chance. '

'How can I say that when I am engaged to him? Cannot you understandthat I am wrong to let you speak of him as you do?'

'How else am I to speak of him? Tell me this. Do you love him?' 'YesI do. '

'I don't believe it!'

'Will!'

'I don't believe it. Nothing on earth shall make me believe it. It isimpossible;--impossible!'

'Do you mean to insult me, Will?'

'No; I do not mean to insult you, but I mean to tell you the truth. Ido not think you love that man as you ought to love the man whom youare going to marry. I should tell you just the same thing if I werereally your brother. Of course it isn't that I suppose you love anyone else me for instance. I'm not such a fool as that. But I don'tthink you love him; and I'm quite sure he doesn't love you. That'sjust what I believe; and if I do believe it, how am I to help tellingyou?'

'You've no right to have such beliefs. '

'How am I to help it? Well;--never mind. I won't let you sit there anylonger. At any rate you'll be able to understand now that I shallnever come to this place any more. ' Clara, as she got up to obeyhim, felt that she also ought never to see it again;--unless, indeed, --unless--

They passed that evening together without any reference to the sceneon the rock, or any allusion to their own peculiar troubles. Clara, though she would not admit to Mrs Askerton that she was going awayfrom the place for ever, was not the less aware that such might veryprobably be the case. She had no longer any rights of ownership atBelton Castle, and all that had taken place between her and hercousin tended to make her feel that under no circumstances could sheagain reside there. Nor was it probable that she would be able tomake to Mrs Askerton the visit of which they had been talking. IfLady Aylmer were wise so Clara thought there would be no mention ofMrs Askerton at Aylmer Park; and, if so, of course she would notoutrage her future husband by proposing to go to a house of which sheknew that he disapproved. If Lady Aylmer were not wise if she shouldtake upon herself the task of rebuking Clara for her friendship then, in such circumstances as those, Clara believed that the visit to MrsAskerton might be possible. 

But she determined that she would leave the home in which she hadbeen born, and had passed so many happy and so many unhappy days, asthough she were never to see it again. All her packing had been done, down to the last fragment of an old letter that was stuffed into herwriting-desk; but, nevertheless, she went about the house with acandle in her hand, as though she were still looking that nothing hadbeen omitted, while she was in truth saying farewell in her heart toevery corner which she knew so well. When at last she came down topour out for her desolate cousin his cup of tea, she declared thateverything was done. 'You may go to work now, Will, ' she said, and dowhat you please with the old place. My jurisdiction is over. '

'Not altogether, ' said he. He no longer spoke like a despairinglover. Indeed there was a smile round his mouth, and his voice wascheery. 

'Yes altogether. I give over my sovereignty from this moment and adirty dilapidated sovereignty it is. '

'That's all very well to say. '

'And also very well to do. What best pleases me in going to AylmerCastle just now is the power it gives me of doing at once that whichotherwise I might have put off till the doing of it had become muchmore unpleasant. Mr Belton, there is the key of the cellar which Ibelieve gentlemen always regard as the real sign of possession. Idon't advise you to trust much to the contents. ' He took the key fromher, and without saying a word chucked it across the room on to anold sofa. 'If you won't take it, you had better, at any rate, have ittied up with the others, ' she said. 

'I dare say you'll know where to find it when you want it, ' heanswered. 

'I shall never want it. '

'Then it's as well there as anywhere else. '

'But you won't remember, Will. '

'I don't suppose I shall have occasion for remembering. ' Then hepaused a moment before he went on. 'I have told you before that I donot intend to take possession of the place. I do not regard it asmine at all. '

'And whose is it, then?'

'Yours. '

'No, dear Will; it is not mine. You know that. '

'I intend that it shall be so, and therefore you might as well putthe keys where you will know how to find them. '

Alter he had gone she did take up the key, and tied it with sundryothers, which she intended to give to the old servant who was to beleft in charge of the house. But after a few moments' considerationshe took the cellar key again off the bunch, and put it back upon thesofa in the place to which he had thrown it. 

On the following morning they started on their journey. The old flyfrom Redicote was not used on this occasion, as Belton had ordered apair of post-horses and a comfortable carriage from Taunton. 'I thinkit such a shame, ' said Clara, 'going away for the last time withouthaving Jerry and the grey horse. ' Jerry was the man who had oncedriven her to Taunton when the old horse fell with her on the road. 'But Jerry and the grey horse could not have taken you and me too, and all our luggage, ' said Will. 'Poor Jerry! I suppose not, ' saidClara; 'but still there is an injury done in going without him. '

There were four or five old dependents of the family standing roundthe door to bid her adieu, to all of whom she gave her hand with acordial pressure. They, at least, seemed to regard her departure asfinal. And of course it was final. She had assured herself of thatduring the night. And just as they were about to start, both Coloneland Mrs Askerton walked up to the door. 'He wouldn't let you gowithout bidding you farewell, ' said Mrs Askerton. 'I am so glad toshake hands with him, ' Clara answered. Then the colonel spoke a wordto her, and, as he did so, his wife contrived to draw Will Belton fora moment behind the carriage. 'Never give it up, Mr Belton, ' said sheeagerly. 'If you persevere she'll be yours yet. ' 'I fear not, ' hesaid. 'Stick to her like a man, ' said she, pressing his hand in hervehemence. 'If you do, you'll live to thank me for having told youso. ' Will had not a word to say for himself, but he thought that hewould stick to her. Indeed, he thought that he had stuck to herpretty well. 

At last they were off, and the village of Belton was behind them;Will, glancing into his cousin's face, saw that her eyes were ladenwith tears, and refrained from speaking. As they passed the uglyred-brick rectory-house, Clara for a moment put her face to thewindow, and then withdrew it. 'There is nobody there, ' she said, 'whowill care to see me. Considering that I have lived here all my life, is it not odd that there should be so few to bid me good-bye?'

'People do not like to put themselves forward on such occasions, 'said Will. 

'People there are no people. No one ever had so few to care for themas I have. And now But never mind; I mean to do very well, and Ishall do very well. ' Belton would not take advantage of her in hersadness, and they reached the station at Taunton almost withoutanother word. 

Of course they had to wait there for half an hour, and of course thewaiting was very tedious. To Will it was very tedious indeed, as hewas not by nature good at waiting. To Clara, who on this occasion satperfectly still in the waiting-room, with her toes on the fenderbefore the fire, the evil of the occasion was not so severe. 'The manwould take two hours for the journey, though I told him an hour and ahalf would be enough, ' said Will, querulously. 

'But we might have had an accident. '

'An accident! What accident? People don't have accidents every day. '

At last the train came and they started. Clara, though she had withher her best friend I may almost say the friend whom in the world sheloved the best did not have an agreeable journey. Belton would nottalk; but as he made no attempt at reading, Clara did not like tohave recourse to the book which she had in her travelling-bag. He satopposite to her, opening the window and shutting it as he thought shemight like it, but looking wretched and forlorn. At Swindon hebrightened up for a moment under the excitement of getting hersomething to eat, but that relaxation lasted only for a few minutes. Alter that he relapsed again into silence till the train had passedSlough and he knew that in another half-hour they would be in London. Then he leant over her and spoke. 

'This will probably be the last opportunity I shall have of saying afew words to you alone. '

'I don't know that at all, Will. '

'It will be the last for a long time at any rate. And as I have gotsomething to say, I might as well say it now. I have thought a greatdeal about the property the Belton estate, I mean; and I don't intendto take it as mine. '

'That is sheer nonsense, Will. You must take it, as it is yours, andcan't belong to any one else. '

'I have thought it over, and I am quite sure that all the business ofthe entail was wrong radically wrong from first to last. You are tounderstand that my special regard for you has nothing whatever to dowith it. I should do the same thing if I felt that I hated you. '

'Don't hate me, Will!'

'You know what I mean. I think the entail was all wrong, and I shan'ttake advantage of it. It's not common sense that I should haveeverything because of poor Charley's misfortune. '

'But it seems to me that it does not depend upon you or upon me, orupon anybody. It is yours by law, you know. '

'And therefore it won't be sufficient for me to give it up withoutmaking it yours by law also which I intend to do. I shall stay intown tomorrow and give instructions to Mr Green. I have thought itproper to tell you this now, in order that you may mention it toCaptain Aylmer. '

They were leaning over in the carriage one towards the other; herface had been slightly turned away from him; but now she slowlyraised her eyes till they met his, and looking into the depth ofthem, and seeing there all his love and all his suffering, and thegreat nobility of his nature, her heart melted within her. Gradually, as her tears came, --would come, in spite of all her constraint, sheagain turned her face towards the window. 'I can't talk now, ' shesaid, 'indeed I can't. '

'There is no need for any more talking about it, ' he replied. Andthere was no more talking between them, on that subject or on anyother, till the tickets bad been taken and the train was again inmotion. Then he referred to it again for a moment. 'You will tellCaptain Aylmer, my dear. '

'I will tell him what you say, that he may know your generosity. Butof course he will agree with me that no such offer can be accepted. It is quite, --quite, --quite out of the question. '

'You had better tell him and say nothing more; or you can ask him tosee Mr Green after tomorrow. He, as a man who understands business, will know that this arrangement must be made, if I choose to make it. Come; here we are. Porter, a four-wheeled cab. Do you go with him, and I'll look after the luggage. '

Clara, as she got into the cab, felt that she ought to have been morestout in her resistance to his offer. But it would be better, perhaps, that she should write to him from Aylmer Park, and getFrederic to write also. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY HOTEL

At the door of the hotel of the Great Northern Railway Station theymet Captain Aylmer. Rooms had been taken there because they were tostart by an early train on that line in the morning, and CaptainAylmer had undertaken to order dinner. There was nothing particularin the meeting to make it unpleasant to our friend Will. Thefortunate rival could do no more in the hall of the inn than give hishand to his affianced bride, as he might do to any other lady, andthen suggest to her that she should go upstairs and see her room. When he had done this, he also offered his hand to Belton; and Will, though he would almost sooner have cut off his own, was obliged totake it. In a few minutes the two men were standing alone together inthe sitting-room. 

'I suppose you found it cold coming up?' said the captain. 

'Not particularly, ' said Will. 

'It's rather a long journey from Belton. '

'Not very long, ' said Will. 

'Not for you, perhaps; but Miss Amedroz must be tired. '

Belton was angry at having his cousin called Miss Amedroz feelingthat the reserve of the name was intended to keep him at a distance. But he would have been equally angry had Aylmer called her Clara. 

'My cousin, ' said Will, stoutly, 'is able to bear slight fatigue ofthat kind without suffering. '

'I didn't suppose she suffered; but journeys are always tedious, especially where there is so much roadwork. I believe you are twentymiles from the station?'

'Belton Castle is something over twenty miles from Taunton. '

'We are seven from our station at Aylmer Park, and we think that agreat deal. '

'I'm more than that at Plaistow, ' said Will. 

'Oh, indeed. Plaistow is in Norfolk, I believe?'

'Yes Plaistow is in Norfolk. '

'I suppose you'll leave it now and go into Somersetshire, ' suggestedCaptain Aylmer. 

'Certainly not. Why should I leave it?'

'I thought, perhaps as Belton Castle is now your own'

'Plaistow Hall is more my own than Belton Castle, if that signifiesanything which it doesn't. ' This he said in an angry tone, which, ashe became conscious of it, he tried to rectify. 'I've a deal of stockand all that sort of thing at Plaistow, and couldn't very well leaveit, even if I wished it, ' he said. 

'You've pretty good shooting too, I suppose, ' said Aylmer. 

'As far as partridges go I'll back it against most properties of thesame extent in any county. '

'I'm too busy a man myself, ' said the captain, 'to do much atpartridges. We think more of pheasants down with us. '

'I dare say. '

'But a Norfolk man like you is of course keen about birds. '

'We are obliged to put up with what we've got, you know not but whatI believe there is a better general head of game in Norfolk than inany other county in England. '

'That's what makes your hunting rather poor. '

'Our hunting poor! Why do you say it's poor?'

'So many of you are against preserving foxes. '

'I'll tell you what, Captain Aylmer; I don't know what pack you huntwith, but I'll bet you a five-pound note that we killed morefoxes last year than you did;--that is, taking three days a week. Nine-and-twenty brace and a half in a short season I don't call poorat all. '

Captain Aylmer saw that the man was waxing angry, and made no furtherallusion either to the glories or deficiencies of Norfolk. As hecould think of no other subject on which to speak at the spur of themoment, he sat himself down and took up a paper; Belton took upanother, and so they remained till Clara made her appearance. ThatCaptain Aylmer read his paper is probable enough. He was not a maneasily disconcerted, and there was nothing in his present position todisconcert him. But I feel sure that Will Belton did not read a word. He was angry with this rival, whom he hated, and was angry withhimself for showing his anger. He would have wished to appear to thebest advantage before this man, or rather before Clara in this man'spresence; and he knew that in Clara's absence he was making such afool of himself that he would be unable to recover his prestige. Hehad serious thoughts within his own breast whether it would not be aswell for him to get up from his seat and give Captain Aylmer athoroughly good thrashing: 'Drop into him and punch his head, ' as hehimself would have expressed it. For the moment such an exercisewould give him immense gratification. The final results would, nodoubt, be disastrous; but then, all future results, as far as hecould see them, were laden with disaster. He was still thinking ofthis, eyeing the man from under the newspaper, and telling himselfthat the feat would probably be too easy to afford much enjoyment, when Clara re-entered the room. Then he got up, acting on the spur ofthe moment got up quickly and suddenly, and began to bid her adieu. 

'But you are going to dine here, Will?' she said. 

'No; I think not. '

'You promised you would. You told me you had nothing to do to-night. 'Then she turned to Captain Aylmer. 'You expect my cousin to dine withus today?'

'I ordered dinner for three, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

'Oh, very well; it's all the same thing to me, ' said Will. 

'And to me, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

'It's not all the same thing to me, ' said Clara. 'I don't know when Imay see my cousin again. I should think it very bad of you, Will, ifyou went away this evening. '

'I'll go out just for half an hour, ' said he, 'and be back todinner. '

'We dine at seven, ' said the captain. Then Belton took his hat andleft the two lovers together. 

'Your cousin seems to be a rather surly sort of gentleman. ' Thosewere the first words which Captain Aylmer spoke when he was alonewith the lady of his love. Nor was he demonstrative of his affectionby any of the usual signs of regard which are permitted to acceptedlovers. He did not offer to kiss her, nor did he attempt to take herhand with a warmer pressure now that he was alone with her. Heprobably might have gone through some such ceremony had he first metClara in a position propitious to such purposes; but, as it was, hehad been a little ruffled by Will Belton's want of good breeding, andhad probably forgotten that any such privileges might have been his. I wonder whether any remembrance flashed across Clara's mind at thismoment of her Cousin Will's great iniquity in the sitting-room atBelton Castle. She thought of it very often, and may possibly havethought of it now. 

'I don't believe that he is surly, Frederic, ' she said. 'He may, perhaps, be out of humour. '

'And why should he be out of humour with me? I only suggested to himthat it might suit him to live at Belton instead of at that farm ofhis, down in Norfolk. '

'He is very fond of Plaistow, I fancy. '

'But that's no reason why he should be cross with me. I don't envyhim his taste, that's all. If he can't understand that he, with hisname, ought to live on the family property which belongs to him, itisn't likely that anything that I can say will open his eyes upon thesubject. '

'The truth is, Frederic, he has some romantic notion about the Beltonestate. '

'What romantic notion?'

'He thinks it should not be his at all. '

'Whose then? Who does he think should have it?'

'Of course there can be nothing in it, you know; of course, it's allnonsense. '

'But what is his idea? Who does he think should be the owner?'

'He means that it should be mine. But of course, Frederic, it is allnonsense; we know that. '

It did not seem to be quite clear at the moment that Frederic hadaltogether made up his mind upon the subject. As he heard thosetidings from Clara there came across his face a puzzled, dubiouslook, as though he did not quite understand the proposition which hadbeen suggested to him as though some consideration were wanted beforehe could take the idea home to himself and digest it, so as to enablehimself to express an opinion upon it. There might be something in itsome show of reason which did not make itself clear to Clara'sfeminine mind. 'I have never known what was the precise nature ofyour father's marriage settlement, ' said he. 

Then Clara began to explain with exceeding eagerness that there wasno question as to the accuracy of the settlement, or the legality ofthe entail that indeed there was no question as to anything. HerCousin Will was romantic, and that was the end of it. Of course quiteas a matter of course, this romance would lead to nothing; and shehad only mentioned the subject now to show that her cousin's mindmight possibly be disturbed when the question of his future residencewas raised. 'I quite feel with you, ' she said, 'that it will be muchnicer that he should live at the old family place; but just atpresent I do not speak about it. '

'If he is thinking of not claiming Belton, it is quite anotherthing, ' said Aylmer. 

'It is his without any claiming, ' said Clara. 

'Ah, well; it will all be settled before long, ' said Aylmer. 

'It is settled already, ' said Clara. 

At seven the three met again, and when the dinner was on the tablethere was some little trouble as to the helping of the fish. Which ofthe two men should take the lead on the occasion? But Clara decidedthe question by asking her cousin to make himself useful. There canbe little doubt but that Captain Aylmer would have distributed themutton chops with much more grace, and have carved the roast fowlwith much more skill; but it suited Clara that Will should have theemployment, and Will did the work. Captain Aylmer, throughout thedinner, endeavoured to be complaisant, and Clara exerted herself totalk as though all matters around them were easy. Will, too, made hiseffort, every now and then speaking a word, and restraining himselffrom snapping at his rival; but the restraint was in itself evident, and there were symptoms throughout the dinner that the untamed manwas longing to fly at the throat of the man that was tamed. 

'Is it supposed that I ought to go away for a little while?' saidClara, as soon as she had drunk her own glass of wine. 

'Oh dear, no, ' said the captain. 'We'll have a cup of coffee that is, if Mr Belton likes it. '

'It's all the same to me, ' said Will. 

'But won't you have some more wine?' Clara asked. 

'No more for me, ' said Captain Aylmer. 'Perhaps Mr Belton--'

'Who; I? No; I don't want any more wine, ' said Will; and then theywere all silent. 

It was very hard upon Clara. After a while the coffee came, and eventhat was felt to be a comfort. Though there was no pouring out to bedone, no actual employment enacted, still the manoeuvring of the cupscreated a diversion. 'If either of you like to smoke, ' she said, 'Ishan't mind it in the least. ' But neither of them would smoke. 'Atwhat hour shall we get to Aylmer Park tomorrow?' Clara asked. 

'At half-past four, ' said the captain. 

'Oh, indeed;--so early as that. ' What was she to say next? Will, whohad not touched his coffee, and who was sitting stiffly at the tableas though he were bound in duty not to move, was becoming more andmore grim every moment. She almost repented that she had asked him toremain with them. Certainly there was no comfort in his company, either to them or to himself. 'How long shall you remain in town, Will, before you go down to Plaistow?' she asked. 

'One day, ' he replied. 

'Give my kind love, --my very kindest love to Mary. I wish I knew her. Iwish I could think that I might soon know her. '

'You'll never know her, ' said Belton. The tone of his voice wasactually savage as he spoke so much so that Aylmer turned in hischair to look at him, and Clara did not dare to answer him. But nowthat he had been made to speak, it seemed that he was determined topersevere. 'How should you ever know her? Nothing will ever bring youinto Norfolk, and nothing will ever take her out of it. '

'I don't quite see why either of those assertions should be made. '

'Nevertheless they're both true. Had you ever meant to come toNorfolk you would have come now. ' He had not even asked her to come, having arranged with his sister that in their existing circumstancesany such asking would not be a kindness; and yet he rebuked her nowfor not coming!

'My mother is very anxious that Miss Amedroz should pay her a visitat Aylmer Park, ' said the captain. 

'And she's going to Aylmer Park, so your mother's anxiety need notdisturb her any longer. '

'Come, Will, don't be out of temper with us, ' said Clara. 'It is ourlast night together. We, who are so dear to each other, ought not toquarrel. '

'I'm not quarrelling with you, said he. 

'I can hardly suppose that Mr Belton wants to quarrel with me, ' saidCaptain Aylmer, smiling. 

'I'm sure he does not, ' said Clara. Belton sat silent, with his eyesfixed upon the table, and with a dark frown upon his brow. He didlong to quarrel with Captain Aylmer; but was still anxious, if itmight be possible, to save himself from what he knew would be atransgression. 

'To use a phrase common with us down in Yorkshire, ' said Aylmer, 'Ishould say that Mr Belton had got out of bed the wrong side thismorning. '

'What the d---- does it matter to you, sir, what side I got out of bed?'said Will, clenching both his fists. Oh--if he might have only beenallowed to have a round of five minutes with Aylmer, he would havebeen restored to good temper for that night, let the subsequentresults have been what they might. He moved his feet impatiently onthe floor, as though he were longing to kick something; and then hepushed his coffee-cup away from him, upsetting half the contents uponthe table, and knocking down a wineglass, which was broken. 

'Will;--Will!' said Clara, looking at him with imploring eyes. 

'Then he shouldn't talk to me about getting out of bed on the wrongside; I didn't say anything to him. '

'It is unkind of you, Will, to quarrel with Captain Aylmer because heis my friend. '

'I don't want to quarrel with him; or, rather, as I won't quarrelwith him because you don't wish it, I'll go away. I can't do morethan that. I didn't want to dine with him here. There's my cousinClara, Captain Aylmer; I love her better than all the world besides. Love her! It seems to me that there's nothing else in the world forme to love. I'd give my heart for her this minute. All that I have inthe world is hers. Oh love her! I don't believe that it's in you toknow what I mean when I say that I love her! She tells me that he'sgoing to be your wife. You can't suppose that I can be verycomfortable under those circumstances or that I can be very fond ofyou. I'm not very fond of you. Now I'll go away, and then I shan'ttrouble you any more. But look here if ever you should ill-treat her, whether you marry her or whether you don't, I'll crush every bone inyour skin. ' Having so spoken he went to the door, but stopped himselfbefore he left the room. 'Good-bye, Clara. I've got a word or twomore to say to you, but I'll write you a line down-stairs. You canshow it to him if you please. It'll only be about business. Good-night. '

She had got up and followed him to the door, and he had taken her bythe hand. 'You shouldn't let your passion get the better of you inthis way, ' she said; but the tone of her voice was very soft, and hereyes were full of love. 

'I suppose not, ' said he. 

'I can forgive him, ' said Captain Aylmer. 

'D---- your forgiveness, ' said Will Belton. Then Clara dropped the handand started back, and the door was shut, and Will Belton was gone. 

'Your cousin seems to be a nice sort of young man, ' said Aylmer. 

'Cannot you understand it all, Frederic, and pardon him?'

'I can pardon him easily enough; but one doesn't like men who aregiven to threatening. He's not the sort of man that I took him tobe. '

'Upon my word I think he's as nearly perfect as a man can be. '

'Then you like men to swear at you, and to swagger like Bobadils andto misbehave themselves, so that one has to blush for them if aservant chances to hear them. Do you really think that he hasconducted himself today like a gentleman?'

'I know that he is a gentleman, ' said Clara. 

'I must confess I have no reason for supposing him to be so but yourassurance. '

'And I hope that is sufficient, Frederic. '

Captain Aylmer did not answer her at once, but sat for awhile silent, considering what he would say. Clara, who understood his moods, knewthat he did not mean to drop the subject, and resolved that she woulddefend her cousin, let Captain Aylmer attack him as he would. 

'Upon my word, I hardly know what to say about it, ' said Aylmer. 

'Suppose then, that we say nothing more. Will not that be best?'

'No, Clara. I cannot now let the matter pass by in that way. You haveasked me whether I do not think Mr Belton to be a gentleman, and Imust say that I doubt it. Pray hear me out before you answer me. I donot want to be harder upon him than I can help; and I would haveborne, and I did bear from him, a great deal in silence. But he saidthat to me which I cannot allow to pass without notice. He had thebad taste to speak to me of his his regard for you. '

'I cannot see what harm he did by that except to himself. '

'I believe that it is understood among gentlemen that one man neverspeaks to another man about the lady the other man means to marry, unless they are very intimate friends indeed. What I mean is, that ifMr Belton had understood how gentlemen live together he would neverhave said anything to me about his affection for you. He should atany rate have supposed me to be ignorant of it. There is something inthe very idea of his doing so that is in the highest degreein-delicate. I wonder, Clara, that you do not see this yourself. '

'I think he was indiscreet. '

'Indiscreet! Indiscreet is not the word for such conduct. I must say, that as far as my opinion goes, it was ungentlemanlike. '

'I don't believe that there is a nobler-minded gentleman in allLondon than my Cousin Will. '

'Perhaps it gratified you to hear from him the assurance of hislove?' said Captain Aylmer. 

'If it is your wish to insult me, Frederic, I will leave you'. 

'It is my wish to make you understand that your judgment has beenwrong. '

'That is simply a matter of opinion, and as I do not wish to arguewith you about it, I had better go. At any rate I am very tired. Goodnight, Frederic. ' He then told her what arrangements he had madefor the morrow, and what hour she would be called, and when she wouldhave her breakfast. After that he let her go without making anyfurther allusion to Will Belton. 

It must be admitted that the meeting between the lovers had not beenauspicious; and it must be acknowledged, also, that Will Belton hadbehaved very badly. I am not aware of the existence of that specialunderstanding among gentlemen in respect to the ladies they are goingto marry which Captain Aylmer so eloquently described; but, nevertheless, I must confess that Belton would have done better hadhe kept his feelings to himself. And when he talked of crushing hisrival's bones, he laid himself justly open to severe censure. But, for all that, he was no Bobadil. He was angry, sore, and miserable;and in his anger, soreness, and misery, he had allowed himself to becarried away. He felt very keenly his own folly, even as he wasleaving the room, and as he made his way out of the hotel he hatedhimself for his own braggadocio. 'I wish some one would crush mybones, ' he said to himself almost audibly. 'No one ever deserved tobe crushed better than I do. '

Clara, when she got to her own room, was very serious and very sad. What was to be the end of it all? This had been her first meetingafter her father's death with the man whom she had promised to marry;indeed, it was the first meeting after her promise had been given;and they had only met to quarrel. There had been no word of lovespoken between them. She had parted from him now almost in anger, without the slightest expression of confidence between them almost asthose part who are constrained by circumstances to be together, butwho yet hate each other and know that they hate each other. Was therein truth any love between him and her? And if there was none, couldthere be any advantage, any good either to him or to her, in thisjourney of hers to Aylmer Park? Would it not be better that sheshould send for him and tell him that they were not suited for eachother, and that thus she should escape from all the terrors of LadyAylmer? As she thought of this, she could not but think of WillBelton also. Not a gentleman! If Will Belton was not a gentleman, shedesired to know nothing further of gentlemen. Women are so good andkind that those whom they love they love almost the more when theycommit offences, because of the offences so committed. Will Beltonhad been guilty of great offences, --of offences for which Clara wasprepared to lecture him in the gravest manner should opportunitiesfor such lectures ever come;--but I think that they had increased herregard for him rather than diminished it. She could not, however, make up her mind to send for Captain Aylmer, and when she went to bedshe had resolved that the visit to Yorkshire must be made. 

Before she left the room the following morning, a letter was broughtto her from her cousin, which had been written that morning. Sheasked the maid to inquire for him, and sent down word to him that ifhe were in the house she specially wished to see him; but the tidingscame from the hall porter that he had gone out very early, and hadexpressly said that he should not breakfast at the inn. 

The letter was as follows:--

'Dear Clara, 'I meant to have handed to you the enclosed in person, but I lost mytemper last night like a fool as I am and so I couldn't do it. Youneed not have any scruple about the money which I send, L100 in ten, ten-pound notes, --as it is your own. There is the rent due up to yourfather's death, which is more than what I now enclose, and there willbe a great many other items, as to all of which you shall have aproper account. When you want more, you had better draw on me, tillthings are settled. It shall all be done as soon as possible. Itwould not be comfortable for you to go away without money of yourown, and I suppose you would not wish that he should pay for yourjourneys and things before you are married. 

'Of course I made a fool of myself yesterday. I believe that I usuallydo. It is not any good my begging your pardon, for I don't suppose Ishall ever trouble you any more. Good-bye, and God bless you. 

'Your affectionate Cousin, 'WILLIAM BELTON. 

'It was a bad day for me when I made up my mind to go to Belton Castlelast summer. '

Clara, when she had read the letter, sat down and cried, holding thebundle of notes in her hand. What would she do with them? Should shesend them back? Oh no she would do nothing to displease him, or tomake him think that she was angry with him. Besides, she had none ofthat dislike to taking his money which she had felt as to receivingmoney from Captain Aylmer. He had said that she would be his sister, and she would take from him any assistance that a sister mightproperly take from a brother. 

She went down-stairs and met Captain Aylmer in the sitting-room. Hestepped up to her as soon as the door was closed, and she could atonce see that he had determined to forget the unpleasantness of theprevious evening. He stepped up to her, and gracefully taking her byone hand, and passing the other behind her waist, saluted her in abecoming and appropriate manner. She did not like it. She especiallydisliked it, believing in her heart of hearts that she would neverbecome the wife of this man whom she had professed to love and whomshe really had once loved. But she could only bear it. And, to saythe truth, there was not much suffering of that kind to be borne. 

Their journey down to Yorkshire was very prosperous. He maintainedhis good humour throughout the day, and never once said a word aboutWill Belton. Nor did he say a word about Mrs Askerton. 'Do your bestto please my mother, Clara, ' he said, as they were driving up fromthe park lodges to the house. This was fair enough, and she thereforepromised him that she would do her best. 

CHAPTER XXV

MISS AMEDROZ HAS SOME HASHED CHICKEN

Clara felt herself to be a coward as the Aylmer Park carriage, whichhad been sent to meet her at the station, was drawn up at Sir AnthonyAylmer's door. She had made up her mind that she would not bow downto Lady Aylmer, and yet she was afraid of the woman. As she got outof the carriage, she looked up, expecting to see her in the hall; butLady Aylmer was too accurately acquainted with the weights andmeasures of society for any such movement as that. Had her sonbrought Lady Emily to the house as his future bride, Lady Aylmerwould probably have been in the hall when the arrival took place; andhad Clara possessed ten thousand pounds of her own, she wouldprobably have been met at the drawing-room door; but as she hadneither money nor title as she in fact brought with her no advantagesof any sort Lady Aylmer was found stitching a bit of worsted, asthough she had expected no one to come to her. And Belinda Aylmer wasstitching also by special order from her mother. The reader willremember that Lady Aylmer was not without strong hope that theengagement might even yet be broken off. Snubbing, she thought, mightprobably be efficacious to this purpose, and so Clara was to besnubbed. 

Clara, who had just promised to do her best to gain Lady Aylmer'sopinion, and who desired to be in some way true to her promise, though she thoroughly believed that her labour would be in vain, puton her pleasantest smile as she entered the room. Belinda, under thepressure of the circumstances, forgetting somewhat of her mother'sinjunctions, hurried to the door to welcome the stranger. Lady Aylmerkept her chair, and even maintained her stitch, till Clara was halfacross the room. Then she got up, and with great mastery over hervoice, made her little speech. 

'We are delighted to see you, Miss Amedroz, ' she said, putting outher hand of which Clara, however, felt no more than the finger. 

'Quite delighted, ' said Belinda, yielding a fuller grasp. Then therewere affectionate greetings between Frederic and his mother andFrederic and his sister, during which Clara stood by, ill at ease. Captain Aylmer said not a word as to the footing on which his futurewife had come to his father's house. He did not ask his mother toreceive her as another daughter, or his sister to take his Clara toher heart as a sister. There had been no word spoken of recognizedintimacy. Clara knew that the Aylmers were cold people. She hadlearned as much as that from Captain Aylmer's words to herself, andfrom his own manner. But she had not expected to be so frozen by themas was the case with her now. In ten minutes she was sitting downwith her bonnet still on, and Lady Aylmer was again at her stitches. 

'Shall I show you your room?' said Belinda. 

'Wait a moment, my dear, ' said Lady Aylmer. 'Frederic has gone to seeif Sir Anthony is in his study. '

Sir Anthony was found in his study, and now made his appearance. 

'So this is Clara Amedroz, ' he said. 'My dear, you are welcome toAylmer Park. ' This was so much better, that the kindness expressedthough there was nothing special in it brought a tear into Clara'seye, and almost made her love Sir Anthony. 

'By the by, Sir Anthony, have you seen Darvel? Darvel was wanting tosee you especially about Nuggins. Nuggins says that he'll take thebullocks now. ' This was said by Lady Aylmer, and was skilfullyarranged by her to put a stop to anything like enthusiasm on the partof Sir Anthony. Clara Amedroz had been invited to Aylmer Park, andwas to be entertained there, but it would not be expedient that sheshould be made to think that anybody was particularly glad to seeher, or that the family was at all proud of the proposed connexion. Within five minutes after this she was up in her room, and hadreceived from Belinda tenders of assistance as to her lady's maid. Both the mother and daughter had been anxious to learn whether Clarawould bring her own maid. Lady Aylmer, thinking that she would do so, had already blamed her for extravagance. 'Of course Fred will have topay for the journey and all the rest of it, ' she had said. But assoon as she had perceived that Clara had come without a servant, shehad perceived that any young woman who travelled in that way must beunfit to be mated with her son. Clara, whose intelligence in suchmatters was sharp enough, assured Belinda that she wanted noassistance. 'I dare say you think it very odd, ' she said, 'but Ireally can dress myself. ' And when the maid did come to unpack thethings, Clara would have sent her away at once had she been able. Butthe maid, who was not a young woman, was obdurate. 'Oh no, miss; mylady wouldn't be pleased. If you please, miss, I'll do it. ' And sothe things were unpacked. 

Clara was told that they dined at half-past seven, and she remainedalone in her room till dinner-time, although it had not yet struckfive when she had gone upstairs. The maid had brought her up a cup oftea, and she seated herself at her fire, turning over in her mind thedifferent members of the household in which she found herself. Itwould never do. She told herself over and over again that it wouldnever come to pass that that woman should be her mother-in-law, orthat that other woman should be her sister. It was manifest to herthat she was distasteful to them; and she had not lost a moment inassuring herself that they were distasteful to her. What purposecould it answer that she should strive not to like them, for no suchstrife was possible but to appear to like them? The whole place andeverything about it was antipathetic to her. Would it not be simplyhonest to Captain Aylmer that she should tell him so at once, and goaway? Then she remembered that Frederic had not spoken to her asingle word since she had been under his father's roof. What sort ofwelcome would have been accorded to her had she chosen to go down toPlaistow Hall?

At half-past seven she made her way by herself downstairs. In thisthere was some difficulty, as she remembered nothing of the roomsbelow, and she could not at first find a servant. But a man at lastdid come to her in the hall, and by him she was shown into thedrawing-room. Here she was alone for a few minutes. As she lookedabout her, she thought that no room she had ever seen had less of thecomfort of habitation. It was not here that she had met Lady Aylmerbefore dinner. There had, at any rate, been in that other room workthings, and the look of life which life gives to a room. But herethere was no life. The furniture was all in its place, and everythingwas cold and grand and comfortless. They were making company of herat Aylmer Park!

Clara was intelligent in such matters, and understood it allthoroughly. 

Lady Aylmer was the first person to come to her. 'I hope my maid hasbeen with you, ' said she to which Clara muttered something intendedfor thanks. 'You'll find Richards a very clever woman, and quite aproper person. '

'I don't at all doubt that. '

'She has been here a good many years, and has perhaps little ways ofher own but she means to be obliging. '

'I shall give her very little trouble, Lady Aylmer. I am used todress myself. ' I am afraid this was not exactly true as to Clara'spast habits; but she could dress herself, and intended to do so infuture, and in this way justified the assertion to herself. 

'You had better let Richards come to you, my dear, while you arehere, ' said Lady Aylmer, with a slight smile on her countenance whichoutraged Clara more even than the words. 'We like to see young ladiesnicely dressed here. ' To be told that she was to be nicely dressedbecause she was at Aylmer Park! Her whole heart was already up inrebellion. Do her best to please Lady Aylmer! It would be utterlyimpossible to her to make any attempt whatever in that direction. There was something in her ladyship's eye a certain mixture ofcunning, and power, and hardness in the slight smile that wouldgather round her mouth, by which Clara was revolted. She alreadyunderstood much of Lady Aylmer, but in one thing she was mistaken. She thought that she saw simply the natural woman; but she did, intruth, see the woman specially armed with an intention of beingdisagreeable, made up to give offence, and prepared to create dislikeand enmity. At the present moment nothing further was said, asCaptain Aylmer entered the room, and his mother immediately began totalk to him in whispers. 

The first two days of Clara's sojourn at Aylmer Park passed bywithout the occurrence of anything that was remarkable. That whichmost surprised and annoyed her, as regarded her own position, was thecoldness of all the people around her, as connected with the actualfact of her engagement. Sir Anthony was very courteous to her, buthad never as yet once alluded to the fact that she was to become oneof his family as his daughter-in-law. Lady Aylmer called her MissAmedroz using the name with a peculiar emphasis, as though determinedto show that Miss Amedroz was to be Miss Amedroz as far as any one atAylmer Park was concerned and treated her almost as though herpresence in the house was intrusive. Belinda was as cold as hermother in her mother's presence; but when alone with Clara would thawa little. She, in her difficulty, studiously avoided calling thenew-corner by any name at all. As to Captain Aylmer, it was manifestto Clara that he was suffering almost more than she suffered herself. His position was so painful that she absolutely pitied him for themisery to which he was subjected by his own mother. They still calledeach other Frederic and Clara, and that was the only sign of specialfriendship which manifested itself between them. And Clara, thoughshe pitied him, could not but learn to despise him. She had hithertogiven him credit at any rate for a will of his own. She had believedhim to be a man able to act in accordance with the dictates of hisown conscience. But now she perceived him to be so subject to hismother that he did not dare to call his heart his own. What was to bethe end of it all? And if there could only be one end, would it notbe well that that end should be reached at once, so that she mightescape from her purgatory?

But on the afternoon of the third day there seemed to have come achange over Lady Aylmer. At lunch she was especially civil, --civil tothe extent of picking out herself for Clara, with her own fork, thebreast of a hashed fowl from a dish that was before her. This she didwith considerable care, --I may say, with a show of care; and then, though she did not absolutely call Clara by her Christian name, shedid call her 'my dear'. Clara saw it all, and felt that the usualplacidity of the afternoon would be broken by some special event. Atthree o'clock, when the carriage as usual came to the door, Belindawas out of the way, and Clara was made to understand that she andLady Aylmer were to be driven out without any other companion. 'Belinda is a little busy, my dear. So, if you don't mind, we'll goalone. ' Clara of course assented, and got into the carriage with aconviction that now she would hear her fate. She was rather inclinedto think that Lady Aylmer was about to tell her that she had failedin obtaining the approbation of Aylmer Park, and that she must bereturned as goods of a description inferior to the order given. Ifsuch were the case, the breast of the chicken had no doubt beenadministered as consolation. Clara had endeavoured, since she hadbeen at Aylmer Park, to investigate her own feelings in reference toCaptain Aylmer; but had failed, and knew that she had failed. Shewished to think that she loved him, as she could not endure thethought of having accepted a man whom she did not love. And she toldherself that he had done nothing to forfeit her love. A woman whoreally loves will hardly allow that her love should be forfeited byany fault. True love breeds forgiveness for all faults. And, afterall, of what fault had Captain Aylmer been guilty? He had preached toher out of his mother's mouth. That had been all! She had firstaccepted him, and then rejected him, and then accepted him again; andnow she would fain be firm, if firmness were only possible to her. Nevertheless, if she were told that she was to be returned asinferior, she would hold up her head under such disgrace as best shemight, and would not let the tidings break her heart. 

'My dear, ' said Lady Aylmer, as soon as the trotting horses androlling wheels made noise enough to prevent her words from reachingthe servants on the box. 'I want to say a few words to you and Ithink that this will be a good opportunity. '

'A very good opportunity, ' said Clara. 

'Of course, my dear, you are aware that I have heard of somethinggoing on between you and my son Frederic. ' Now that Lady Aylmer hadtaught herself to call Clara 'my dear', it seemed that she couldhardly call her so often enough. 

'Of course I know that Captain Aylmer has told you of our engagement. But for that, I should not be here. '

'I don't know how that might be, ' said Lady Aylmer; 'but at any rate, my dear, he has told me that since the day of my sister's death therehas been--in point of fact, a sort of engagement. '

'I don't think Captain Aylmer has spoken of it in that way. '

'In what way? Of course he has not said a word that was not nice andlover-like, and all that sort of thing. I believe he would have doneanything in the world that his aunt had told him; and as to his--'

'Lady Aylmer!' said Clara, feeling that her voice was almosttrembling with anger, ' I am sure you cannot intend to be unkind tome?'

'Certainly not. '

'Or to insult me?'

'Insult you, my dear! You should not use such strong words, my dear;indeed you should not. Nothing of the kind is near my thoughts. '

'If you disapprove of my marrying your son, tell me so at once, and Ishall know what to do. '

'It depends, my dear it depends on circumstances, and that is justwhy I want to speak to you. '

'Then tell me the circumstances though indeed I think it would havebeen better if they could have been told to me by Captain Aylmerhimself. '

'There, my dear, you must allow me to judge. As a mother, of course Iam anxious for my son. Now Frederic is a poor man. Considering thekind of society in which he has to live, and the position which hemust maintain as a Member of Parliament, he is a very poor man. '

This was an argument which Clara certainly had not expected that anyof the Aylmer family would condescend to use. She had always regardedCaptain Aylmer as a rich man since he had inherited Mrs Winterfield'sproperty, knowing that previously to that he had been able to live inLondon as rich men usually do live. 'Is he?' said she. 'It may seemodd to you, Lady Aylmer, but I do not think that a word has everpassed between me and your son as to the amount of his income. '

'Not odd at all, my dear. Young ladies are always thoughtless aboutthose things, and when they are looking to be married think thatmoney will come out of the skies. '

'If you mean that I have been looking to be married--'

'Well;--expecting. I suppose you have been expecting it. ' Then shepaused; but as Clara said nothing, she went on. 'Of course, Frederichas got my sister's moiety of the Perivale property;--about eighthundred a year, or something of that sort, when all deductions aremade. He will have the moiety when I die, and if you and he can besatisfied to wait for that event, --which may not perhaps be verylong--'. Then there was another pause, indicative of the melancholynatural to such a suggestion, during which Clara looked at LadyAylmer, and made up her mind that her ladyship would live for thenext twenty-five years at least. 'If you can wait for that, ' shecontinued, it may be all very well, and though you will be poorpeople, in Frederic's rank of life, you will be able to live. '

'That will be so far fortunate, ' said Clara. 

'But you'll have to wait, ' said Lady Aylmer, turning upon hercompanion almost fiercely. 'That is, you certainly will have to do soif you are to depend upon Frederic's income alone. '

'I have nothing of my own as he knows; absolutely nothing. '

'That does not seem to be quite so clear, ' said Lady Aylmer, speakingnow very cautiously or rather with a purpose of great caution; 'Idon't think that that is quite so clear. Frederic has been telling methat there seems to be some sort of a doubt about the settlement ofthe Belton estate. '

'There is no sort of doubt whatsoever no shadow of a doubt. He isquite mistaken. '

'Don't be in such a hurry, my dear. It is not likely that youyourself should be a very good lawyer. '

'Lady Aylmer, I must be in a hurry lest there should be any mistakeabout this. There is no question here for lawyers. Frederic must havebeen misled by a word or two which I said to him with quite anotherpurpose. Everybody concerned knows that the Belton estate goes to mycousin Will. My poor father was quite aware of it. '

'That is all very well; and pray remember, my dear, that you need notattack me in this way. I am endeavouring, if possible, to arrange theaccomplishment of your own wishes. It seems that Mr Belton himselfdoes not claim the property. '

'There is no question of claiming. Because he is a man more generousthan any other person in the world, --romantically generous he hasoffered to give me the property which was my father's for hislifetime; but I do not suppose that you would wish, or that CaptainAylmer would wish, that I should accept such an offer as that. ' Therewas a tone in her voice as she said this, and a glance in her eye asshe turned her face full upon her companion, which almost prevailedagainst Lady Aylmer's force of character. 

'I really don't know, my dear, ' said Lady Aylmer. 'You are soviolent. '

'I certainly am eager about this. No consideration on earth wouldinduce me to take my cousin's property from him. '

'It always seemed to me that that entail was a most unfairproceeding. '

'What would it signify even if it were which it was not? Papa gotcertain advantages on those conditions. But what can all that matter?It belongs to Will Belton. '

Then there was another pause, and Clara thought that that subject wasover between them. But Lady Aylmer had not as yet completed herpurpose. Shall I tell you, my dear, what I think you ought to do?'

'Certainly, Lady Aylmer; if you wish it. '

'I can at any rate tell you what it would become any young lady to dounder such circumstances. I suppose you will give me credit forknowing as much as that. Any young lady placed as you are would berecommended by her friends if she had friends able and fit to giveher advice to put the whole matter into the hands of her naturalfriends and her lawyer together. Hear me out, my dear, if you please. At least you can do that for me, as I am taking a great deal oftrouble on your behalf. You should let Frederic see Mr Green. Iunderstand that Mr Green was your father's lawyer. And then Mr Greencan see Mr Belton. And so the matter can be arranged. It seems to me, from what I hear, that in this way, and in this way only; somethingcan be done as to the proposed marriage. In no other way can anythingbe done. '

Then Lady Aylmer had finished her argument, and throwing herself backinto the carriage, seemed to intimate that she desired no reply. Shehad believed and did believe that her guest was so intent uponmarrying her son, that no struggle would be regarded as too great forthe achievement of that object. And such belief was natural on herpart. Mothers always so think of girls engaged to their sons, and sothink especially when the girls are penniless and the sons arewell-to-do in the world. But such belief, though it is natural, issometimes wrong and it was altogether wrong in this instance. 'Then, 'said Clara, speaking very plainly, ' nothing can be done. '

'Very well, my dear. '

After that there was not a word said between them till the carriagewas once more within the park. Then Lady Aylmer spoke again. 'Ipresume you see, my dear, that under these circumstances any thoughtof marriage between you and my son must be quite out of the questionat any rate for a great many years. '

'I will speak to Captain Aylmer about it, Lady Aylmer. '

'Very well, my dear. So do. Of course he is his own master. But he ismy son as well, and I cannot see him sacrificed without an effort tosave him. '

When Clara came down to dinner on that day she was again MissAmedroz, and she could perceive from Belinda's manner quite asplainly as from that of her ladyship that she was to have no moretit-bits of hashed chicken specially picked out for her by LadyAylmer's own fork. That evening and the two next days passed, justas had passed the two first days, and everything was dull, cold, anduncomfortable. Twice she had walked out with Frederic, and on eachoccasion had thought that he would refer to what his mother had said;but he did not venture to touch upon the subject. Clara more thanonce thought that she would do so herself; but when the moment cameshe found that it was impossible. She could not bring herself to sayanything that should have had the appearance of a desire on her partto hurry on a marriage. She could not say to him, 'If you are toopoor to be married or even if you mean to put forward that pretencesay so at once. ' He still called her Clara, and still asked her towalk with him, and still talked, when they were alone together, in adistant cold way, of the events of their future combined life. Wouldthey live at Perivale? Would it be necessary to refurnish the house?Should he keep any of the land on his own hands? These are allinteresting subjects of discussion between an engaged man and thegirl to whom he is engaged; but the man, if he wish to make themthoroughly pleasant to the lady, should throw something of theurgency of a determined and immediate purpose into the discussion. Something should be said as to the actual destination of the rooms. Aday should be fixed for choosing the furnishing. Or the gentlemanshould declare that he will at once buy the cows for the farm. Butwith Frederic Aylmer all discussions seemed to point to some cold, distant future, to which Clara might look forward as she did to thejoys of heaven. Will Belton would have bought the ring long since, and bespoken the priest, and arranged every detail of the honeymoon, tour and very probably would have stood looking into a cradle shopwith longing eyes. 

At last there came an absolute necessity for some plain speaking. Captain Aylmer declared his intention of returning to London that hemight resume his parliamentary duties. He had purposed to remain tillafter Easter, but it was found to be impossible. 'I find I must go uptomorrow, ' he said at breakfast. 'They are going to make a standabout the poor-rates, and I must be in the House in the evening. 'Clara felt herself to be very cold and uncomfortable. As things wereat present arranged, she was to be left at Aylmer Park without afriend. And how long was she to remain there? No definite ending hadbeen proposed for her visit. Something must be said and somethingsettled before Captain Aylmer went away. 

'You will come down for Easter, of course, ' said his mother. 

'Yes; I shall come down for Easter, I think or at any rate atWhitsuntide. '

'You must come at Easter, Frederic, ' said his mother. 

'I don't doubt but I shall, ' said he. 

'Miss Amedroz should lay her commands upon him, ' said Sir Anthonygallantly. 

'Nonsense, ' said Lady Aylmer. 

'I have commands to lay upon him all the same, ' said Clara; 'and ifhe will give me half an hour this morning he shall have them. ' Tothis Captain Aylmer, of course, assented as how could he escape fromsuch assent and a regular appointment was made, Captain Aylmer andMiss Amedroz were to be closeted together in the little backdrawing-room immediately after breakfast. Clara would willingly haveavoided any such formality could she have done so compatibly with theexigencies of the occasion. She had been obliged to assert herselfwhen Lady Aylmer had rebuked Sir Anthony, and then Lady Aylmer haddetermined that an air of business should be assumed. Clara, as shewas marched off into the back drawing-room followed by her lover withmore sheep-like gait even than her own, felt strongly the absurdityand the wretchedness of her position. But she was determined to gothrough with her purpose. 

'I am very sorry that I have to leave you so soon, ' said CaptainAylmer, as soon as the door was shut and they were alone together. 

'Perhaps it may be better as it is, Frederic; as in this way we shallall come to understand each other, and something will be settled. '

'Well, yes; perhaps that will be best. '

'Your mother has told me that she disapproves of our marriage. '

'No; not that, I think, I don't think she can have quite said that. '

'She says that you cannot marry while she is alive that is, that youcannot marry me because your income would not be sufficient. '

'I certainly was speaking to her about my income. '

'Of course I have got nothing. ' Here she paused. 'Not a penny-piecein the world that I can call my own. '

'Oh yes, you have. '

'Nothing. Nothing!'

'You have your aunt's legacy?'

'No; I have not. She left me no legacy. But as that is between youand me, if we think of marrying each other, that would make nodifference. '

'None at all, of course. '

'But in truth I have got nothing. Your mother said something to meabout the Belton estate; as though there was some idea that possiblyit might come to me. '

'Your cousin himself seemed to think so. '

'Frederic, do not let us deceive ourselves. There can be nothing ofthe kind. I could not accept any portion of the property from mycousin even though our marriage were to depend upon it. '

'Of course it does not. '

'But if your means are not sufficient for your wants I am quite readyto accept that reason as being sufficient for breaking ourengagement. '

'There need be nothing of the kind. '

'As for waiting for the death of another person for your mother'sdeath, I should think it very wrong. Of course, if our engagementstands there need be no hurry; but some time should be fixed. ' Claraas she said this felt that her face and forehead were suffused with ablush; but she was determined that it should be said, and the wordswere pronounced. 

'I quite think so too, ' said he. 

'I am glad that we agree. Of course, I will leave it to you to fixthe time. '

'You do not mean at this very moment?' said Captain Aylmer, almostaghast. 

'No; I did not mean that. '

'I'll tell you what. I'll make a point of coming down at Easter. Iwasn't sure about it before, but now I will be. And then it shall besettled. '

Such was the interview; and on the next morning Captain Aylmerstarted for London. Clara felt, aware that she had not done or saidall that should have been done and said; but, nevertheless, a step inthe right direction had been taken. 

CHAPTER XXVI

THE AYLMER PARK HASHED CHICKEN COMES TO AN END

Easter in this year fell about the middle of April, and it stillwanted three weeks of that time when Captain Aylmer started forLondon. Clara was quite alive to the fact that the next three weekswould not be a happy time for her. She looked forward, indeed, to somuch wretchedness during this period, that the days as they came werenot quite so bad as she had expected them to be. At first Lady Aylmersaid little or nothing to her. It seemed to be agreed between themthat there was to be war, but that there was no necessity for any ofthe actual operations of war during the absence of Captain Aylmer. Clara had become Miss Amedroz again; and though an offer to be drivenout in the carriage was made to her every day, she was in generalable to escape the infliction so that at last it came to beunderstood that Miss Amedroz did not like carriage exercise. She hasnever been used to it, ' said Lady Aylmer to her daughter. 'I supposenot, ' said Belinda; 'but if she wasn't so very cross she'd enjoy itjust for that reason. ' Clara sometimes walked about the grounds withBelinda, but on such occasions there was hardly anything that couldbe called conversation between them, and Frederic Aylmer's name wasnever mentioned. 

Captain Aylmer had not been gone many days before she received aletter from her cousin, in which he spoke with absolute certainty ofhis intention of giving up the estate. He had, he said, consulted MrGreen, and the thing was to be done. 'But it will be better, Ithink, ' he went on to say, 'that I should manage it for you tillafter your marriage. I simply mean what I say. You are not to supposethat I shall interfere in any way afterwards. Of course there will bea settlement, as to which I hope you will allow me to see Mr Green onyour behalf. ' In the first draught of his letter he had inserted asentence in which he expressed a wish that the property should be sosettled that it might at last all come to some one bearing the nameof Belton. But as he read this over, the condition for coming fromhim it would be a condition seemed to him to be ungenerous, and heexpunged it. 'What does it matter who has it, ' he said to himselfbitterly, 'or what he is called? I will never set eyes upon hischildren, nor yet upon the place when he has become the master ofit. ' Clara wrote both to her cousin and to the lawyer, repeating herassurance with great violence, as Lady Aylmer would have said thatshe would have nothing to with the Belton estate. She told Mr Greenthat it would be useless for him to draw up any deeds. 'It can't bemade mine unless I choose to have it, ' she said, 'and I don't chooseto have it. ' Then there came upon her a terrible fear. What if sheshould marry Captain Aylmer after all; and what if he, when he shouldbe her husband, should take the property on her behalf! Somethingmust be done before her marriage to prevent the possibility of suchresults something as to the efficacy of which for such prevention shecould feel altogether certain. 

But could she marry Captain Aylmer at all in her present mood? Duringthese three weeks she was unconsciously teaching herself to hope thatshe might be relieved from her engagement. She did not love him. Shewas becoming aware that she did not love him. She was beginning todoubt whether, in truth, she had ever loved him. But yet she feltthat she could not escape from her engagement if he should showhimself to be really actuated by any fixed purpose to carry it out;nor could she bring herself to be so weak before Lady Aylmer as toseem to yield. The necessity of not striking her colours was forcedupon her by the warfare to which she was subjected. She was unhappy, feeling that her present position in life was bad, and unworthy ofher. She could have brought herself almost to run away from AylmerPark, as a boy runs away from school, were it not that she had noplace to which to run. She could not very well make her appearance atPlaistow Hall, and say that she had come there for shelter andsuccour. She could, indeed, go to Mrs Askerton's cottage for awhile;and the more she thought of the state of her affairs, the more didshe feel sure that that would, before long, be her destiny. It mustbe her destiny unless Captain Aylmer should return at Easter withpurposes so firmly fixed that even his mother should not be able toprevail against them. 

And now, in these days, circumstances gave her a new friend orperhaps, rather, a new acquaintance, where she certainly had lookedneither for the one or for the other. Lady Aylmer and Belinda and thecarriage and the horses used, as I have said, to go off without her. This would take place soon after luncheon. Most of us know how theevents of the day drag themselves on tediously in such a countryhouse as Aylmer Park--a country house in which people neither read, nor flirt, nor gamble, nor smoke, nor have resort to the excitementof any special amusement. Lunch was on the table at half-past one, and the carriage was at the door at three. Eating and drinking andthe putting on of bonnets occupied the hour and a half. Frombreakfast to lunch Lady Aylmer, with her old 'front', would occupyherself with her household accounts. For some days after Clara'sarrival she put on her new 'front' before lunch; but of late sincethe long conversation in the carriage the new 'front' did not appeartill she came down for the carriage. According to the theory of herlife, she was never to be seen by any but her own family in her old'front'. At breakfast she would appear with head so mysteriouslyenveloped with such a bewilderment of morning caps that old 'front'or new 'front' was all the same. When Sir Anthony perceived thischange when he saw that Clara was treated as though she belonged toAylmer Park then he told himself that his son's marriage with MissAmedroz was to be; and, as Miss Amedroz seemed to him to be a verypleasant young woman, he would creep out of his own quarters when thecarriage was gone and have a little chat with her being careful tocreep away again before her ladyship's return. This was Clara's newfriend. 

'Have you heard from Fred since he has been gone?' the old man askedone day, when he had come upon Clara still seated in the parlour inwhich they had lunched. He had been out, at the front of the house, scolding the under-gardener; but the man had taken away his barrowand left him, and Sir Anthony had found himself without employment. 

'Only a line to say that he is to be here on the sixteenth. '

'I don't think people write so many love-letters as they did when Iwas young, ' said Sir Anthony. 

'To judge from the novels, I should think not. The old novels used tobe full of love-letters. '

'Fred was never good at writing, I think. '

'Members of Parliament have too much to do, I suppose, ' said Clara. 

'But he always writes when there is any business. He's a capital manof business. I wish I could say as much for his brother or formyself. '

'Lady Aylmer seems to like work of that sort. '

'So she does. She's fond of it I am not. I sometimes think that Fredtakes after her. Where was it you first knew him?'

'At Perivale. We used, both of us, to be staying with MrsWinterfield. '

'Yes, yes; of course. The most natural thing in life. Well, my dear, I can assure you that I am quite satisfied. '

'Thank you, Sir Anthony. I'm glad to hear you say even as much asthat. '

'Of course money is very desirable for a man situated like Fred; buthe'll have enough, and if he is pleased, I am. Personally, as regardsyourself, I am more than pleased. I am indeed. '

'It's very good of you to say so. '

Sir Anthony looked at Clara, and his heart was softened towards heras he saw that there was a tear in her eye. A man's heart must bevery hard when it does not become softened by the trouble of a womanwith whom he finds himself alone. 'I don't know how you and LadyAylmer get on together, ' he said; 'but it will not be my fault if weare not friends. '

'I am afraid that Lady Aylmer does not like me, ' said Clara. 

'Indeed. I was afraid there was something of that. But you mustremember she is hard to please. You'll find she'll come round intime. '

'She thinks that Captain Aylmer should not marry a woman withoutmoney. '

'That's all very well; but I don't see why Fred shouldn't pleasehimself, He's old enough to know what he wants. '

'Is he, Sir Anthony? That's just the question. I'm not quite surethat he does know what he wants. '

'Fred doesn't know, do you mean?'

'I don't quite think he does, sir. And the worst of it is, I am indoubt as well as he. '

'In doubt about marrying him?'

'In doubt whether it will be good for him or for any of us. I don'tlike to come into a family that does not desire to have me. '

'You shouldn't think so much of Lady Aylmer as all that, my dear. '

'But I do think a great deal of her. '

'I shall be very glad to have you as a daughter-in-law. And as forLady Aylmer between you and me, my dear, you shouldn't take everyword she says so much to heart. She's the best woman in the world, and I'm sure I'm bound to say so. But she has her temper, you know;and I don't think you ought to give way to her altogether. There'sthe carriage. It won't do you any good if we're found togethertalking over it all; will it?' Then the baronet hobbled off, and LadyAylmer, when she entered the room, found Clara sitting alone. 

Whether it was that the wife was clever enough to extract from herhusband something of the conversation that had passed between him andClara, or whether she had some other source of information or whetherher conduct might proceed from other grounds, we need not inquire;but from that afternoon Lady Aylmer's manner and words to Clarabecame much less courteous than they had been before. She wouldalways speak as though some great iniquity was being committed, andwent about the house with a portentous frown, as though some terriblemeasure must soon be taken with the object of putting an end to thepresent extremely improper state of things. All this was so manifestto Clara, that she said to Sir Anthony one day that she could nolonger bear the look of Lady Aylmer's displeasure and that she wouldbe forced to leave Aylmer Park before Frederic's return, unless theevil were mitigated. She had by this time told Sir Anthony that shemuch doubted whether the marriage would be possible, and that shereally believed that it would be best for all parties that the ideashould be abandoned. Sir Anthony, when he heard this, could onlyshake his head and hobble away. The trouble was too deep for him tocure. 

But Clara still held on; and now there wanted but two days to CaptainAylmer's return, when, all suddenly, there arose a terrible storm atAylmer Park, and then came a direct and positive quarrel between LadyAylmer and Clara a quarrel direct and positive and, on the part ofboth ladies, very violent. 

Nothing had hitherto been said at Aylmer Park about Mrs Askertonnothing, that is, since Clara's arrival. And Clara had been thankfulfor this silence. The letter which Captain Aylmer had written to herabout Mrs Askerton will perhaps be remembered, and Clara's answer tothat letter. The Aylmer Park opinion as to this poor woman, and as toClara's future conduct towards the poor woman, had been expressedvery strongly; and Clara had as strongly resolved that she would notbe guided by Aylmer Park opinions in that matter. She had anticipatedmuch that was disagreeable on this subject, and had thereforecongratulated herself not a little on the absence of all allusion toit. But Lady Aylmer had, in truth, kept Mrs Askerton in reserve, as abattery to be used against Miss Amedroz if all other modes of attackshould fail as a weapon which would be powerful when other weaponshad been powerless. For a while she had thought it possible thatClara might be the owner of the Belton estate, and then it had beenworth the careful mother's while to be prepared to accept adaughter-in-law so dowered. We have seen how the question of suchownership had enabled her to put forward the plea of poverty whichshe had used on her son's behalf. But since that, Frederic haddeclared his intention of marrying the young woman in spite of hispoverty, and Clara seemed to be equally determined. 'He has been foolenough to speak the word, and she is determined to keep him to it, 'said Lady Aylmer to her daughter. Therefore the Askerton battery wasbrought to bear not altogether unsuccessfully. 

The three ladies were sitting together in the drawing-room, and hadbeen as mute as fishes for half an hour. In these sittings they weregenerally very silent, speaking only in short little sentences. 'Willyou drive with us today, Miss Amedroz?' 'Not today, I think, LadyAylmer. ' 'As you are reading, perhaps you won't mind our leavingyou?' 'Pray do not put yourself to inconvenience for me, MissAylmer, ' Such and such like was their conversation; but on a sudden, after a full half-hour's positive silence, Lady Aylmer asked aquestion altogether of another kind. 'I think, Miss Amedroz, my sonwrote to you about a certain Mrs Askerton?'

Clara put down her work and sat for a moment almost astonished. Itwas not only that Lady Aylmer had asked so very disagreeable aquestion, but that she had asked it with so peculiar a voice a voiceas it were a command, in a manner that was evidently intended to betaken as serious, and with a look of authority in her eye, as thoughshe were resolved that this battery of hers should knock the enemyabsolutely in the dust! Belinda gave a little spring in her chair, looked intently at her work, and went on stitching faster thanbefore. 'Yes, he did, ' said Clara, finding that an answer wasimperatively demanded from her. 

'It was quite necessary that he should write. I believe it to be anundoubted fact that Mrs Askerton is is is not at all what she oughtto be. '

'Which of us is what we ought to be?' said Clara. 

'Miss Amedroz, on this subject I am not at all inclined to joke. Isit not true that Mrs Askerton--'

'You must excuse me, Lady Aylmer, but what I know of Mrs Askerton, Iknow altogether in confidence; so that I cannot speak to you of herpast life. '

'But, Miss Amedroz, pray excuse me if I say that I must speak of it. When I remember the position in which you do us the honour of beingour visitor here, how can I help speaking of it?' Belinda wasstitching very hard, and would not even raise her eyes. Clara, whostill held her needle in her hand, resumed her work, and for a momentor two made no further answer. But Lady Aylmer had by no meanscompleted her task. 'Miss Amedroz, ' she said, 'you must allow me tojudge for myself in this matter. The subject is one on which I feelmyself obliged to speak to you. '

'But I have got nothing to say about it. '

'You have, I believe, admitted the truth of the allegations made byus as to this woman. ' Clara was becoming very angry. A red spotshowed itself on each cheek, and a frown settled upon her brow. Shedid not as yet know what she would say or how she would conductherself. She was striving to consider how best she might assert herown independence. But she was fully determined that in this mattershe would not bend an inch to Lady Aylmer. 'I believe we may takethat as admitted?', said her ladyship. 

'I am not aware that I have admitted anything to you, Lady Aylmer, orsaid anything that can justify you in questioning me on the subject. '

'Justify me in questioning a young woman who tells me that she is tobe my future daughter-in-law!'

'I have not told you so. I have never told you anything of the kind. '

'Then on what footing, Miss Amedroz, do you do us the honour of beingwith us here at Aylmer Park?'

'On a very foolish footing. '

'On a foolish footing! What does that mean?'

'It means that I have been foolish in coming to a house in which I amsubjected to such questioning. '

'Belinda, did you ever hear anything like this? Miss Amedroz, I mustpersevere, however much you may dislike it. The story of this woman'slife whether she be Mrs Askerton or not, I don't know--'

'She is Mrs Askerton, ' said Clara. 

'As to that I do not profess to know, and I dare say that you are nowiser than myself. But what she has been we do know. ' Here LadyAylmer raised her voice and continued to speak with all the eloquencewhich assumed indignation could give her. 'What she has been we doknow, and I ask you, as a duty which I own to my son, whether youhave put an end to your acquaintance with so very disreputable aperson a person whom even to have known is a disgrace?'

'I know her, and--'

'Stop one minute, if you please. My questions are these--Have you putan end to that acquaintance? Are you ready to give a promise that itshall never be resumed?

'I have not put an end to that acquaintance, --or rather thataffectionate friendship as I should call it, and I am ready topromise that it shall be maintained with all my heart. '

'Belinda, do you hear her?'

'Yes, mamma. ' And Belinda slowly shook her head, which was now bowedlower than ever over her lap. 

'And that is your resolution?'

'Yes, Lady Aylmer; that is my resolution. '

'And you think that becoming to you, as a young woman?'

'Just so; I think that becoming to me as a young woman. '

'Then let me tell you, Miss Amedroz, that I differ from youaltogether altogether. ' Lady Aylmer, as she repeated the last word, raised her folded hands as though she were calling upon heaven towitness how thoroughly she differed from the young woman!

'I don't see how I am to help that, Lady Aylmer. I dare say we maydiffer on many subjects. '

'I dare say we do. I dare say we do. And I need not point out to youhow very little that would be a matter of regret to me but for thehold you have upon my unfortunate son. '

'Hold upon him, Lady Aylmer! How dare you insult me by suchlanguage?' Hereupon Belinda again jumped in her chair; but LadyAylmer looked as though she enjoyed the storm. 

'You undoubtedly have a hold upon him, Miss Amedroz, and I think thatit is a great misfortune. Of course, when he hears what your conductis with reference to this person, he will release himself from hisentanglement. '

'He can release himself from his entanglement whenever he chooses, 'said Clara, rising from her chair. 'Indeed, he is released. I shalllet Captain Aylmer know that our engagement must be at an end, unlesshe will promise that I shall never in future be subjected to theunwarrantable insolence of his mother. ' Then she walked off to thedoor, not regarding, and indeed not hearing, the parting shot thatwas fired at her. 

And now what was to be done! Clara went up to her own room, makingherself strong and even comfortable, with an inward assurance thatnothing should ever induce her even to sit down to table again withLady Aylmer. She would not willingly enter the same room with LadyAylmer, or have any speech with her. But what should she at once do?She could not very well leave Aylmer Park without settling whithershe would go; nor could she in any way manage to leave the house onthat afternoon. She almost resolved that she would go to MrsAskerton. Everything was of course over between her and CaptainAylmer, and therefore there was no longer any hindrance to her doingso on that score. But what would be her Cousin Will's wish? He, now, was the only friend to whom she could trust for good counsel. Whatwould be his advice? Should she write and ask him? No she could notdo that. She could not bring herself to write to him, telling himthat the Aylmer 'entanglement' was at an end. Were she to do so, he, with his temperament, would take such letter as meaning much morethan it was intended to mean. But she would write a letter to CaptainAylmer. This she thought that she would do at once, and she began it. 

She got as far as 'My dear Captain Aylmer, ' and then she found thatthe letter was one which could not be written very easily. And sheremembered, as the greatness of the difficulty of writing the letterbecame plain to her, that it could not now be sent so as to reachCaptain Aylmer before he would leave London. If written at all, itmust be addressed to him at Aylmer Park, and the task might be donetomorrow as well as today. So that task was given up for the present. 

But she did write a letter to Mrs Askerton a letter which she wouldsend or not on the morrow, according to the state of her mind as itmight then be. In this she declared her purpose of leaving AylmerPark on the day after Captain Aylmer's arrival, and asked to be takenin at the cottage. An answer was to be sent to her, addressed to theGreat Northern Railway Hotel. 

Richards, the maid, came up to her before dinner, with offers ofassistance for dressing offers made in a tone which left no doubt onClara's mind that Richards knew all about the quarrel. But Claradeclined to be dressed, and sent down a message saying that she wouldremain in her room, and begging to be supplied with tea. She wouldnot even condescend to say that she was troubled with a headache. Then Belinda came up to her, just before dinner was announced, andwith a fluttered gravity advised Miss Amedroz to come down-stairs. 'Mamma thinks it will be much better that you should show yourself, let the final result be what it may. '

'But I have not the slightest desire to show myself. '

'There are the servants, you know. '

'But, Miss Aylmer, I don't care a straw for the servants really not astraw. '

'And papa will feel it so. '

'I shall be sorry if Sir Anthony is annoyed but I cannot help it. Ithas not been my doing. '

'And mamma says that my brother would of course wish it. '

'After what your mother has done, I don't see what his wishes wouldhave to do with it, --even if she knew them, --which I don't think shedoes. '

'But if you will think of it, I'm sure you'll find it is the properthing to do. There is nothing to be avoided so much as an openquarrel, that all the servants can see. '

'I must say, Miss Aylmer, that I disregard the servants. After whatpassed down-stairs, of course I have had to consider what I should do. Will you tell your mother that I will stay here, if she will permitit?'

'Of course. She will be delighted. '

'I will remain, if she will permit it, till the morning after CaptainAylmer's arrival. Then I shall go. '

'Where to, Miss Amedroz?'

'I have already written to a friend, asking her to receive me. '

Miss Aylmer paused a moment before she asked her next question butshe did ask it, showing by her tone and manner that she had beendriven to summon up all her courage to enable her to do so. 'To whatfriend, Miss Amedroz? Mamma will be glad to know. '

'That is a question which Lady Aylmer can have no right to ask, ' saidClara. 

'Oh very well. Of course, if you don't like to tell, there's no moreto be said. '

'I do not like to tell, Miss Aylmer. '

Clara had her tea in her room that evening, and lived there the wholeof the next day. The family down-stairs was not comfortable. SirAnthony could not be made to understand why his guest kept herroom, --which was not odd, as Lady Aylmer was very sparing in theinformation she gave him; and Belinda found it to be impossible to sitat table, or to say a few words to her father and mother, withoutshowing at every moment her consciousness that a crisis had occurred. By the next day's post the letter to Mrs Askerton was sent, and at theappointed time Captain Aylmer arrived. About an hour after he enteredthe house, Belinda went up-stairs with a message from him;--would MissAmedroz see him? Miss Amedroz would see him, but made it a conditionof doing so that she should not be required to meet Lady Aylmer. Sheneed not be afraid, ' said Lady Aylmer. 'Unless she sends me a fullapology, with a promise that she will have no further intercoursewhatever with that woman, I will never willingly see her again. ' Ameeting was therefore arranged between Captain Aylmer and MissAmedroz in a sitting-room upstairs. 

'What is all this, Clara?' said Captain Aylmer, at once. 

'Simply this that your mother has insulted me most wantonly. '

'She says that it is you who have been uncourteous to her. '

'Be it so you can of course believe whichever you please, and it isdesirable, no doubt, that you should prefer to believe your mother. '

'But I do not wish there to be any quarrel. '

'But there is a quarrel, Captain Aylmer, and I must leave yourfather's house. I cannot stay here after what has taken place. Yourmother told me I cannot tell you what she told me, but she madeagainst me just those accusations which she knew it would be thehardest for me to bear. '

'I'm sure you have mistaken her. '

'No; I have not mistaken her. '

'And where do you propose to go?'

'To Mrs Askerton. '

'Oh, Clara!'

'I have written to Mrs Askerton to ask her to receive me for awhile. Indeed, I may almost say that I had no other choice. '

'If you go there, Clara, there will be an end to everything. '

'And there must be an end of what you call everything, CaptainAylmer, ' said she, smiling. 'It cannot be for your good to bring intoyour family a wife of whom your mother would think so badly as shethinks of me. '

There was a great deal said, and Captain Aylmer walked very often upand down the room, endeavouring to make some arrangement which mightseem in some sort to appease his mother. Would Clara only allow atelegram to be sent to Mrs Askerton, to explain that she had changedher mind? But Clara would allow no such telegram to be sent, and onthat evening she packed up all her things. Captain Aylmer saw heragain and again, sending Belinda backwards and forwards, and makingdifferent appointments up to midnight; but it was all to no purpose, and on the next morning she took her departure alone in the AylmerPark carriage for the railway station. Captain Aylmer had proposed togo with her; but she had so stoutly declined his company that he wasobliged to abandon his intention. She saw neither of the ladies onthat morning, but Sir Anthony came out to say a word of farewell toher in the hall. 'I am very sorry for all this, ' said he. 'It is apity, ' said Clara, 'but it cannot be helped. Good-bye, Sir Anthony. ''I hope we may meet again under pleasanter circumstances, ' said thebaronet. To this Clara made no reply, and was then handed into thecarriage by Captain Aylmer. 

'I am so bewildered, ' said he, 'that I cannot now say anythingdefinite, but I shall write to you, and probably follow you. '

'Do not follow me, pray, Captain Aylmer, ' said she, Then she wasdriven to the station; and as she passed through the lodges of thepark entrance she took what she intended to be a final farewell ofAylmer Park. 

CHAPTER XXVII

ONCE MORE BACK TO BELTON

When the carriage was driven away, Sir Anthony and Captain Aylmerwere left standing alone at the ball door of the house. The servantshad slunk off, and the father and son, looking at each other, feltthat they also must slink away, or else have some words together onthe subject of their guest's departure. The younger gentleman wouldhave preferred that there should be no words, but Sir Anthony wascurious to know something of what had passed in the house during thelast few days. 'I'm afraid things are not going quite comfortable, 'he said. 

'It seems to me, sir, ' said his son, 'that things very seldom do goquite comfortable. '

'But, Fred what is it all about? Your mother says that Miss Amedrozis behaving very badly. '

'And Miss Amedroz says that my mother is behaving very badly. '

'Of course that's only natural. And what do you say?'

'I say nothing, sir. The less said the soonest mended. '

'That's all very well; but it seems to me that you, in your position, must say something. The long and the short of it is this. Is she tobe your wife?'

'Upon my word, sir, I don't know. '

They were still standing out under the portico, and as Sir Anthonydid not for a minute or two ask any further questions, Captain Aylmerturned as though he were going into the house. But his father hadstill a word or two to say. Stop a moment, Fred. I don't oftentrouble you with advice. '

'I'm sure I'm always glad to hear it when you offer any. '

'I know very well that in most things your opinion is better thanmine. You've had advantages which I never had. But I've had moreexperience than you, my dear boy. It stands to reason that in somethings I must have had more experience than you. ' There was a tone ofmelancholy in the father's voice as he said this which quite touchedhis son, and which brought the two closer together out in the porch. 'Take my word for it, ' continued Sir Anthony, 'that you are muchbetter off as you are than you could be with a wife. '

'Do you mean to say that no man should marry?'

'No I don't mean to say that. An eldest son ought to marry, so thatthe property may have an heir. And poor men should marry, I suppose, as they want wives to do for them. And sometimes, no doubt, a manmust marry when he has got to be very fond of a girl, and hascompromised himself, and all that kind of thing. I would never adviseany man to sully his honour. ' As Sir Anthony said this he raisedhimself a little with his two sticks and spoke out in a bolder voice. The voice however, sank again as he descended from the realms ofhonour to those of prudence. 'But none of these cases are yours, Fred. To be sure you'll have the Perivale property; but that is not afamily estate, and you'll be much better off by turning it intomoney. And in the way of comfort, you can be a great deal morecomfortable without a wife than you can with one. What do you want awife for? And then, as to Miss Amedroz, --for myself I must say that Ilike her uncommonly. She has been very pleasant in her ways with me. But somehow or another, I don't think you are so much in love withher but what you can do without her. ' Hereupon he paused and lookedhis son full in the face. Fred had also been thinking of the matterin his own way, and asking himself the same question, --whether he wasin truth so much in love with Clara that he could not live withouther. 'Of course I don't know, ' continued Sir Anthony, 'what hastaken place just now between you and her, or what between her andyour mother; but I suppose the whole thing might fall through withoutany further trouble to you, --or without anything unhandsome on yourpart?' But Captain Aylmer still said nothing. The whole thing might, no doubt, fall through, but he wished to be neither unjust norungenerous, --and he specially wished to avoid anything unhandsome. After a further pause of a few minutes, Sir Anthony went on again, pouring forth the words of experience. 'Of course marriage is allvery well. I married rather early in life, and have always found yourmother to be a most excellent woman. A better woman doesn't breathe. I'm as sure of that as I am of anything. But God bless me of courseyou can see. I can't call anything my own. I'm tied down here and Ican't move. I've never got a shilling to spend, while all these lazyhounds about the place are eating me up. There isn't a clerk with ahundred a year in London that isn't better off than I am as regardsready money. And what comfort have I in a big house, and no end ofgardens, and a place like this? What pleasures do I get out of it?That comes of marrying and keeping up one's name in the countyrespectably! What do I care for the county? D---- the county! I oftenwish that I'd been a younger son as you are. '

Captain Aylmer had no answer to make to all this. It was, no doubt, the fact that age and good living had made Sir Anthony altogetherincapable of enjoying the kind of life which he desiderated, and that hewould probably have eaten and drunk himself into his grave long sincehad that kind of life been within his reach. This, however, the soncould not explain to the father. But in fitting, as he endeavoured todo, his father's words to his own case, Captain Aylmer did perceivethat a bachelor's life might perhaps be the most suitable to his ownpeculiar case. Only he would do nothing unhandsome. As to that he wasquite resolved. Of course Clara must show herself to be in somedegree amenable to reason and to the ordinary rules of the world; buthe was aware that his mother was hot-tempered, and he generouslymade up his mind that he would give Miss Amedroz even yet anotherchance. 

At the hotel in London Clara found a short note from Mrs Askerton, inwhich she was warmly assured that everything should be done to makeher comfortable at the cottage as long as she should wish to staythere. But the very warmth of affection thus expressed made heralmost shrink from what she was about to do. Mrs Askerton was nodoubt anxious for her coming; but would her Cousin Will Beltonapprove of the visit; and what would her Cousin Mary say about it? Ifshe was being driven into this step against her own approval, by theinsolence of Lady Aylmer if she was doing this thing simply becauseLady Aylmer had desired her not to do it, and was doing it inopposition to the wishes of the man she had promised to marry as wellas to her own judgment, there could not but be cause for shrinking. And yet she believed that she was right. If she could only have hadsome one to tell her some one in whom she could trust implicitly todirect her! She had hitherto been very much prone to rebel againstauthority. Against her aunt she had rebelled, and against her father, and against her lover. But now she wished with all her heart thatthere might be some one to whom she could submit with perfect faith. If she could only know what her Cousin Will would think. In him shethought she could have trusted with that perfect faith if only hewould have been a brother to her. 

But it was too late now for doubting, and on the next day she foundherself getting out of the old Redicote fly, at Colonel Askerton'sdoor. He came out to meet her, and his greeting was very friendly. Hitherto there had been no great intimacy between him and her, owingrather to the manner of life adopted by him than to any cause ofmutual dislike between them. Mrs Askerton had shown herself desirousof some social intercourse since she had been at Belton, but withColonel Askerton there had been nothing of this. He had come thereintending to live alone, and had been satisfied to carry out hispurpose. But now Clara had come to his house as a guest, and heassumed towards her altogether a new manner. 'We are so glad to haveyou, ' he said, taking both her hands. Then she passed on into thecottage, and in a minute was in her friend's arms. 

'Dear Clara;--dearest Clara, I am so glad to have you here. '

'It is very good of you. '

'No, dear; the goodness is with you to come. But we won't quarrelabout that. We will both be ever so good. And he is so happy that youshould be here. You'll get to know him now. But come up-stairs. There's a fire in your room, and I'll be your maid for theoccasion, --because then we can talk. ' Clara did as she was bid and wentup-stairs; and as she sat over the fire while her friend knelt besideher, --for Mrs Askerton was given to such kneelings, --she could not buttell herself that Belton Cottage was much more comfortable thanAylmer Park. During the whole time of her sojourn at Aylmer Park noword of real friendship had once greeted her ears. Everything therehad been cold and formal, till coldness and formality had given wayto violent insolence. 

'And so you have quarrelled with her ladyship, ' said Mrs Askerton. 'Iknew you would. '

'I have not said anything about quarrelling with her. '

'But of course you have. Come, now; don't make yourself disagreeable. You have had a downright battle have you not?'

'Something very like it, I'm afraid. '

'I am so glad, ' said Mrs Askerton, rubbing her hands. 

'That is ill-natured. '

'Very well. Let it be ill-natured. One isn't to be good-natured allround, or what would be the use of it? And what sort of a woman isshe?'

'Oh dear; I couldn't describe her. She is very large, and wears agreat wig, and manages everything herself, and I've no doubt she's avery good woman in her own way. '

'I can see her at once and a very pillar of virtue as regardsmorality and going to church. Poor me! Does she know that you havecome here?'

'I have no doubt she does. I did not tell her, nor would I tell herdaughter; but I told Captain Aylmer. '

'That was right. That was very right. I'm so glad of that. But whowould doubt that you would show a proper spirit? And what did hesay?'

'Not much, indeed. '

'I won't trouble you about him. I don't in the least doubt but allthat will come right. And what sort of man is Sir Anthony?'

'A common-place sort of a man; very gouty, and with none of hiswife's strength. I liked him the best of them all. '

'Because you saw the least of him, I suppose. '

'He was kind in his manner to me. '

'And they were like she-dragons. I understand it all, and can seethem just as though I had been there. I felt that I knew what wouldcome of it when you first told me that you were going to Aylmer Park, I did, indeed. I could have prophesied it all. '

'What a pity you did not. '

'It would have done no good and your going there has done good. Ithas opened your eyes to more than one thing, I don't doubt. But tellme have you told them in Norfolk that you were coming here?'

'No I have not written to my cousin. '

'Don't be angry with me if I tell you something. I have. '

'Have what?'

'I have told Mr Belton that you were coming here. It was in this way. I had to write to him about our continuing in the cottage. ColonelAskerton always makes me write if it's possible, and of course wewere obliged to settle something as to the place. '

'I'm sorry you said anything about me. '

'How could I help it? What would you have thought of me, or whatwould he have thought, if, when writing to him, I had not mentionedsuch a thing as your visit? Besides, it's much better that he shouldknow. '

'I am sorry that you said anything about it. '

'You are ashamed that he should know that you are here, ' said MrsAskerton, in a tone of reproach. 

'Ashamed! No; I am not ashamed. But I would sooner that he had notbeen told as yet. Of course he would have been told before long. '

'But you are not angry with me?'

'Angry! How can I be angry with any one who is so kind to me?'

That evening passed by very pleasantly, and when she went again toher own room, Clara was almost surprised to find how completely shewas at home. On the next day she and Mrs Askerton together went up tothe house, and roamed through all the rooms, and Clara seated herselfin all the accustomed chairs. On the sofa, just in the spot to whichBelton had thrown it, she found the key of the cellar. She took it upin her band, thinking that she would give it to the servant; butagain she put it back upon the sofa. It was his key, and he had leftit there, and if ever there came an occasion she would remind himwhere he had put it. Then they went out to the cow, who was at herease in a little home paddock. 

'Dear Bessy, ' said Clara, 'see how well she knows me. ' But I thinkthe tame little beast would have known any one else as well whohad gone up to her as Clara did, with food in her hand. 'She isquite as sacred as any cow that ever was worshipped among thecow-worshippers, ' said Mrs Askerton. I suppose they milk her and sellthe butter, but otherwise she is not regarded as an ordinary cow atall. ' 'Poor Bessy, ' said Clara. 'I wish she had never come here. Whatis to be done with her?' 'Done with her! She'll stay here till shedies a natural death, and then a romantic pair of mourners willfollow her to her grave, mixing their sympathetic tears comfortablyas they talk of the old days; and in future years, Bessy will grow tobe a divinity of the past, never to be mentioned without tenderestreminiscences. I have not the slightest difficulty in prophesying asto Bessy's future life and posthumous honours. ' They roamed about theplace the whole morning, through the garden and round the farmbuildings, and in and out of the house; and at every turn somethingwas said about Will Belton. But Clara would not go up to the rocks, although Mrs Askerton more than once attempted to turn in thatdirection. He had said that he never would go there again exceptunder certain circumstances. She knew that those circumstances wouldnever come to pass; but yet neither would she go there. She wouldnever go there till her cousin was married. Then, if in those daysshe should ever be present at Belton Castle, she would creep up tothe spot all alone, and allow herself to think of the old days. 

On the following morning there came to her a letter bearing theDownham post-mark but at the first glance she knew that it was notfrom her Cousin Will. Will wrote with a bold round hand, that wasextremely plain and caligraphic when he allowed himself time forthe work in hand, as he did with the commencement of his epistles, but which would become confused and altogether anti-caligraphic whenhe fell into a hurry towards the end of his performance as was hiswont. But the address of this letter was written in a pretty, small, female hand, --very careful in the perfection of every letter, and veryneat in every stroke. It was from Mary Briton, between whom and Clarathere had never hitherto been occasion for correspondence. The letterwas as follows:--

'Plaistow Hall, April, 186--. 

'My Dear Cousin Clara, 'William has heard from your friends at Belton, who are tenants on theestate, and as to whom there seems to be some question whether theyare to remain. He has written, saying, I believe, that there need beno difficulty if they wish to stay there. But we learn, also, fromMrs Askerton's letter, that you are expected at the cottage, andtherefore I will address this to Belton, supposing that it may findyou there. 

'You and I have never yet known each other which has been a grief tome; but this grief, I hope, may be cured some day before long. Imyself, as you know, am such a poor creature that I cannot go aboutthe world to see my friends as other people do at least, not verywell; and therefore I write to you with the object of asking you tocome and see me here. This is an interesting old house in its way;and though I must not conceal from you that life here is very, veryquiet, I would do my best to make the days pass pleasantly with you. I had heard that you were gone to Aylmer Park. Indeed, William toldme of his taking you up to London. Now it seems you have leftYorkshire, and I suppose you will not return there very soon. If itbe so, will it not be well that you should come to me for a shorttime?

'Both William and I feel that just for the present for a little timeyou would perhaps prefer to be alone with me. He must go to Londonfor awhile, and then on to Belton, to settle your affairs and his. Heintends to be absent for six weeks. If you would not be afraid of thedullness of this house for so long a time, pray come to us. Thepleasure to me would be very great, and I hope that you have some ofthat feeling, which with me is so strong, that we ought not to be anylonger personally strangers to each other. You could then make upyour mind as to what you would choose to do afterwards. I think thatby the end of that time that is, when William returns my uncle andaunt from Sleaford will be with us. He is a clergyman, you know; andif you then like to remain, they will be delighted to make youracquaintance. 

'It seems to be a long journey for a young lady to make alone, fromBelton to Plaistow; but travelling is so easy now-a-days, and youngladies seem to be so independent, that you may be able to manage it. Hoping to see you soon, I remain

'Your affectionate Cousin, 'MARY BELTON. '

This letter she received before breakfast, and was therefore able toread it in solitude, and to keep its receipt from the knowledge ofMrs Askerton, if she should be so minded. She understood at once allthat it intended to convey a hint that Plaistow Hall would be abetter resting place for her than Mrs Askerton's cottage; and anassurance that if she would go to Plaistow Hall for her convenience, no advantage should be taken of her presence there by the owner ofthe house for his convenience. As she sat thinking of the offer whichhad been made to her she fancied that she could see and hear herCousin Will as he discussed the matter with his sister, and with ahalf assumption of surliness declared his own intention of goingaway. Captain Aylmer, after that interview in London, had spoken ofBelton's conduct as being unpardonable; but Clara had not onlypardoned him, but had, in her own mind, pronounced his virtues to beso much greater than his vices as to make him almost perfect. 'But Iwill not drive him out of his own house, ' she said. 'What does itmatter where I go?'

'Colonel Askerton has had a letter from your cousin, ' said MrsAskerton as soon as the two ladies were alone together. 

'And what does he say?'

'Not a word about you. '

'So much the better. I have given him trouble enough, and am glad tothink that he should be free of me for awhile. Is Colonel Askerton tostay at the cottage?'

'Now, Clara, you are a hypocrite. You know that you are a hypocrite. '

'Very likely but I don't know why you should accuse me just now. '

'Yes, you do. Have not you heard from Norfolk also?'

'Yes;--I have. '

'I was sure of it. I knew he would never have written in that way, inanswer to my letter, ignoring your visit here altogether, unless hehad written to you also. '

'But he has not written to me. My letter is from his sister. There itis. ' Whereupon she handed the letter to Mrs Askerton, and waitedpatiently while it was being read. Her friend returned it to herwithout a word, and Clara was the first to speak again. 'It is a niceletter, is it not? I never saw her, you know. '

'So she says. '

'But is it not a kind letter?'

'I suppose it is meant for kindness. It is not very complimentary tome. It presumes that such a one as I may be treated without theslightest consideration. And so I may. It is only fit that I shouldbe so treated. If you ask my advice, I advise you to go at once atonce. '

'But I have not asked your advice, dear; nor do I intend to ask it. '

'You would not have shown it me if you had not intended to go. '

'How unreasonable you are! You told me just now that I was ahypocrite for not telling you of my letter, and now you are angrywith me because I have shown it you. '

'I am not angry. I think you have been quite right to show it me. Idon't know how else you could have acted upon it. '

'But I do not mean to act upon it. I shall not go to Plaistow. Thereare two reasons against it, each sufficient. I shall not leave youjust yet unless you send me away; and I shall not cause my cousin tobe turned out of his own house. '

'Why should he be turned out? Why should you not go to him? You lovehim and as for him, he is more in love than any man I ever knew. Goto Plaistow Hall, and everything will run smooth. '

'No, dear; I shall not do that. '

'Then you are foolish. I am bound to tell you so, as I have inveigledyou here. '

'I thought I had invited myself. '

'No; I asked you to come, and when I asked you I knew that I waswrong. Though I meant to be kind, I knew that I was unkind. I sawthat my husband disapproved it, though he had not the heart to tellme so. I wish he had. I wish he had. '

'Mrs Askerton, I cannot tell you how much you wrong yourself, and howyou wrong me also. I am more than contented to be here. '

'But you should not be contented to be here. It is just that. Inlearning to love me or rather, perhaps, to pity me, you loweryourself. Do you think that I do not see it all, and know it all? Ofcourse it is bad to be alone, but I have no right not to be alone. 'There was nothing for Clara to do but to draw herself once againclose to the poor woman, and to embrace her with protestations offair, honest, equal regard and friendship. 'Do you think I do notunderstand that letter?' continued Mrs Askerton. 'If it had come fromLady Aylmer I could have laughed at it, because I believe Lady Aylmerto be an overbearing virago, whom it is good to put down in every waypossible. But this comes from a pure-minded woman, one whom I believeto be little given to harsh judgments on her fellow-sinners; and shetells you, in her calm wise way, that it is bad for you to be herewith me. '

'She says nothing of the kind. '

'But does she not mean it? Tell me honestly do you not know that shemeans it?'

'I am not to be guided by what she means. '

'But you are to be guided by what her brother means. It is to come tothat, and you may as well bend your neck at once. It is to come tothat, and the sooner the better for you. It is easy to see that youare badly off for guidance when you take up me as your friend. ' Whenshe had so spoken Mrs Askerton got up and went to the door. 'No, Clara, do not come with me; not now, ' she said, turning to hercompanion, who had risen as though to follow her. 'I will come to yousoon, but I would rather be alone now. And, look here, dear; you mustanswer your cousin's letter. Do so at once, and say that you will goto Plaistow. In any event it will be better for you. '

Clara, when she was alone, did answer her cousin's letter, but shedid not accept the invitation that had been given her. She assuredMiss Belton that she was most anxious to know her, and hoped that shemight do so before long, either at Plaistow or at Belton; but that atpresent she was under an engagement to stay with her friend MrsAskerton. In an hour or two Mrs Askerton returned, and Clara handedto her the note to read. 'Then all I can say is you are very silly, and don't know on which side your bread is buttered. ' It was evidentfrom Mrs Askerton's voice that she had recovered her mood and tone ofmind. 'I don't suppose it will much signify, as it will all comeright at last, ' she said afterwards. And then, after luncheon, whenshe had been for a few minutes with her husband in his own room, shetold Clara that the colonel wanted to speak to her. 'You'll find himas grave as a judge, for he has got something to say to you inearnest. Nobody can be so stern as he is when he chooses to put onhis wig and gown. ' So Clara went into the colonel's study, and seatedherself in a chair which he had prepared for her. 

She remained there for over an hour, and during the hour theconversation became very animated. Colonel Askerton's assumed gravityhad given way to ordinary eagerness, during which he walked about theroom in the vehemence of his argument; and Clara, in answering him, had also put forth all her strength. She had expected that he alsowas going to speak to her on the propriety of her going to Norfolk;but he made no allusion to that subject, although all that he did saywas founded on Will Belton's letter to himself. Belton, in speakingof the cottage, had told Colonel Askerton that Miss Amedroz would behis future landlord, and had then gone on to explain that it was his, Belton's, intention to destroy the entail, and allow the property todescend from the father to the daughter. 'As Miss Amedroz is with younow, ' he said, 'may I beg you to take the trouble to explain thematter to her at length, and to make her understand that the estateis now, at this moment, in fact her own. Her possession of it doesnot depend on any act of hers or, indeed, upon her own will or wishin the matter. ' On this subject Colonel Askerton had argued, usingall his skill to make Clara in truth perceive that she was herfather's heiress through the generosity undoubtedly of her cousin andthat she had no alternative but to assume the possession which wasthus thrust upon her. 

And so eloquent was the colonel that Clara was staggered, though shewas not convinced. 'It is quite impossible, ' she said. 'Though he maybe able to make it over to me, I can give it back again. '

'I think not. In such a matter as this a lady in your position canonly be guided by her natural advisers her father's lawyer and otherfamily friends. '

'I don't know why a young lady should be in any way different from anold gentleman. '

'But an old gentleman would not hesitate under such circumstances. The entail in itself was a cruelty, and the operation of it on yourpoor brother's death was additionally cruel. '

'It is cruel that any one should be poor, ' argued Clara; 'but thatdoes not take away the right of a rich man to his property. '

There was much more of this sort said between them, till Clara was atany rate convinced that Colonel Askerton believed that she ought tobe the owner of the property. And then at last he ventured uponanother argument which soon drove Clara out of the room. 'There is, Ibelieve, one way in which it can all be made right, ' said he. 

'What way? 'said Clara, forgetting in her eagerness the obviousnessof the mode which her companion was about to point out. 

'Of course, I know nothing of this myself, ' he said smiling; 'butMary thinks that you and your cousin might arrange it between you ifyou were together. '

'You must not listen to what she says about that, Colonel Askerton. ''Must I not? Well; I will not listen to more than I can help; butMary, as you know, is a persistent talker. I, at any rate, have donemy commission. ' Then Clara left him and was alone for what remainedof the afternoon. 

It could not be, she said to herself, that the property ought to behers. It would make her miserable, were she once to feel that she hadaccepted it. Some small allowance out of it, coming to her from thebrotherly love of her cousin some moderate stipend sufficient for herlivelihood, she thought she could accept from him. It seemed to herthat it was her destiny to be dependent on charity to eat bread givento her from the benevolence of a friend; and she thought that shecould endure his benevolence better than that of any other. Benevolence from Aylmer Park or from Perivale would be altogetherunendurable. 

But why should it not be as Colonel Askerton had proposed? That thiscousin of hers loved her with all his heart with a constancy forwhich she had at first given him no credit she was well aware. And, as regarded herself, she loved him better than all the world beside. She had at last become conscious that she could not now marry CaptainAylmer without sin without false vows, and fatal injury to herselfand him. To the prospect of that marriage, as her future fate, an endmust be put at any rate an end, if that which had already taken placewas not to be regarded as end enough. But yet she had been engaged toCaptain Aylmer was engaged to him even now. When last her cousin hadmentioned to her Captain Aylmer's name she had declared that sheloved him still. How then could she turn round now, and so soonaccept the love of another man? How could she bring herself to lether cousin assume to himself the place of a lover, when it was butthe other day that she had rebuked him for expressing the faintesthope in that direction?

But yet, --yet--! As for going to Plaistow, that was quite out of thequestion. 

'So you are to be the heiress after all, ' said Mrs Askerton to herthat night in her bedroom. 

'No; I am not to be the heiress after all, ' said Clara, risingagainst her friend impetuously. 

'You'll have to be lady of Belton in one way or the other at anyrate, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

MISS AMEDROZ IS PURSUED

'I suppose now, my dear, it may be considered that everything issettled about that young lady, ' said Lady Aylmer to her son, on thesame day that Miss Amedroz left Aylmer Park. 

'Nothing is settled, ma'am, ' said the captain. 

'You don't mean to tell me that after what has passed you intend tofollow her up any farther. '

'I shall certainly endeavour to see her again. '

'Then, Frederic, I must tell you that you are very wrong indeedalmost worse than wrong. I would say wicked, only I feel sure thatyou will think better of it. You cannot mean to tell me that youwould marry her after what has taken place?'

'The question is whether she would marry me. '

'That is nonsense, Frederic. I wonder that you, who are so generallyso clear-sighted, cannot see more plainly than that. She is ascheming, artful young woman, who is playing a regular game to catcha husband. '

'If that were so, she would have been more humble to you, ma'am. '

'Not a bit, Fred. That's just it. That has been her cleverness. Shetried that on at first, and found that she could not get round me. Don't allow yourself to be deceived by that, I pray. And then thereis no knowing how she may be bound up with those horrid people, sothat she cannot throw them over, even if she would. '

'I don't think you understand her, ma'am. '

'Oh very well. But I understand this, and you had better understandit too that she will never again enter a house of which I am themistress; nor can I ever enter a house in which she is received. Ifyou choose to make her your wife after that, I have done. ' LadyAylmer had not done, or nearly done; but we need hear no more of herthreats or entreaties. Her son left Aylmer Park immediately afterEaster Sunday, and as he went, the mother, nodding her head, declaredto her daughter that that marriage would never come off, let ClaraAmedroz be ever so sly, or ever so clever. 

'Think of what I have said to you, Fred, ' said Sir Anthony, as hetook his leave of his son. 

'Yes, sir, I will. '

'You can't be better off than you are;--you can't, indeed. ' Withthese words in his ears Captain Aylmer started for London, intendingto follow Clara down to Belton. He hardly knew his own mind on thismatter of his purposed marriage. He was almost inclined to agree withhis father that he was very well off as he was. He was almostinclined to agree with his mother in her condemnation of Clara'sconduct. He was almost inclined to think that he had done enoughtowards keeping the promise made to his aunt on her deathbed, --butstill he was not quite contented with himself. He desired to behonest and true, as far as his ideas went of honesty and truth, andhis conscience told him that Clara had been treated with cruelty byhis mother. I am inclined to think that Lady Aylmer, in spite of herhigh experience and character for wisdom, had not fought her battlealtogether well. No man likes to be talked out of his marriage by hismother, and especially not so when the talking takes the shape ofthreats. When she told him that under no circumstances would sheagain know Clara Amedroz, he was driven by his spirit of manhood todeclare to himself that that menace from her should not have theslightest influence on him. The word or two which his father said wasmore effective. After all it might be better for him in his peculiarposition to have no wife at all. He did begin to believe that he hadno need for a wife. He had never before thought so much of hisfather's example as he did now. Clara was manifestly a hot-temperedwoman, --a very hot-tempered woman indeed! Now his mother was also ahot-tempered woman, and he could see the result in the presentcondition of his father's life. He resolved that he would followClara to Belton, so that some final settlement might be made betweenthem; but in coming to this resolution he acknowledged to himselfthat should she decide against him he would not break his heart. She, however, should have her chance. Undoubtedly it was only right thatshe should have her chance. 

But the difficulty of the circumstances in which he was placed was sogreat, that it was almost impossible for him to make up his mindfixedly to any purpose in reference to Clara. As he passed throughLondon on his way to Belton he called at Mr Green's chambers withreference to that sum of fifteen hundred pounds, which it was nowabsolutely necessary that he should make over to Miss Amedroz, andfrom Mr Green he learned that William Belton had given positiveinstructions as to the destination of the Belton estate. He would notinherit it, or have anything to do with it under the entail from theeffects of which he desired to be made entirely free. Mr Green, whoknew that Captain Aylmer was engaged to marry his client, and whoknew nothing of any interruption to that agreement, felt nohesitation in explaining all this to Captain Aylmer. 'I suppose youhad heard of it before, ' said Mr Green. Captain Aylmer certainly hadheard of it, and had been very much struck by the idea; but up tothis moment he had not quite believed in it. Coming simply fromWilliam Belton to Clara Amedroz, such an offer might be no more thana strong argument used in love-making. 'Take back the property, buttake me with it, of course. ' That Captain Aylmer thought might havebeen the correct translation of Mr William Belton's romance. But hewas forced to look at the matter differently when he found that ithad been put into a lawyer's hands. 'Yes, ' said he, ' I have heard ofit. Mr Belton mentioned it to me himself. ' This was not strictlytrue. Clara had mentioned it to him; but Belton had come into theroom immediately afterwards, and Captain Aylmer might probably havebeen mistaken. 

'He's quite in earnest, ' said Mr Green. 

'Of course, I can say nothing, Mr Green, as I am myself so nearlyinterested in the matter. It is a great question, no doubt, how farsuch an entail as that should be allowed to operate. '

'I think it should stand, as a matter of course. I think Belton iswrong, ' said Mr Green. 

'Of course I can give no opinion, ' said the other. 

'I'll tell you what you can do, Captain Aylmer. You can suggest toMiss Amedroz that there should be a compromise. Let them divide it. They are both clients of mine, and in that way I shall do my duty toeach. Let them divide it. Belton has money enough to buy up the othermoiety, and in that way would still be Belton of Belton. '

Captain Aylmer had not the slightest objection to such a plan. Indeed, he regarded it as in all respects a wise and salutaryarrangement. The moiety of the Belton estate might probably be worthtwenty-five thousand pounds, and the addition of such a sum as thatto his existing means would make all the difference in the world asto the expediency of his marriage. His father's arguments would allfall to the ground if twenty-five thousand pounds were to be obtainedin this way; and he had but little doubt that such a change inaffairs would go far to mitigate his mother's wrath. But he was by nomeans mercenary in his views so, at least, he assured himself. Clarashould have her chance with or without the Belton estate or with orwithout the half of it. He was by no means mercenary. Had he not madehis offer to her and repeated it almost with obstinacy, when she hadno prospect of any fortune? He could always remember that of himselfat least; and remembering that now, he could take a delight in thesebright money prospects without having to accuse himself in theslightest degree of mercenary motives. This fortune was a godsendwhich he could take with clean hands if only he should ultimately beable to take the lady who possessed the fortune!

From London he wrote to Clara, telling her that he proposed to visither at Belton. His letter was written before he had seen Mr Green, and was not very fervent in its expressions; but, nevertheless, itwas a fair letter, written with the intention of giving her a fairchance. He had seen with great sorrow 'with heartfelt grief, ' thatquarrel between his mother and his own Clara. Thinking, as he felthimself obliged to think, about Mrs Askerton, he could not but feelthat his mother bad cause for her anger. But he himself wasunprejudiced, and was ready, and anxious also the word anxious wasunderscored to carry out his engagement. A few words between themmight probably set everything right, and therefore be proposed tomeet her at the Belton Castle house, at such an hour, on such a day. He should run down to Perivale on his journey, and perhaps Clarawould let him have a line addressed to him there. Such was hisletter. 

'What do you think of that?' said Clara, showing it to Mrs Askertonon the afternoon of the day on which she had received it. 

'What do you think of it?' said Mrs Askerton. 'I can only hope, thathe will not come within reach of my hands. '

'You are not angry with me for showing it to you?'

'No why should I be angry with you? Of course I knew it all withoutany showing. Do not tell Colonel Askerton, or they will be killingeach other. '

'Of course I shall not tell Colonel Askerton; but I could not helpshowing this to you. '

'And you will meet him?'

'Yes; I shall meet him. What else can I do?'

'Unless, indeed, you were to write and tell him that it would do nogood. '

'It will be better that he should come. '

'If you allow him to talk you over you will be a wretched woman allyour life. '

'It will be better that he should come, ' said Clara again. And thenshe wrote to Captain Aylmer at Perivale, telling him that she wouldbe at the house at the hour he had named, on the day he had named. 

When that day came she walked across the park a little before thetime fixed, not wishing to meet Captain Aylmer before she had reachedthe house. It was now nearly the middle of April, and the weather wassoft and pleasant. It was almost summer again, and as she felt this, she thought of all the events which had occurred since the lastsummer of their agony of grief at the catastrophe which had closedher brother's life, of her aunt's death first, and then of herfather's following so close upon the other, and of the two offers ofmarriage made to her as to which she was now aware that she hadaccepted the wrong man and rejected the wrong man. She was steadilyminded, now, at this moment, that before she parted from CaptainAylmer, her engagement with him should be brought to a close. Now, atthis coming interview, so much at any rate should be done. She hadtried to make herself believe that she felt for him that sort ofaffection which a woman should have for the man she is to marry, butshe had failed. She hardly knew whether she had in truth ever lovedhim; but she was quite sure that she did not love him now. No she haddone with Aylmer Park, and she could feel thankful, amidst all hertroubles, that that difficulty should vex her no more. In showingCaptain Aylmer's letter to Mrs Askerton she had made no such promiseas this, but her mind had been quite made up. 'He certainly shall nottalk me over, ' she said to herself as she walked across the park. 

But she could not see her way so clearly out of that furtherdifficulty with regard to her cousin. It might be that she would beable to rid herself of the one lover with comparative ease; but shecould not bring herself to entertain the idea of accepting the other. It was true that this man longed for her, --desired to call her his own, with a wearing, anxious, painful desire which made his heartgrievously heavy as though with lead hanging to its strings;and it was true that Clara knew that it was so. It was true also thathis spirit had mastered her spirit, and that his persistence hadconquered her resistance, --the resistance, that is, of her feelings. But there remained with her a feminine shame, which made it seem toher to be impossible that she should now reject Captain Aylmer, andas a consequence of that rejection, accept Will Belton's hand. As shethought of this, she could not see her way out of her trouble in thatdirection with any of that clearness which belonged to her inreference to Captain Aylmer. 

She had been an hour in the house before he came, and never did anhour go so heavily with her. There was no employment for her aboutthe place, and Mrs Bunce, the old woman who now lived there, couldnot understand why her late mistress chose to remain seated among theunused furniture. Clara had of course told her that a gentleman wascoming. 'Not Mr Will?' said the woman. 'No; it is not Mr Will, ' saidClara; 'his name is Captain Aylmer. ' 'Oh, indeed. ' And then Mrs Buncelooked at her with a mystified look. Why on earth should not thegentleman call on Miss Amedroz at Mrs Askerton's cottage? 'I'll besure to show 'un up, when a comes, at any rate, ' said the old womansolemnly and Clara felt that it was all very uncomfortable. 

At last the gentleman did come, and was shown up with all theceremony of which Mrs Bunce was capable. 'Here he be, mum. ' Then MrsBunce paused a moment before she retreated, anxious to learn whetherthe new corner was a friend or a foe. She concluded from thecaptain's manner that he was a very dear friend, and then shedeparted. 

'I hope you are not surprised at my coming, ' said Captain Aylmer, still holding Clara by the hand. 

'A little surprised, ' she said, smiling. 

'But not annoyed?'

'No;--not annoyed. '

'As soon as you had left Aylmer Park I felt that it was the rightthing to do;--the only thing to do, --as I told my mother. '

'I hope you have not come in opposition to her wishes, ' said Clara, unable to control a slight tone of banter as she spoke. 

'In this matter I found myself compelled to act in accordance with myown judgment, ' said he, untouched by her sarcasm. 

'Then I suppose that Lady Aylmer is, --is vexed with you for cominghere. I shall be so sorry for that;--so very sorry, as no good cancome of it. '

'Well;--I am not so sure of that. My mother is a most excellent woman, one for whose opinions on all matters I have the highest possiblevalue a value so high, that--that--that--'

'That you never ought to act in opposition to it. That is what youreally mean, Captain Aylmer; and upon my word I think that you areright. '

'No, Clara; that is not what I mean not exactly that. Indeed, just atpresent I mean the reverse of that. There are some things on which aman must act on his own judgment, irrespectively of the opinions ofany one else. '

'Not of a mother, Captain Aylmer?'

'Yes of a mother. That is to say, a man must do so. With a lady ofcourse it is different. I was very, very sorry that there should havebeen any unpleasantness at Aylmer Park. '

'It was not pleasant to me, certainly. '

'Nor to any of us, Clara. '

'At any rate, it need not be repeated. '

'I hope not. '

'No it certainly need not be repeated. I know now that I was wrong togo to Aylmer Park. I felt sure beforehand that there were many thingsas to which I could not possibly agree with Lady Aylmer, and I oughtnot to have gone. '

'I don't see that at all, Clara. '

'I do see it now. '

'I can't understand you. What things? Why should you be determined todisagree with my mother? Surely you ought at any rate to endeavour tothink as she thinks. '

'I cannot do that, Captain Aylmer. '

'I am sorry to hear you speak in this way. I have come here all theway from Yorkshire to try to put things straight between us; but youreceive me as though you would remember nothing but that unpleasantquarrel. '

'It was so unpleasant, --so very unpleasant! I had better speak outthe truth at once. I think that Lady Aylmer ill-used me cruelly. Ido. No one can talk me out of that conviction. Of course I am sorryto be driven to say as much to you, --and I should never have said it, had you not come here. But when you speak of me and your mothertogether, I must say what I feel. Your mother and I, Captain Aylmer, are so opposed to each other, not only in feeling, but in opinionsalso, that it is impossible that we should be friends;--impossible thatwe should not be enemies if we are brought together. '

This she said with great energy, looking intently into his face asshe spoke. He was seated near her, on a chair from which he wasleaning over towards her, holding his hat in both hands between hislegs. Now, as he listened to her, he drew his chair still nearer, ridding himself of his hat, which he left upon the carpet, andkeeping his eyes upon hers as though he were fascinated. 'I am sorryto hear you speak like this, ' he said. 

'It is best to say the truth. '

'But, Clara, if you intend to be my wife--'

'Oh, no that is impossible now. '

'What is impossible?'

'Impossible that I should become your wife. Indeed I have convincedmyself that you do not wish it. '

'But I do wish it. '

'No no. If you will question your heart about it quietly, you willfind that you do not wish it. '

'You wrong me, Clara. '

'At any rate it cannot be so. '

'I will not take that answer from you, ' he said, getting up from hischair, and walking once up and down the room. Then he returned to it, and repeated his words. 'I will not take that answer from you. Anengagement such as ours cannot be put aside like an old glove. You donot mean to tell me that all that has been between us is to meannothing. ' There was something now like feeling in his tone, somethinglike passion in his gesture, and Clara, though she had no thought ofchanging her purpose, was becoming unhappy at the idea of hisunhappiness. 

'It has meant nothing, ' she said. 'We have been like childrentogether, playing at being in love. It is a game from which you willcome out scatheless, but I have been scalded. '

'Scalded!'

'Well never mind. I do not mean to complain, and certainly not ofyou. '

'I have come here all the way from Yorkshire in order that things maybe put right between us. '

'You have been very good, --very good to come, and I will not say thatI regret your trouble. It is best, I think, that we should meet eachother once more face to face, so that we may understand each other. There was no understanding anything during those terrible days atAylmer Park. ' Then she paused, but as he did not speak at once shewent on. 'I do not blame you for anything that has taken place, but Iam quite sure of this that you and I could never be happy together asman and wife. '

'I do not know why you say so; I do not indeed. '

'You would disapprove of everything that I should do. You dodisapprove of what I am doing now. '

'Disapprove of what?'

'I am staying with my friend, Mrs Askerton. '

He felt that this was hard upon him. As she had shown herselfinclined to withdraw herself from him, he had become more resolute inhis desire to follow her up, and to hold by his engagement. He wasnot employed now in giving her another chance as he had proposed tohimself to do but was using what eloquence he had to obtain anotherchance for himself. Lady Aylmer had almost made him believe thatClara would be the suppliant, but now he was the suppliant himself. In his anxiety to keep her he was willing even to pass over herterrible iniquity in regard to Mrs Askerton that great sin which hadled to all these troubles. He had once written to her about MrsAskerton, using very strong language, and threatening her with hismother's full displeasure. At that time Mrs Askerton had simply beenher friend. There had been no question then of her taking refugeunder that woman's roof. Now she had repelled Lady Aylmer's counselswith scorn, was living as a guest in Mrs Askerton's house; and yet hewas willing to pass over the Askerton difficulty without a word. Hewas willing not only to condone past offences, but to wink atexisting iniquity! But she, --she who was the sinner, would not permitof this. She herself dragged up Mrs Askerton's name, and seemed toglory in her own shame. 

'I had not intended, ' said he, 'to speak of your friend. '

'I only mention her to show how impossible it is that we should everagree upon some subjects as to which a husband and wife should alwaysbe of one mind. I knew this from the moment in which I got yourletter and only that I was a coward I should have said so then. '

'And you mean to quarrel with me altogether?'

'No why should we quarrel?'

'Why, indeed?' said he. 

'But I wish it to be settled, --quite settled, as from the nature ofthings it must be, that there shall be no attempt at renewal of ourengagement. After what has passed, how could I enter your mother'shouse?'

'But you need not enter it. ' Now, in his emergency he was willing togive up anything, --everything. He had been prepared to talk her overinto a reconciliation with his mother, to admit that there had beenfaults on both sides, to come down from his high pedestal and discussthe matter as though Clara and his mother stood upon the samefooting. Having recognized the spirit of his lady-love, he had toldhimself that so much indignity as that must be endured. But now, hehad been carried so far beyond this, that he was willing, in thesudden vehemence of his love, to throw his mother over altogether, and to accede to any terms which Clara might propose to him. 'Ofcourse, I would wish you to be friends, ' he said, using now all thetones of a suppliant; 'but if you found that it could not be so--'

'Do you think that I would divide you from your mother?'

'There need be no question as to that. '

'Ah there you are wrong. There must be such questions. I should havethought of it sooner. '

'Clara, you are more to me than my mother. Ten times more. ' As hesaid this he came up and knelt down beside her. 'You are everythingto me. You will not throw me over. ' He was a suppliant indeed, andsuch supplications are very potent with women. Men succeed often bythe simple earnestness of their prayers. Women cannot refuse to givethat which is asked for with so much of the vehemence of true desire. 'Clara, you have promised to be my wife. You have twice promised; andcan have no right to go back because you are displeased with what mymother may have said. I am not responsible for my mother. Clara, saythat you will be my wife. ' As he spoke he strove to take her hand, and his voice sounded as though there were in truth something ofpassion in his heart. 

CHAPTER XXIX

THERE IS NOTHING TO TELL

Captain Aylmer had never before this knelt to Clara Amedroz. Suchkneeling on the part of lovers used to be the fashion because loversin those days held in higher value than they do now that which theyasked their ladies to give or because they pretended to do so. Theforms at least of supplication were used; whereas in these wiser daysAugustus simply suggests to Caroline that they two might as well makefools of themselves together and so the thing is settled without theneed of much prayer. Captain Aylmer's engagement had been originallymade somewhat after this fashion. He had not, indeed, spoken of thething contemplated as a folly, not being a man given to littlewaggeries of that nature; but he had been calm, unenthusiastic, andreasonable. He had not attempted to evince any passion, and wouldhave been quite content that Clara should believe that he married asmuch from obedience to his aunt as from love for herself, had he notfound that Clara would not take him at all under such a conviction. But though she had declined to come to him after that fashion thoughsomething more than that had been needed still she had been woneasily, and, therefore, lightly prized. I fear that it is so witheverything that we value with our horses, our houses, our wines, and, above all, with our women. Where is the man who has heart and soulbig enough to love a woman with increased force of passion becauseshe has at once recognized in him all that she has herself desired?Captain Aylmer having won his spurs easily, had taken no care inbuckling them, and now found, to his surprise, that he was like tolose them. He had told himself that he would only be too glad toshuffle his feet free of their bondage; but now that they were goingfrom him, he began to find that they were very necessary for the roadthat he was to travel. 'Clara, ' he said, kneeling by her side, ' youare more to me than my mother; ten times more!'

This was all new to her. Hitherto, though she had never desired thathe should assume such attitude as this, she had constantly beenunconsciously wounded by his coldness by his cold propriety andunbending self-possession. His cold propriety and unbendingself-possession were gone now, and he was there at her feet. Such anargument, used at Aylmer Park, would have conquered her would havewon her at once, in spite of herself; but now she was minded to beresolute. She had sworn to herself that she would not peril herself, or him, by joining herself to a man with whom she had so littlesympathy, and who apparently had none with her. But in what way wasshe to answer such a prayer as that which was now made to her? Theman who addressed her was entitled to use all the warmth of anaccepted lover. He only asked for that which had already been givento him. 

'Captain Aylmer--' she began. 

'Why is it to be Captain Aylmer? What have I done that you should useme in this way? It was not I who, --who, --made you unhappy at AylmerPark. '

'I will not go back to that. It is of no use. Pray get up. It shocksme to see you in this way. '

'Tell me, then, that it is once more all right between us. Say that, and I shall be happier than I ever was before yes, than I ever wasbefore. I know how much I love you now, how sore it would be to loseyou. I have been wrong. I had not thought enough of that, but I willthink of it now. '

She found that the task before her was very difficult, --so difficultthat she almost broke down in performing it. It would have been soeasy and, for the moment, so pleasant to have yielded. He had hishand upon her arm, having attempted to take her hand. In preventingthat she had succeeded, but she could not altogether make herselffree from him without rising. For a moment she had paused, --paused asthough she were about to yield. For a moment, as he looked into hereyes, he had thought that he would again be victorious. Perhaps therewas something in his glance, some too visible return of triumph tohis eyes, which warned her of her danger. 'No!' she said, getting upand walking away from him; 'no!'

'And what does "no" mean, Clara?' Then he also rose, and stoodleaning on the table. 'Does it mean that you will be forsworn?'

'It means this that I will not come between you and your mother; thatI will not be taken into a family in which I am scorned; that I willnot go to Aylmer Park myself or be the means of preventing you fromgoing there. '

'There need be no question of Aylmer Park. '

'There shall be none!'

'But, so much being allowed, you will be my wife?'

'No, Captain Aylmer no. I cannot be your wife. Do not press itfurther; you must know that on such a subject I would think muchbefore I answered you. I have thought much, and I know that I amright. '

'And your promised word is to go for nothing?'

'If it will comfort you to say so, you may say it. If you do notperceive that the mistake made between us has been as much yourmistake as mine, and has injured me more than it has injured you, Iwill not remind you of it, --will never remind you of it after this. '

'But there has been no mistake and there shall be no injury. '

'Ah, Captain Aylmer you do not understand; you cannot understand. Iwould not for worlds reproach you; but do you think I sufferednothing from your mother?'

'And must I pay for her sins?'

'There shall be no paying, no punishment, and no reproaches. Thereshall be none at least from me. But, --do not think that I speak inanger or in pride, --I will not marry into Lady Aylmer's family. '

'This is too bad, --too bad! After all that is past, it is too bad!'

'What can I say? Would you advise me to do that which would make usboth wretched?'

'It would not make me wretched. It would make me happy. It wouldsatisfy me altogether. '

'It cannot be, Captain Aylmer. It cannot be. When I speak to you inthat way, will you not let it be final?'

He paused a moment before he spoke again, and then he turned sharpupon her. 'Tell me this, Clara; do you love me? Have you ever lovedme?' She did not answer him, but stood there, listening quietly tohis accusations. 'You have never loved me, and yet you have allowedyourself to say that you did. Is not that true?' Still she did notanswer. 'I ask you whether that is not true?' But though he askedher, and paused for an answer, looking the while full into her face, yet she did not speak. And now I suppose you will become yourcousin's wife?' he said. 'It will suit you to change, and to say thatyou love him. '

Then at last she spoke. 'I did not think that you would have treatedme in this way, Captain Aylmer! I did not expect that you wouldinsult me!'

'I have not insulted you. '

'But your manner to me makes my task easier than I could have hopedit to be. You asked me whether I ever loved you? I once thought thatI did so; and so thinking, told you, without reserve, all my feeling. When I came to find that I had been mistaken, I conceived myselfbound by my engagement to rectify my own error as best I could; and Iresolved, wrongly as I now think, very wrongly that I could learn asyour wife to love you. Then came circumstances which showed me that arelease would be good for both of us, and which justified me inaccepting it. No girl could be bound by any engagement to a man wholooked on and saw her treated in his own home, by his own mother, asyou saw me treated at Aylmer Park. I claim to be released myself, andI know that this release is as good for you as it is for me. '

'I am the best judge of that. '

'For myself at any rate I will judge. For myself I have decided. NowI have answered the questions which you asked me as to my love foryourself. To that other question which you have thought fit to put tome about my cousin, I refuse to give any answer whatsoever. ' Then, having said so much, she walked out of the room, closing the doorbehind her, and left him standing there alone. 

We need not follow her as she went up, almost mechanically, into herown room the room that used to be her own and then shut herself in, waiting till she should be assured, first by sounds in the house, andthen by silence, that he was gone. That she fell away greatly fromthe majesty of her demeanour when she was thus alone, and descendedto the ordinary ways of troubled females, we may be quite sure. Butto her there was no further difficulty. Her work for the day wasdone. In due time she would take herself to the cottage, and allwould be well, or, at any rate, comfortable with her. But what was heto do? How was he to get himself out of the house, and take himselfback to London? While he had been in pursuit of her, and when he wasleaving his vehicle at the public-house in the village of Belton, helike some other invading generals had failed to provide adequatelyfor his retreat. When he was alone he took a turn or two about theroom, half thinking that Clara would return to him. She could hardlyleave him alone in a strange house him, who, as he had twice toldher, had come all the way from Yorkshire to see her. But she did notreturn, and gradually he came to understand that he must provide forhis own retreat without assistance. He was hardly aware, even now, how greatly he had transcended his usual modes of speech and action, both in the energy of his supplication and in the violence of hisrebuke. He had been lifted for awhile out of himself by theexcitement of his position, and now that he was subsiding intoquiescence, he was unconscious that he had almost mounted intopassion that he had spoken of love very nearly with eloquence. But hedid recognize this as a fact that Clara was not to be his wife, andthat he had better get back from Belton to London as quickly aspossible. It would be well for him to teach himself to look back onthe result of his aunt's dying request as an episode in his lifesatisfactorily concluded. His mother had undoubtedly been right. Clara, he could see now, would have led him a devil of a life; andeven had she come to him possessed of a moiety of the property asupposition as to which he had very strong doubts still she mighthave been dear at the money. 'No real feeling, ' he said to himself, as he walked about the room 'none whatever; and then so deficient indelicacy!' But still he was discontented because he had beenrejected, and therefore tried to make himself believe that he couldstill have her if he chose to persevere. 'But no, ' he said, as hecontinued to pace the room, 'I have done everything, --more thaneverything that honour demands. I shall not ask her again. It is her ownfault. She is an imperious woman, and my mother read her characteraright. ' It did not occur to him, as he thus consoled himself forwhat he had lost, that his mother's accusation against Clara had beenaltogether of a different nature. When we console ourselves by ourown arguments, we are not apt to examine their accuracy with muchstrictness. 

But whether he were consoled or not, it was necessary that he shouldgo, and in his going he felt himself to be ill-treated. He left theroom, and as he went down stairs was disturbed and tormented by thecreaking of his own boots. He tried to be dignified as he walkedthrough the hall, and was troubled at his failure, though he was notconscious of any one looking at him. Then it was grievous that heshould have to let himself out of the front door without attendance. At ordinary times he thought as little of such things as most men, and would not be aware whether he opened a door for himself or had itopened for him by another but now there was a distressing awkwardnessin the necessity for self-exertion. He did not know the turn of thehandle, and was unfamiliar with the manner of exit. He was beingtreated with indignity, and before he had escaped from the house hadcome to think that the Amedroz and Belton people were somewhat belowhim. He endeavoured to go out without a noise, but there was a slamof the door, without which he could not get the lock to work; andClara, up in her own room, knew all about it. 

'Carriage;--yes; of course I want the carriage, ' he said to theunfortunate boy at the public-house. 'Didn't you hear me say that Iwanted it?' He had come down with a pair of horses, and as he sawthem being put to the vehicle he wished he had been contented withone. As he was standing there, waiting, a gentleman rode by, and theboy, in answer to his question, told him that the horseman wasColonel Askerton. Before the day was over Colonel Askerton wouldprobably know all that had happened to him. 'Do move a littlequicker; will you?' he said to the boy and the old man who was todrive him. Then he got into the carriage, and was driven out ofBelton, devoutly purposing that he never would return; and as he madehis way back to Perivale he thought of a certain Lady Emily, whowould, as he assured himself, have behaved much better than ClaraAmedroz had done in any such scene as that which had just takenplace. 

When Clara was quite sure that Captain Aylmer was off the premises, she, too, descended, but she did not immediately leave the house. Shewalked through the room, and rang for the old woman, and gave certaindirections as to the performance of which she certainly was not veryanxious, and was careful to make Mrs Bunce understand that nothinghad occurred between her and the gentleman that was either exaltingor depressing in its nature. 'I suppose Captain Aylmer went out, MrsBunce?' 'Oh yes, miss, a went out. I stood and see'd un from the topof the kitchen stairs. ' 'You might have opened the door for him, MrsBunce. ' 'Indeed then I never thought of it, miss, seeing the house soempty and the like. ' Clara said that it did not signify; and then, after an hour of composure, she walked back across the park to thecottage. 

'Well?' said Mrs Askerton as soon as Clara was inside thedrawing-room. 

'Well, ' replied Clara. 

'What have you got to tell? Do tell me what you have to tell. '

'I have nothing to tell. '

'Clara, that is impossible. Have you seen him? I know you have seenhim, because he went by from the house about an hour since. '

'Oh yes; I have seen him. '

'And what have you said to him?'

'Pray do not ask me these questions just now. I have got to think ofit all to think what he did say and what I said. '

'But you will tell me. '

'Yes; I suppose so. ' Then Mrs Askerton was silent on the subject forthe remainder of the day, allowing Clara even to go to bed withoutanother question. And nothing was asked on the following morningnothing till the usual time for the writing of letters. 

'Shall you have anything for the post?' said Mrs Askerton. 

'There is plenty of time yet. '

'Not too much if you mean to go out at all. Come, Clara, you hadbetter write to him at once. '

'Write to whom? I don't know that I have any letter to write at all. 'Then there was a pause. 'As far as I can see, ' she said, 'I may giveup writing altogether for the future, unless some day you may care tohear from me. '

'But you are not going away. '

'Not just yet if you will keep me. To tell you the truth, MrsAskerton, I do not yet know where on earth to take myself. '

'Wait here till we turn you out. '

'I have got to put my house in order. You know what I mean. The jobought not to be a troublesome one, for it is a very small house. '

'I suppose I know what you mean. '

'It will not be a very smart establishment. But I must look it all inthe face; must I not? Though it were to be no house at all, I cannotstay here all my life. '

'Yes, you may. You have lost Aylmer Park because you were too noblenot to come to us. '

'No, ' said Clara, speaking aloud, with bright eyes almost with herhands clenched. 'No I deny that. '

'I shall choose to think so for my own purposes. Clara, you aresavage to me;--almost always savage; but next to him I love you betterthan all the world beside. And so does he. "It's her courage, " hesaid to me the other day. "That she should dare to do as she pleaseshere, is nothing; but to have dared to persevere in the fangs of thatold dragon, "--it was just what he said, --"that was wonderful!"'

'There is an end of the old dragon now, so far as I am concerned. '

'Of course there is and of the young dragon too. You wouldn't havehad the heart to keep me in suspense if you had accepted him again. You couldn't have been so pleasant last night if that had been so. '

'I did not know I was very pleasant. '

'Yes, you were. You were soft and gracious gracious for you, atleast. And now, dear, do tell me about it. Of course I am dying toknow. '

'There is nothing to tell. '

'That is nonsense. There must be a thousand things to tell. At anyrate it is quite decided?'

'Yes; it is quite decided. '

'All the dragons, old and young, are banished into outer darkness. '

'Either that, or else they are to have all the light to themselves. '

'Such light as glimmers through the gloom of Aylmer Park. And was hecontented? I hope not. I hope you had him on his knees before he leftyou. '

'Why should you hope that? How can you talk such nonsense?'

'Because I wish that he should recognize what he has lost that heshould know that he has been a fool a mean fool. '

'Mrs Askerton, I will not have him spoken of like that. He is a manvery estimable of estimable qualities. '

'Fiddle-de-dee. He is an ape a monkey to be carried on his mother'sorgan. His only good quality was that you could have carried him onyours. I can tell you one thing there is not a woman breathing thatwill ever carry William Belton on hers. Whoever his wife may be, shewill have to dance to his piping. '

'With all my heart and I hope the tunes will be good. '

'But I wish I could have been present to have heard what passedhidden, you know, behind a curtain. You won't tell me?'

'I will tell you not a word more. '

'Then I will get it out from Mrs Bunce. I'll be bound she waslistening. '

'Mrs Bunce will have nothing to tell you; I do not know why youshould be so curious. '

'Answer me one question at least when it came to the last, did hewant to go on with it? Was the final triumph with him or with you?'

'There was no final triumph. Such things, when they have to end, donot end triumphantly. '

'And is that to be all?' 'Yes that is to be all. '

'And you say that you have no letter to write. '

'None no letter; none at present; none about this affair. CaptainAylmer, no doubt, will write to his mother, and then all those whoare concerned will have been told. '

Clara Amedroz held her purpose and wrote no letter, but Mrs Askertonwas not so discreet, or so indiscreet as the case might be. She didwrite not on that day or on the next, but before a week had passedby. She wrote to Norfolk, telling Clara not a word of her letter, andby return of post the answer came. But the answer was for Clara, notfor Mrs Askerton, and was as follows:--

'Plaistow Hall, April, 186--. 

'My dear Clara, 'I don't know whether I ought to tell you but I suppose I may as welltell you, that Mary has had a letter from Mrs Askerton. It was akind, obliging letter, and I am very grateful to her. She has told usthat you have separated yourself altogether from the Aylmer Parkpeople. I don't suppose you'll think I ought to pretend to be verysorry. I can't be sorry, even though I know how much you have lost ina worldly point of view. I could not bring myself to like CaptainAylmer, though I tried hard. ' Oh Mr Belton, Mr Belton! 'He and Inever could have been friends, and it is no use my pretending regretthat you have quarrelled with them. But that, I suppose, is all over, and I will not say a word more about the Aylmers. 

'I am writing now chiefly at Mary's advice, and because she says thatsomething should be settled about the estate. Of course it isnecessary that you should feel yourself to be the mistress of yourown income, and understand exactly your own position. Mary says thatthis should be arranged at once, so that you may be able to decidehow and where you will live. I therefore write to say that I willhave nothing to do with your father's estate at Belton nothing, thatis, for myself. I have written to Mr Green to tell him that you areto be considered as the heir. If you will allow me to undertake themanagement of the property as your agent, I shall be delighted. Ithink I could do it as well as any one else: and, as we agreed thatwe would always be dear and close friends, I think that you will notrefuse me the pleasure of serving you in this way. 

'And now Mary has a proposition to make, as to which she will writeherself tomorrow, but she has permitted me to speak of it first. Ifyou will accept her as a visitor, she will go to you at Belton. Shethinks, and I think too, that you ought to know each other. I supposenothing would make you come here, at present, and therefore she mustgo to you. She thinks that all about the estate would be settled morecomfortably if you two were together. At any rate, it would be verynice for her and I think you would like my sister Mary. She proposesto start about the 10th of May. I should take her as far as Londonand see her off, and she would bring her own maid with her. In thisway she thinks that she would get as far as Taunton very well. Shehad, perhaps, better stay there for one night, but that can all besettled if you will say that you will receive her at the house. 

'I cannot finish my letter without saying one word for myself. Youknow what my feelings have been, and I think you know that they stillare, and always must be, the same. From almost the first moment thatI saw you I have loved you. When you refused me I was very unhappy;but I thought I might still have a chance, and therefore I resolvedto try again. Then, when I heard that you were engaged to CaptainAylmer, I was indeed broken-hearted. Of course I could not be angrywith you. I was not angry, but I was simply broken-hearted. I foundthat I loved you so much that I could not make myself happy withoutyou. It was all of no use, for I knew that you were to be married toCaptain Aylmer. I knew it, or thought that I knew it. There wasnothing to be done only I knew that I was wretched. I suppose it isselfishness, but I felt, and still feel, that unless I can have youfor my wife, I cannot be happy or car for anything. Now you are freeagain free, I mean, from Captain Aylmer and how is it possible that Ishould not again have a hope? Nothing but your marriage or deathcould keep me from hoping. 

'I don't know much about the Aylmers. I know nothing of what has madeyou quarrel with the people at Aylmer Park nor do I want to know. Tome you are once more that Clara Amedroz with whom I used to walk inBelton Park, with your hand free to be given wherever your heart cango with it. While it is free I shall always ask for it. I know thatit is in many ways above my reach. I quite understand that ineducation and habits of thinking you are my superior. But nobody canlove you better than I do. I sometimes fancy that nobody could everlove you so well. Mary thinks that I ought to allow a time to go bybefore I say all this again but what is the use of keeping it back?It seems to me to be more honest to tell you at once that the onlything in the world for which I care one straw is that you should bemy wife. 

'Your most affectionate Cousin, 'WILLIAM BELTON. '

'Miss Belton is coming here, to the castle, in a fortnight, ' saidClara that morning at breakfast. Both Colonel Askerton and his wifewere in the room, and she was addressing herself chiefly to theformer. 

'Indeed, Miss Belton! And is he coming?' said Colonel Askerton. 

'So you have heard from Plaistow?' said Mrs Askerton. 

'Yes in answer to your letter. No, Colonel Askerton, my CousinWilliam is not coming. But his sister purposes to be here, and I mustgo up to the house and get it ready. '

'That will do when the time comes, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

'I did not mean quite immediately. '

'And are you to be her guest, or is she to be yours? said ColonelAskerton. 

'It's her brother's home, and therefore I suppose I must be hers. Indeed it must be so, as I have no means of entertaining any one. '

'Something, no doubt, will be settled, ' said the colonel. 

'Oh, what a weary word that is, ' said Clara; 'weary, at least, for awoman's ears! It sounds of poverty and dependence, and endlesstrouble given to others, and all the miseries of female dependence. If I were a young man I should be allowed to settle for myself. '

'There would be no question about the property in that case, ' saidthe colonel. 

'And there need be no question now, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

When the two women were alone together, Clara, of course, scolded herfriend for having written to Norfolk without letting it be known thatshe was doing so scolded her, and declared how vain it was for her tomake useless efforts for an unattainable end; but Mrs Askerton alwaysmanaged to slip out of these reproaches, neither asserting herself tobe right, nor owning herself to be wrong. 'But you must answer hisletter, ' she said. 

'Of course I shall do that. '

'I wish I knew what he said. '

'I shan't show it you, if you mean that. '

'All the same I wish I knew what he said. '

Clara, of course, did answer the letter; but she wrote her answer toMary, sending, however, one little scrap to Mary's brother. She wroteto Mary at great length, striving to explain, with long and laboriousarguments, that it was quite impossible that she should accept theBelton estate from her cousin. That subject, however, and the mannerof her future life, she would discuss with her dear Cousin Mary, whenMary should have arrived. And then Clara said how she would go toTaunton to meet her cousin, and how she would prepare William's housefor the reception of William's sister; and how she would love hercousin when she should come to know her. All of which was exceedinglyproper and pretty. Then there was a little postscript, 'Give theenclosed to William. ' And this was the note to William:

'Dear William, 'Did you not say that you would be my brother? Be my brother always. I will accept from your hands all that a brother could do; and whenthat arrangement is quite fixed, I will love you as much as Maryloves you, and trust you as completely; and I will be obedient, as ayounger sister should be. 

'Your loving Sister, 'C. A. '

'It's all no good, ' said William Belton, as he crunched the note inhis hand. 'I might as well shoot myself. Get out of the way there, will you?' And the injured groom scudded across the farm-yard, knowing that there was something wrong with his master. 

CHAPTER XXX

MARY BELTON

It was about the middle of the pleasant month of May when ClaraAmedroz again made that often repeated journey to Taunton, with theobject of meeting Mary Belton. She had transferred herself and herown peculiar belongings back from the cottage to the house, and hadagain established herself there so that she might welcome her newfriend. But she was not satisfied with simply receiving her guest atBelton, and therefore she made the journey to Taunton, and settledherself for the night at the inn. She was careful to get a bedroomfor an 'invalid lady', close to the sitting-room, and before she wentdown to the station she saw that the cloth was laid for tea, and thatthe tea parlour had been made to look as pleasant as was possiblewith an inn parlour. 

She was very nervous as she stood upon the platform waiting for thenew comer to show herself. She knew that Mary was a cripple, but didnot know how far her cousin was disfigured by her infirmity; and whenshe saw a pale-faced little woman, somewhat melancholy, but yetpretty withal, with soft, clear eyes, and only so much appearance ofa stoop as to soften the hearts of those who saw her, Clara wasagreeably surprised, and felt herself to be suddenly relieved of anunpleasant weight. She could talk to the woman she saw there, as toany other woman, without the painful necessity of treating her alwaysas an invalid. 'I think you are Miss Belton?' she said, holding outher hand. The likeness between Mary and her brother was too great toallow of Clara being mistaken. 

'And you are Clara Amedroz? It is so good of you to come to meet me!'

'I thought you would be dull in a strange town by yourself. '

'It will be much nicer to have you with me. '

Then they went together up to the inn; and when they had taken theirbonnets off, Mary Belton kissed her cousin. 'You are very nearly whatI fancied you, ' said Mary. 

'Am I? I hope you fancied me to be something that you could like. '

'Something that I could love very dearly. You are a little tallerthan what Will said; but then a gentleman is never a judge of alady's height. And he said you were thin. '

'I am not very fat. '

'No; not very fat; but neither are you thin. Of course, you know, Ihave thought a great deal about you. It seems as though you had cometo be so very near to us; and blood is thicker than water, is it not?If cousins are not friends, who can be?'

In the course of that evening they became very confidential together, and Clara thought that she could love Mary Belton better than anywoman that she had ever known. Of course they were talking aboutWilliam, and Clara was at first in constant fear lest some wordshould be said on her lover's behalf some word which would drive herto declare that she would not admit him as a lover; but Maryabstained from the subject with marvellous care and tact. Though shewas talking through the whole evening of her brother, she so spoke ofhim as almost to make Clara believe that she could not have heard ofthat episode in his life. Mrs Askerton would have dashed at thesubject at once; but then, as Clara told herself, Mary Bolton wasbetter than Mrs Askerton. 

A few words were said about the estate, and they originated inClara's declaration that Mary would have to be regarded as themistress of the house to which they were going. 'I cannot agree tothat, ' said Mary. 

'But the house is William's, you know, ' said Clara. 

'He says not. '

'But of course that must be nonsense, Mary. '

'It is very evident that you know nothing of Plaistow ways, or youwould not say that anything coming from William was nonsense. We areaccustomed to regard all his words as law, and when he says that athing is to be so, it always is so. '

'Then he is a tyrant at home. '

'A beneficent despot. Some despots, you know, always werebeneficent. '

'He won't have his way in this thing. '

'I'll leave you and him to fight about that, my dear. I am socompletely under his thumb that I always obey him in everything. Youmust not, therefore, expect to range me on your side. '

The next day they were at Belton Castle, and in a very few hoursClara felt that she was quite at home with her cousin. On the secondday Mrs Askerton came up and called according to an arrangement tothat effect made between her and Clara. I'll stay away if you likeit, ' Mrs Askerton had said. But Clara had urged her to come, arguingwith her that she was foolish to be thinking always of her ownmisfortune. 'Of course I am always thinking of it, ' she had replied, and always thinking that other people are thinking of it. Yourcousin, Miss Belton, knows all my history, of course, But whatmatters? I believe it would be better that everybody should know it. I suppose she's very straight-laced and prim. 'She is not prim atall, ' said Clara. 'Well, I'll come, ' said Mrs Askerton, 'but I shallnot be a bit surprised if I hear that she goes back to Norfolk thenext day. '

So Mrs Askerton came, and Miss Belton did not go back to Norfolk. Indeed, at the end of the visit, Mrs Askerton had almost taughtherself to believe that William Belton had kept his secret, even fromhis sister. 'She's a dear little woman, ' Mrs Askerton afterwards saidto Clara. 

'Is she not?'

'And so thoroughly like a lady. '

'Yes; I think she is a lady. '

'A princess among ladies! What a pretty little conscious way she hasof asserting herself when she has an opinion and means to stick toit! I never saw a woman who got more strength out of her weakness. Who would dare to contradict her?'

'But then she knows everything so well, ' said Clara. 

'And how like her brother she is!'

'Yes there is a great family likeness. '

'And in character, too. I'm sure you'd find, if you were to try her, that she has all his personal firmness, though she can't show it ashe does by kicking out his feet and clenching his fist. '

'I'm glad you like her, ' said Clara. 

'I do like her very much. '

'It is so odd the way you have changed. You used to speak of him asthough he was merely a clod of a farmer, and of her as a stupid oldmaid. Now, nothing is too good to say of them. '

'Exactly, my dear and if you do not understand why, you are not soclever as I take you to be. '

Life went on very pleasantly with them at Belton for two or threeweeks but with this drawback as regarded Clara, that she had no meansof knowing what was to be the course of her future life. During theseweeks she twice received letters from her Cousin Will, and answeredboth of them. But these letters referred to matters of business whichentailed no contradiction to certain details of money due to theestate before the old squire's death, and to that vexed question ofAunt Winterfield's legacy, which had by this time drifted intoBelton's hands, and as to which he was inclined to act in accordancewith his cousin's wishes, though he was assured by Mr Green that thelegacy was as good a legacy as had ever been left by an old woman. 'Ithink, ' he said in his last letter, ' that we shall be able to throwhim over in spite of Mr Green. ' Clara, as she read this, could notbut remember that the man to be thrown over was the man to whom shehad been engaged, and she could not but remember also all thecircumstances of the intended legacy of her aunt's death, and of thescenes which had immediately followed her death. It was so odd thatWilliam Belton should now be discussing with her the means of evadingall her aunt's intentions and that he should be doing so, not as heraccepted lover. He had, indeed, called himself her brother, but hewas in truth her rejected lover. 

From time to time during these weeks Mrs Askerton would ask herwhether Mr Belton was coming to Belton, and Clara would answer herwith perfect truth that she did not believe that he had any suchintention. 'But he must come soon, ' Mrs Askerton would say. And whenClara would answer that she knew nothing about it, Mrs Askerton wouldask further questions about Mary Belton. 'Your cousin must knowwhether her brother is coming to look after the property?' But MissBelton, though she heard constantly from her brother, gave no suchintimation. If he had any intention of coming, she did not speak ofit. During all these days she had not as yet said a word of herbrother's love. Though his name was daily in her mouth and latterly, was frequently mentioned by Clara there had been no allusion to thatstill enduring hope of which Will Belton himself could not but speakwhen he had any opportunity of speaking at all. And this continuedtill at last Clara was driven to suppose that Mary Belton knewnothing of her brother's hopes. 

But at last there came a change a change which to Clara was as greatas that which had affected her when she first found that herdelightful cousin was not sale against love-making. She had made upher mind that the sister did not intend to plead for her brother thatthe sister probably knew nothing of the brother's necessity forpleading that the brother probably had no further need for pleadingWhen she remembered his last passionate words, she could not butaccuse herself of hypocrisy when she allowed place in her thoughts tothis latter supposition. He had been so intently earnest! The natureof the man was so eager and true! But yet, in spite of all that hadbeen said, of all the fire in his eyes, and life in his words, andenergy in his actions, he had at last seen that his aspirations werefoolish, and his desires vain. It could not otherwise be that she andMary should pass these hours in such calm repose without an allusionto the disturbing subject! After this fashion, and with suchmeditations as these, had passed by the last weeks and then at lastthere came the change. 

'I have had a letter from William this morning, ' said Mary. 

'And so have not I, ' said Clara, and yet I expect to hear from him. '

'He means to be here soon, ' said Mary. 

'Oh, indeed!'

'He speaks of being here next week. '

For a moment or two Clara had yielded to the agitation caused by hercousin's tidings; but with a little gush she recovered her presenceof mind, and was able to speak with all the hypocritical propriety ofa female. 'I am glad to hear it, ' she said. 'It is only right that heshould come. '

'He has asked me to say a word to you as to the purport of hisjourney. '

Then again Clara's courage and hypocrisy were so far subdued thatthey were not able to maintain her in a position adequate to theoccasion. 'Well, ' she said laughing, 'what is the word? I hope it isnot that I am to pack up, bag and baggage, and take myself elsewhere. Cousin William is one of those persons who are willing to doeverything except what they are wanted to do. He will go on talkingabout the Belton estate, when I want to know whether I may reallylook for as much as twelve shillings a week to live upon. '

'He wants me to speak to you about--about the earnest love he bearsfor you. '

'Oh dear! Mary;--could you not suppose it all to be said? It is an oldtrouble, and need not be repeated. '

'No, ' said Mary, 'I cannot suppose it to be all said. ' Clara lookingup as she heard the voice, was astonished both by the fire in thewoman's eye and by the force of her tone. 'I will not think so meanlyof you as to believe that such words from such a man can be passed byas meaning nothing. I will not say that you ought to be able to lovehim; in that you cannot control your heart; but if you cannot lovehim, the want of such love ought to make you suffer to suffer muchand be very sad. '

'I cannot agree to that, Mary. '

'Is all his life nothing, then? Do you know what love means withhim;--this love which he bears to you? Do you understand that it iseverything to him?--that from the first moment in which heacknowledged to himself that his heart was set upon you, he could notbring himself to set it upon any other thing for a moment? Perhapsyou have never understood this; have never perceived that he is somuch in earnest, that to him it is more than money, or land, orhealth, --more than life itself, --that he so loves that he wouldwillingly give everything that he has for his love? Have you knownthis?'

Clara would not answer these questions for a while. What if she hadknown it all, was she therefore bound to sacrifice herself? Could itbe the duty of any woman to give herself to a man simply because aman wanted her? That was the argument as it was put forward now byMary Belton. 

'Dear, dearest Clara, ' said Mary Belton, stretching herself forwardfrom her chair, and putting out her thin, almost transparent, hand, 'I do not think that you have thought enough of this; or, perhaps, you have not known it. But his love for you is as I say. To him it iseverything. It pervades every hour of every day, every corner in hislife! He knows nothing of anything else while he is in his presentstate. '

'He is very good more than good. '

'He is very good. '

'But I do not see that;--that-- Of course I know how disinterested he is. '

'Disinterested is a poor word. It insinuates that in such a matterthere could be a question of what people call interest. '

'And I know, too, how much he honours me. '

'Honour is a cold word. It is not honour, but love downright true, honest love. I hope he does honour you. I believe you to be anhonest, true woman; and, as he knows you well, he probably doeshonour you but I am speaking of love. ' Again Clara was silent. Sheknew what should be her argument if she were determined to oppose hercousin's pleadings; and she knew also she thought she knew that shedid intend to oppose them; but there was a coldness in the argumentto which she was averse. 'You cannot be insensible to such love asthat!' said Mary, going on with the cause which she had in hand. 

'You say that he is fond of me. '

'Fond of you! I have not used such trifling expressions as that. '

'That he loves me. '

'You know he loves you. Have you ever doubted a word that he hasspoken to you on any subject?'

'I believe he speaks truly. '

'You know he speaks truly. He is the very soul of truth. '

'But, Mary--'

'Well, Clara! But remember; do not answer me lightly. Do not playwith a man's heart because you have it in your power. '

'You wrong me. I could never do like that. You tell me that he lovesme but what if I do not love him? Love will not be constrained. Am Ito say that I love him because I believe that he loves me?'

This was the argument, and Clara found herself driven to use it notso much from its special applicability to herself, as on account ofits general fitness. Whether it did or did not apply to herself shehad no time to ask herself at that moment; but she felt that no mancould have a right to claim a woman's hand on the strength of his ownlove unless he had been able to win her love. She was arguing onbehalf of women in general rather than on her own behalf. 

'If you mean to tell me that you cannot love him, of course I mustgive over, ' said Mary, not caring at all for men and women ingeneral, but full of anxiety for her brother. 'Do you mean to saythat that you can never love him?' It almost seemed, from her face, that she was determined utterly to quarrel with her new-found cousinto quarrel and to go at once away if she got an answer that would notplease her. 

'Dear Mary, do not press me so hard. '

'But I want to press you hard. It is not right that he should losehis life in longing and hoping. '

'He will not lose his life, Mary. '

'I hope not not not if I can help it. I trust that he will be strongenough to get rid of his trouble to put it down and trample it underhis feet. ' Clara, as she heard this, began to ask herself what it wasthat was to be trampled under Will's feet. 'I think he will be manenough to overcome his passion; and then, perhaps you may regret whatyou have lost. '

'Now you are unkind to me. '

'Well; what would you have me say? Do I not know that he is offeringyou the best gift that he can give? Did I not begin by swearing toyou that he loved you with a passion of love that cannot but beflattering to you? If it is to be love in vain, this to him is agreat misfortune. And, yet, when I say that I hope that he willrecover, you tell me that I am unkind. '

'No not for that. '

'May I tell him to come and plead for himself?'

Again Clara was silent, not knowing how to answer that last question. And when she did answer it, she answered it thoughtlessly. 'Of coursehe knows that he can do that. '

'He says that he has been forbidden. '

'Oh, Mary, what am I to say to you? You know it all, and I wonderthat you can continue to question me in this way. '

'Know all what?'

'That I have been engaged to Captain Aylmer. '

'But you are not engaged to him now. '

'No I am not. '

'And there can be no renewal there, I suppose?'

'Oh, no!'

'Not even for my brother would I say a word if I thought'

'No there is nothing of that; but If you cannot understand, I do notthink that I can explain it. ' It seemed to Clara that her cousin, inher anxiety for her brother, did not conceive that a woman, even ifshe could suddenly transfer her affections from one man to another, could not bring herself to say that she had done so. 

'I must write to him today, ' said Mary, 'and I must give him someanswer. Shall I tell him that he had better not come here till youare gone?'

'That will perhaps be best, ' said Clara. 

'Then he will never come at all. '

'I can go can go at once. I will go at once. You shall never have tosay that my presence prevented his coming to his own house. I oughtnot to be here. I know it now. I will go away, and you may tell himthat I am gone. '

'No, dear; you will not go. '

'Yes I must go. I fancied things might be otherwise, because he oncetold me that he would be a brother to me. And I said I would hold himto that not only because I want a brother so badly, but because Ilove him so dearly. But it cannot be like that. '

'You do not think that he will ever desert you?'

'But I will go away, so that he may come to his own house. I oughtnot to be here. Of course I ought not to be at Belton either in thishouse or in any other. Tell him that I will be gone before he cancome, and tell him also that I will not be too proud to accept fromhim what it may be fit that he should give me. I have no one but himno one but him no one but him. ' Then she burst into tears, andthrowing hack her head, covered her face with her hands. 

Miss Belton, upon this, rose slowly from the chair on which she wassitting, and making her way painfully across to Clara, stood leaningon the weeping girl's chair. 'You shall not go while I am here, ' shesaid. 

'Yes; I must go. He cannot come till I am gone. '

'Think of it all once again, Clara. May I not tell him to come, andthat while he is coming you will see if you cannot soften your hearttowards him?'

'Soften my heart! Oh, if I could only harden it!'

'He would wait. If you would only bid him wait, he would be so happyin waiting. '

'Yes till tomorrow morning. I know him. Hold out your little fingerto him, and he has your whole hand and arm in a moment. '

'I want you to say that you will try to love him. '

But Clara was in truth trying not to love him. She was ashamed ofherself because she did love the one man, when, but a few weekssince, she had confessed that she loved another. She had mistakenherself and her own feelings, not in reference to her cousin, but insupposing that she could really have sympathized with such a man asCaptain Aylmer. It was necessary to her self-respect that she shouldbe punished because of that mistake. She could not save herself fromthis condemnation she would not grant herself a respite because, bydoing so, she would make another person happy. Had Captain Aylmernever crossed her path, she would have given her whole heart to hercousin. Nay; she had so given it had done so, although Captain Aylmerhad crossed her path and come in her way. But it was matter of shameto her to find that this had been possible, and she could not bringherself to confess her shame. 

The conversation at last ended, as such conversations always do end, without any positive decision. Mary wrote of course to her brother, but Clara was not told of the contents of the letter. We, however, may know them, and may understand their nature, without learningabove two lines of the letter. 'If you can be content to wait awhile, you will succeed, ' said Mary; 'but when were you ever content to waitfor anything?' 'If there is anything I hate, it is waiting, ' saidWill, when he received the letter; nevertheless the letter made himhappy, and he went about his farm with a sanguine heart, as hearranged matters for another absence. 'Away long?' he said, in answerto a question asked him by his head man; 'how on earth can I say howlong I shall be away? You can go on well enough without me by thistime, I should think. You will have to learn, for there is no knowinghow often I may be away, or for how long. '

When Mary said that the letter had been written, Clara again spokeabout going. 'And where will you go?' said Mary. 

'I will take a lodging in Taunton. '

'He would only follow you there, and there would be more trouble. That would be all. He must act as your guardian, and in thatcapacity, at any rate, you must submit to him. ' Clara, therefore, consented to remain at Belton; but, before Will arrived, she returnedfrom the house to the cottage. 

'Of course I understand all about it, ' said Mrs Askerton; 'and let metell you this that if it is not all settled within a week from hiscoming here, I shall think that you are without a heart. He is to beknocked about, and cuffed, and kept from his work, and made to run upand down between here and Norfolk, because you cannot bring yourselfto confess that you have been a fool. '

'I have never said that I have not been a fool, ' said Clara. 

'You have made a mistake as young women will do sometimes, even whenthey are as prudent and circumspect as you are and now you don'tquite like the task of putting it right. '

It was all true, and Clara knew that it was true. The putting rightof mistakes is never pleasant; and in this case it was so unpleasantthat she could not bring herself to acknowledge that it must be done. And yet, I think that, by this time, she was aware of the necessity. 

CHAPTER XXXI

TAKING POSSESSION

'I want her to have it all, ' said William Belton to Mr Green, thelawyer, when they came to discuss the necessary arrangements for theproperty. 

'But that would be absurd. '

'Never mind. It is what I wish. I suppose a man may do what he likeswith his own. '

'She won't take it, ' said the lawyer. 

'She must take it, if you manage the matter properly, ' said Will. 

'I don't suppose it will make much difference, ' said the lawyer, --'nowthat Captain Aylmer is out of the running. '

'I know nothing about that. Of course I am very glad that he shouldbe out of the running, as you call it. He is a bad sort of fellow, and I didn't want him to have the property. But all that has hadnothing to do with it. I'm not doing it because I think she is everto be my wife. '

From this the reader will understand that Belton was still fidgetinghimself and the lawyer about the estate when he passed throughLondon. The matter in dispute, however, was so important that he wasinduced to seek the advice of others besides Mr Green, and at lastwas brought to the conclusion that it was his paramount duty tobecome Belton of Belton. There seemed in the minds of all thesecouncillors to be some imperative and almost imperious requirementthat the acres should go back to a man of his name. Now, as there wasno one else of the family who could stand in his way, he had noalternative but to become Belton of Belton. He would, however, sellhis estate in Norfolk, and raise money for endowing Clara withcommensurate riches. Such was his own plan but having fallen amongcounsellors he would not exactly follow his own plan, and at lastsubmitted to an arrangement in accordance with which an annuity ofeight hundred pounds a year was to be settled upon Clara, and thiswas to lie as a charge upon the estate in Norfolk. 

'It seems to me to be very shabby, ' said William Belton. 

'It seems to me to be very extravagant, ' said the leader among thecounsellors. 'She is not entitled to sixpence. '

But at last the arrangement as above described was the one to whichthey all assented. 

When Belton reached the house which was now his own he found no onethere but his sister. Clara was at the cottage. As he had been toldthat she was to return there, he had no reason to be annoyed. But, nevertheless, he was annoyed, or rather discontented, and had notbeen a quarter of an hour about the place before he declared hisintention to go and seek her. 

'Do no such thing, Will; pray do not, ' said his sister. 

'And why not?'

'Because it will be better that you should wait. You will only injureyourself and her by being impetuous. '

'But it is absolutely necessary that she should know her ownposition. It would be cruelty to keep her in ignorance though for thematter of that I shall be ashamed to tell her. Yes I shall be ashamedto look her in the face. What will she think of it after I hadassured her that she should have the whole?'

'But she would not have taken it, Will. And had she done so, shewould have been very wrong. Now she will be comfortable. '

'I wish I could be comfortable, ' said he. 

'If you will only wait--'

'I hate waiting. I do not see what good it will do. Besides, I don'tmean to say anything about that, --not today, at least. I don't indeed. As for being here and not seeing her, that is out of the question. Ofcourse she would think that I had quarrelled with her, and that Imeant to take everything to myself, now that I have the power. '

'She won't suspect you of wishing to quarrel with her, Will. '

'I should in her place. It is out of the question that I should behere, and not go to her. It would be monstrous. I will wait till theyhave done lunch, and then I will go up. '

It was at last decided that he should walk up to the cottage, callupon Colonel Askerton, and ask to see Clara in the colonel'spresence. It was thought that he could make his statement about themoney better before a third person who could be regarded as Clara'sfriend, than could possibly be done between themselves. He did, therefore, walk across to the cottage, and was shown into ColonelAskerton's study. 

'There he is, ' Mrs Askerton said, as soon as she heard the sound ofthe bell. 'I knew that he would come at once. '

During the whole morning Mrs Askerton had been insisting that Beltonwould make his appearance on that very day the day of his arrival atBelton, and Clara had been asserting that he would not do so. 

'Why should he come?' Clara had said. 

'Simply to take you to his own house, like any other of his goods andchattels. '

'I am not his goods or his chattels. '

'But you soon will be; and why shouldn't you accept your lot quietly?He is Belton of Belton, and everything here belongs to him. '

'I do not belong to him. '

'What nonsense! When a man has the command of the situation, as hehas, he can do just what he pleases. If he were to come and carry youoff by violence, I have no doubt the Beltonians would assist him, andsay that he was right. And you of course would forgive him. Belton ofBelton may do anything. '

'That is nonsense, if you please. '

'Indeed if you had any of that decent feeling of feminine inferioritywhich ought to belong to all women, he would have found you sittingon the doorstep of his house waiting for him. '

That had been said early in the morning, when they first knew that hehad arrived; but they had been talking about him ever since talkingabout him under pressure from Mrs Askerton, till Clara had beendriven to long that she might be spared. 'If he chooses to come, hewill come, ' she said. 'Of course he will come, ' Mrs Askerton hadanswered, and then they heard the ring of the hell. 'There he is. Icould swear to the sound of his foot. Doesn't he step as though hewere Belton of Belton, and conscious that everything belonged tohim?' Then there was a pause. 'He has been shown in to ColonelAskerton. What on earth could he want with him?'

'He has called to tell him something about the cottage, ' said Clara, endeavouring to speak as though she were calm through it all. 

'Cottage! Fiddlestick! The idea of a man coming to look after histrumpery cottage on the first day of his showing himself as lord ofhis own property! Perhaps he is demanding that you shall be deliveredup to him. If he does I shall vote for obeying. '

'And I for disobeying and shall vote very strongly too. '

Their suspense was yet prolonged for another ten minutes, and at theend of that time the servant came in and asked if Miss Amedroz wouldbe good enough to go into the master's room. 'Mr Belton is there, Fanny?' asked Mrs Askerton. The girl confessed that Mr Belton wasthere, and then Clara, without another word, got up and left theroom. She had much to do in assuming a look of composure before sheopened the door; but she made the effort, and was not unsuccessful. In another second she found her hand in her cousin's, and his brighteye was fixed upon her with that eager friendly glance which made hisface so pleasant to those whom he loved. 

'Your cousin has been telling me of the arrangements he has beenmaking for you with the lawyers, ' said Colonel Askerton. 'I can onlysay that I wish all the ladies had cousins so liberal, and so able tobe liberal. '

'I thought I would see Colonel Askerton first, as you are staying athis house. And as for liberality there is nothing of the kind. Youmust understand, Clara, that a fellow can't do what he likes with hisown in this country. I have found myself so bullied by lawyers andthat sort of people, that I have been obliged to yield to them. Iwanted that you should have the old place, to do just what youpleased with It. '

'That was out of the question, Will. '

'Of course it was, ' said Colonel Askerton. Then, as Belton himselfdid not proceed to the telling of his own story, the colonel told itfor him, and explained what was the income which Clara was toreceive. 

'But that is as much out of the question, ' said she, 'as the other. Icannot rob you in that way. I cannot and I shall not. And why shouldI? What do I want with an income? Something I ought to have, if onlyfor the credit of the family, and that I am willing to take from yourkindness; but--'

'It's all settled now, Clara. '

'I don't think that you can lessen the weight of your obligation, Miss Amedroz, after what has been done up in London, ' said thecolonel. 

'If you had said a hundred a year--'

'I have been allowed to say nothing, ' said Belton; 'those people havesaid eight, --and so it is settled. When are you coming over to seeMary?'

To this question he got no definite answer, and as he went awayimmediately afterwards he hardly seemed to expect one. He did noteven ask for Mrs Askerton, and as that lady remarked, behavedaltogether like a bear. 'But what a munificent bear!' she said. 'Fancy;--eight hundred a year of your own. One begins to doubt whetherit is worth one's while to marry at all with such an income as thatto do what one likes with! However, it all means nothing. It will allbe his own again before you have even touched it. '

'You must not say anything more about that, ' said Clara gravely. 

'And why must I not?'

'Because I shall hear nothing more of it. There is an end of all thatas there ought to be. '

'Why an end? I don't see an end. There will be no end till Belton ofBelton has got you and your eight hundred a year as well aseverything else. '

'You will find that he does not mean anything more, ' said Clara. 

'You think not?'

'I am sure of it. ' Then there was a little sound in her throat asthough she were in some danger of being choked; but she soonrecovered herself, and was able to express herself clearly. 'I haveonly one favour to ask you now, Mrs Askerton, and that is that youwill never say anything more about him. He has changed his mind. Ofcourse he has, or he would not come here like that and have gone awaywithout saying a word. '

'Not a word! A man gives you eight hundred a year and that is notsaying a word!'

'Not a word except about money! But of course he is right. I knowthat he is right. Alter what has passed he would be very wrong to tothink about it any more. You joke about his being Belton of Belton. But it does make a difference. '

'It does does it?'

'It has made a difference. I see and feel it now. I shall never hearhim ask me that question any more. '

'And if you did hear him, what answer would you make him?'

'I don't know. '

'That is just it. Women are so cross-grained that it is a wonder tome that men should ever have anything to do with them. They haveabout them some madness of a phantasy which they dignify with thename of feminine pride, and under the cloak of this they believethemselves to be justified in tormenting their lovers' lives out. Theonly consolation is that they torment themselves as much. Cananything be more cross-grained than you are at this moment? You wereresolved just now that it would be the most unbecoming thing in theworld if he spoke a word more about his love for the next twelvemonths--'

'Mrs Askerton, I said nothing about twelve months. '

'And now you are broken-hearted because he did not blurt it all outbefore Colonel Askerton in a business interview, which was veryproperly had at once, and in which he has had the exceeding goodtaste to confine himself altogether to the one subject. '

'I am not complaining. '

'It was good taste; though if he had not been a bear he might haveasked after me, who am fighting his battles for him night and day. '

'But what will he do next?'

'Eat his dinner, I should think, as it is now nearly five o'clock. Your father used always to dine at five. '

'I can't go to see Mary, ' she said, 'till he comes here again. '

'He will be here fast enough. I shouldn't wonder if he was to comehere tonight. ' And he did come again that night. 

When Belton's interview was over in the colonel's study, he left thehouse without even asking after the mistress, as that mistress hadtaken care to find out and went off, rambling about the estate whichwas now his own. It was a beautiful place, and he was not insensibleto the gratification of being its owner. There is much in the gloryof ownership of the ownership of land and houses, of beeves andwoolly flocks, of wide fields and thick-growing woods, even when thatownership is of late date, when it conveys to the owner nothing butthe realization of a property on the soil; but there is much more init when it contains the memories of old years; when the glory is theglory of race as well as the glory of power and property. There hadbeen Beltons of Belton living there for many centuries, and now hewas the Belton of the day, standing on his own ground the descendantand representative of the Beltons of old Belton of Belton without aflaw in his pedigree! He felt himself to be proud of his positionprouder than he could have been of any other that might have beenvouchsafed to him. And yet amidst it all he was somewhat ashamed ofhis pride. 'The man who can do it for himself is the real man afterall, ' he said. 'But I have got it by a fluke and by such a sad chancetoo!' Then he wandered on, thinking of the circumstances under whichthe property had fallen into his hands, and remembering how and whenand where the first idea had occurred to him of making Clara Amedrozhis wife. He had then felt that if he could only do that he couldreconcile himself to the heirship. And the idea had grown upon himinstantly, and had become a passion by the eagerness with which hehad welcomed it. From that day to this he had continued to tellhimself that he could not enjoy his good fortune unless he couldenjoy it with her. There had come to be a horrid impediment in hisway a barrier which had seemed to have been placed there by his evilfortune, to compensate the gifts given to him by his good fortune, and that barrier had been Captain Aylmer. He had not, in fact, seenmuch of his rival, but he had seen enough to make it matter of wonderto him that Clara could be attached to such a man. He had thoroughlydespised Captain Aylmer, and had longed to show his contempt of theman by kicking him out of the hotel at the London railway station. Atthat moment all the world had seemed to him to be wrong and wretched. 

But now it seemed that all the world might so easily be made rightagain! The impediment had got itself removed. Belton did not even yetaltogether comprehend by what means Clara had escaped from the meshesof the Aylmer Park people, but he did know that she had escaped. Hereyes had been opened before it was too late, and she was a free womanto be compassed if only a man might compass her. While she had beenengaged to Captain Aylmer, Will had felt that she was not assailable. Though he had not been quite able to restrain himself as on thatfatal occasion when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her stillhe had known that as she was an engaged woman, he could not, withoutinsulting her, press his own suit upon her. But now all that wasover. Let him say what he liked on that head, she would have noproper plea for anger. She was assailable and, as this was so, whythe mischief should he not set about the work at once? His sisterbade him wait. Why should he wait when one fortunate word might doit? Wait! He could not wait. How are you to bid a starving man towait when you put him down at a well-covered board? Here was he, walking about Belton Park just where she used to walk with him andthere was she at Belton Cottage, within half an hour of him at thismoment, if he were to go quickly; and yet Mary was telling him towait! No; he would not wait. There could be no reason for waiting. Wait, indeed, till some other Captain Aylmer should come in the wayand give him more trouble!

So he wandered on, resolving that he would see his cousin again thatvery day. Such an interview as that which had just taken placebetween two such dear friends was not natural, --was not to be endured. What might not Clara think of it! To meet her for the first timeafter her escape from Aylmer Park, and to speak to her only onmatters concerning money! He would certainly go to her again on thatafternoon. In his walking he came to the bottom of the rising groundon the top of which stood the rock on which he and Clara had twicesat. But he turned away, and would not go up to it. He hoped that hemight go up to it very soon, --but, except under certain circumstances, he would never go up to it again. 

'I am going across to the cottage immediately after dinner, ' he saidto his sister. 

'Have you an appointment?'

'No; I have no appointment. I suppose a man doesn't want anappointment to go and see his own cousin down in the country. '

'I don't know what their habits are. '

'I shan't ask to go in; but I want to see her. '

Mary looked at him with loving, sorrowing eyes, but she said no more. She loved him so well that she would have given her right hand to getfor him what he wanted but she sorrowed to think that he should wantsuch a thing so sorely. Immediately after his dinner, he took his hatand went out without saying a word further, and made his way oncemore across to the gate of the cottage. It was a lovely summerevening, at that period of the year in which our summer evenings justbegin, when the air is sweeter and the flowers more fragrant, and theforms of the foliage more lovely than at any other time. It was noweight o'clock, but it was hardly as yet evening; none at least of thegloom of evening had come, though the sun was low in the heavens. Atthe cottage they were all sitting out on the lawn; and as Belton camenear he was seen by them, and he saw them. 

'I told you so, ' said Mrs Askerton, to Clara, in a whisper. 

'He is not coming in, ' Clara answered. 'He is going on. '

But when he had come nearer, Colonel Askerton called to him over thegarden paling, and asked him to join them. He was now standing withinten or fifteen yards of them, though the fence divided them. 'I havecome to ask my Cousin Clara to take a walk with me, ' he said. 'Shecan be back by your tea time. ' He made his request very placidly, anddid not in any way look like a lover. 

'I am sure she will be glad to go, ' said Mrs Askerton. But Clara saidnothing. 

'Do take a turn with me, if you are not tired, ' said he. 

'She has not been out all day, and cannot be tired, ' said MrsAskerton, who had now walked up to the paling. 'Clara, get your hat. But, Mr Belton, what have I done that I am to be treated in this way?Perhaps you don't remember that you have not spoken to me since yourarrival. '

'Upon my word, I beg your pardon, ' said he, endeavouring to stretchhis hand across the bushes. 

'I forgot I didn't see you this morning. '

'I suppose I musn't be angry, as this is your day of takingpossession; but it is exactly on such days as this that one likes tobe remembered. '

'I didn't mean to forget you, Mrs Askerton; I didn't, indeed. And asfor the special day, that's all bosh, you know. I haven't takenparticular possession of anything that I know of. '

'I hope you will, Mr Belton, before the day is over, ' said she. Clarahad at length arisen, and had gone into the house to fetch her hat. She had not spoken a word, and even yet her cousin did not knowwhether she was coming. 'I hope you will take possession of a greatdeal that is very valuable. Clara has gone to get her hat. '

'Do you think she means to walk?'

'I think she does, Mr Belton. And there she is at the door. Mind youbring her back to tea. '

Clara, as she came forth, felt herself quite unable to speak, orwalk, or look after her usual manner. She knew herself to be a victimto be so far a victim that she could no longer control her own fate. To Captain Aylmer, at any rate, she had never succumbed. In all herdealings with him she had fought upon an equal footing. She had neverbeen compelled to own herself mastered. But now she was being led outthat she might confess her own submission, and acknowledge thathitherto she had not known what was good for her. She knew that shewould have to yield. She must have known how happy she was to have anopportunity of yielding; but yet yet, had there been any room forchoice, she thought she would have refrained from walking with hercousin that evening. She had wept that afternoon because she hadthought that he would not come again; and now that he had come at thefirst moment that was possible for him, she was almost tempted towish him once more away. 

'I suppose you understand that when I came up this morning I camemerely to talk about business, ' said Belton, as soon as they were offtogether. 

'It was very good of you to come at all so soon after your arrival. '

'I told those people in London that I would have it all settled atonce, and so I wanted to have it off my mind. '

'I don't know what I ought to say to you. Of course I shall not wantso much money as that. '

'We won't talk about the money any more today. I hate talking aboutmoney. '

'It is not the pleasantest subject in the world. '

'No, ' said he; 'no indeed. I hate it particularly between friends. Soyou have come to grief with your friends, the Aylmers?'

'I hope I haven't come to grief and the Aylmers, as a family, neverwere my friends. I'm obliged to contradict you, point by point yousee. '

'I don't like Captain Aylmer at all, ' said Will, after a pause. 

'So I saw, Will; and I dare say he was not very fond of you. ' 'Fondof me! I didn't want him to be fond of me. I don't suppose he everthought much about me. I could not help thinking of him. ' She hadnothing to say to this, and therefore walked on silently by his side. 'I suppose he has not any idea of coming back here again?'

'What; to Belton? No, I do not think he will come to Belton anymore. '

'Nor will you go to Aylmer Park?'

'No; certainly not. Of all the places on earth. Will, to which youcould send me, Aylmer Park is the one to which I should go mostunwillingly. '

'I don't want to send you there. '

'You never could be made to understand what a woman she is; howdisagreeable, how cruel, how imperious, how insolent. '

'Was she so bad as all that?'

'Indeed she was, Will. I can't but tell the truth to you. '

'And he was nearly as bad as she. '

'No, Will; no; do not say that of him. '

'He was such a quarrelsome fellow. He flew at me just because I saidwe had good hunting down in Norfolk. '

'We need not talk about all that, Will. '

'No of course not. It's all passed and gone, I suppose. '

'Yes it is all passed and gone. You did not know my Aunt Winterfield, or you would understand my first reason for liking him. '

'No, ' said Will; 'I never saw her. '

Then they walked on together for a while without speaking, and Clarawas beginning to feel some relief some relief at first; but as therelief came, there came back to her the dead, dull, feeling ofheaviness at her heart which had oppressed her after his visit in themorning. She had been right, and Mrs Askerton had been wrong. He hadreturned to her simply as her cousin, and now he was walking with herand talking to her in this strain, to teach her that it was so. Butof a sudden they came to a place where two paths diverged, and heturned upon her and asked her quickly which path they should take. 'Look, Clara, ' he said, 'will you go up there with me?' It did notneed that she should look, as she knew that the way indicated by himled up among the rocks. 

'I don't much care which way, ' she said, faintly. 

'Do you not? But I do. I care very much. Don't you remember wherethat path goes?' She had no answer to give to this. She rememberedwell, and remembered how he had protested that he would never go tothe place again unless he could go there as her accepted lover. Andshe had asked herself sundry questions as to that protestation. Couldit be that for her sake he would abstain from visiting the prettiestspot on his estate that he would continue to regard the ground ashallowed because of his memories of her? 'Which way shall we go?' heasked. 

'I suppose it does not much signify, ' said she, trembling. 

'But it does signify. It signifies very much to me. Will you go up tothe rocks?'

'I am afraid we shall be late, if we stay out long. '

'What matters how late? Will you come?'

'I suppose so if you wish it, Will. '

She had anticipated that the high rock was to be the altar at whichthe victim was to be sacrificed; but now he would not wait till hehad taken her to the sacred spot. He had of course intended that hewould there renew his offer; but he had perceived that his offer hadbeen renewed, and had, in fact, been accepted, during this littleparley as to the pathway. There was hardly any necessity for furtherwords. So he must have thought; for, as quick as lightning, he flunghis arms around her, and kissed her again, as he had kissed her onthat other terrible occasion that occasion on which he had felt thathe might hardly hope for pardon. 

'William, William, ' she said; 'how can you serve me like that?' Buthe had a full understanding as to his own privileges, and was wellaware that he was in the right now, as he had been before that he wastrespassing egregiously. 'Why are you so rough with me?' she said. 

'Clara, say that you love me. '

'I will say nothing to you because you are so rough. ' They were nowwalking up slowly towards the rocks. 

And as he had his arm round her waist, he was contented for awhile toallow her to walk without speaking. But when they were on the summitit was necessary for him that he should have a word from her ofpositive assurance. 'Clara, say that you love me. '

'Have I not always loved you, Will, since almost the first momentthat I saw you?'

'But that won't do. You know that is not fair. Come, Clara; I've hada deal of trouble and grief too; haven't I? You should say a word tomake up for it that is, if you can say it. '

'What can a word like that signify to you today? You have goteverything. '

'Have I got you?' Still she paused. 'I will have an answer. Have Igot you? Are you now my own?'

'I suppose so, Will. Don't now. I will not have it again. Does notthat satisfy you?'

'Tell me that you love me. '

'You know that I love you. '

'Better than anybody in the world?'

'Yes better than anybody in the world. '

'And after all you will be my wife?'

'Oh, Will how you question one!'

'You shall say it, and then it will all be fair and honest. '

'Say what? I'm sure I thought I had said everything. '

'Say that you mean to be my wife. '

'I suppose so if you wish it. '

'Wish it!' said he, getting up from his seat, and throwing his hatinto the bushes on one side; 'wish it! I don't think you have everunderstood howl have wished it. Look here, Clara; I found when I gotdown to Norfolk that I couldn't live without you. Upon my word it istrue. I don't suppose you'll believe me. '

'I didn't think it could be so bad with you as that. '

'No I don't suppose women ever do believe. And I wouldn't havebelieved it of myself. I hated myself for it. By George, I did. Thatis when I began to think it was all up with me. '

'All up with you! Oh, Will!'

'I had quite made up my mind to go to New Zealand. I had, indeed. Icouldn't have kept my hands off that man if we had been living in thesame country. I should have wrung his neck. '

'Will, how can you talk so wickedly?'

'There's no understanding it till you have felt it. But never mind. It's all right now; isn't it, Clara?'

'If you think so. '

'Think so! Oh, Clara, I am such a happy fellow. Do give me a kiss. You have never given me one kiss yet. '

'What nonsense! I didn't think you were such a baby. '

'By George, but you shall or you shall never get home to teato-night. My own, own, own darling. Upon my word, Clara, when I beginto think about it I shall be half mad. '

'I think you are quite that already. '

'No, I'm not but I shall be when I'm alone. What can I say to you, Clara, to make you understand how much I love you? You remember thesong, "For Bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and dee". Of course itis all nonsense talking of dying for a woman. What a man has to do isto live for her. But that is my feeling. I'm ready to give you mylife. If there was anything to do for you, I'd do it if I could, whatever it was. Do you understand me?'

'Dear Will! Dearest Will!'

'Am I dearest?'

'Are you not sure of it?'

'But I like you to tell me so. I like to feel that you are notashamed to own it. You ought to say it a few times to me, as I havesaid it so very often to you. '

'You'll hear enough of it before you've done with me. '

'I shall never have heard enough of it. Oh, Heavens, only think, whenI was coming down in the train last night I was in such a bad way. '

'And are you in a good way now?'

'Yes; in a very good way. I shall crow over Mary so when I get home. '

'And what has poor Mary done?'

'Never mind. '

'I dare say she knows what is good for you better than you knowyourself. I suppose she has told you that you might do a great dealbetter than trouble yourself with a wife?'

'Never mind what she has told me. It is settled now is it not?

'I hope so, Will. '

'But not quite settled as yet. When shall it be? That is the nextquestion. '

But to that question Clara positively refused to make any reply thather lover would consider to be satisfactory. He continued to pressher till she was at last driven to remind him how very short a timeit was since her father had been among them; and then he was veryangry with himself, and declared himself to be a brute. 'Anything butthat, ' she said. 'You are the kindest and the best of men but at thesame time the most impatient. '

'That's what Mary says; but what's the good of waiting? She wanted meto wait today. '

'And as you would not, you have fallen into a trap out of which youcan never escape. But pray let us go. What will they think of us?'

'I shouldn't wonder if they didn't think something near the truth. '

'Whatever they think, we will go back. It is ever so much past nine. '

'Before you stir, Clara, tell me one thing. Are you really happy?'

'Very happy. '

'And are you glad that this has been done?'

'Very glad. Will that satisfy you?'

'And you do love me?'

'I do--I do--I do. Can I say more than that?

'More than anybody else in the world?'

'Better than all the world put together. '

'Then, ' said he, holding her tight in his arms, 'show me that youlove me. ' And as he made his request he was quick to explain to herwhat, according to his ideas, was the becoming mode by which loversmight show their love. I wonder whether it ever occurred to Clara, asshe thought of it all before she went to bed that night, that CaptainAylmer and William Belton were very different in their manners. Andif so, I must wonder further whether she most approved the manners ofthe patient man or the man who was impatient. 

CHAPTER XXXII

CONCLUSION

About two months after the scene described in the last chapter, whenthe full summer had arrived, Clara received two letters from the twolovers the history of whose loves have just been told, and theseshall be submitted to the reader, as they will serve to explain themanner in which the two men proposed to arrange their affairs. Wewill first have Captain Aylmer's letter, which was the first read;Clara kept the latter for the last, as children always keep theirsweetest morsels. 

'Aylmer Park, August 188

'My dear Miss Amedroz, 'I heard before leaving London that you are engaged to marry yourcousin Mr William Belton, and I think that perhaps you may besatisfied to have a line from me to let you know that I quite approveof the marriage. ' 'I do not care very much for his approval ordisapproval, ' said Clara as she read this. 'No doubt it will be thebest thing you can do, especially as it will heal all the soresarising from the entail. ' 'There never was any sore, ' said Clara. 'Pray give my compliments to Mr Belton, and offer him mycongratulations, and tell him that I wish him all happiness in themarried state. ' 'Married fiddlestick!' said Clara. In this she wasunreasonable; but the euphonious platitudes of Captain Aylmer were sounlike the vehement protestations of Mr Belton that she must beexcused if by this time she had come to entertain something of anunreasonable aversion for the former. 

'I hope you will not receive my news with perfect indifference when Itell you that I also am going to be married. The lady is one whom Ihave known for a long time, and have always esteemed very highly. Sheis Lady Emily Tagmaggert, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Mull. 'Why Clara should immediately have conceived a feeling of supremecontempt for Lady Emily Tagmaggert, and assured herself that herladyship was a thin, dry, cross old maid with a red nose, I cannotexplain; but I do know that such were her thoughts, almostinstantaneously, in reference to Captain Aylmer's future bride. 'LadyEmily is a very intimate friend of my sister's; and you, who know howour family cling together, will feel how thankful I must be when Itell you that my mother quite approves of the engagement. I supposewe shall be married early in the spring. We shall probably spend somemonths every year at Perivale, and I hope that we may look forward tothe pleasure of seeing you sometimes as a guest beneath our roof. ' Onreading this Clara shuddered, and made some inward protestation whichseemed to imply that she had no wish whatever to revisit the dullstreets of the little town with which she had been so wellacquainted. 'I hope she'll be good to poor Mr Possit, ' said Clara, 'and give him port wine on Sundays. '

'I have one more thing that I ought to say. You will remember that Iintended to pay my aunt's legacy immediately after her death, butthat I was prevented by circumstances which I could not control. Ihave paid it now into Mr Green's hands on your account, together withthe sum of L59 18s 3d. , which is due upon it as interest at the rateof 5 per cent. I hope that this may be satisfactory. ' 'It is notsatisfactory at all, ' said Clara, putting down the letter, andresolving that Will Belton should be instructed to repay the moneyinstantly. It may, however, be explained here that in this matterClara was doomed to be disappointed; and that she was forced, by MrGreen's arguments, to receive the money. 'Then it shall go to thehospital at Perivale, ' she declared when those arguments were used. As to that, Mr Green was quite indifferent, but I do not think thatthe legacy which troubled poor Aunt Winterfield so much on her dyingbed was ultimately applied to so worthy a purpose. 

'And now, my dear Miss Amedroz, ' continued the letter, 'I will sayfarewell, with many assurances of my unaltered esteem, and withheartfelt wishes for your future happiness. Believe me to be always, 'Most faithfully and sincerely yours, 'FREDERIC F. AYLMER. 

'Esteem!' said Clara, as she finished the letter. 'I wonder which heesteems the most, me or Lady Emily Tagmaggert. He will never getbeyond esteem with any one. 

The letter which was last read was as follows:

'Plaistow, August 186--. 

'Dearest Clara, 'I don't think I shall ever get done, and I am coming to hate farming. It is awful lonely here, too, and I pass all my evenings by myself, wondering why I should be doomed to this kind of thing, while you andMary are comfortable together at Belton. We have begun with thewheat, and as soon as that is safe I shall cut and run. I shall leavethe barley to Bunce. Bunce knows as much about it as I do and as forremaining here all the summer, it's out of the question. 

'My own dear, darling love, of course I don't intend to urge you to doanything that you don't like; but upon my honour I don't see theforce of what you say. You know I have as much respect for yourfather's memory as anybody, but what harm can it do to him that weshould be married at once? Don't you think he would have wished ithimself? It can be ever so quiet. So long as it's done, I don't carea straw how it's done. Indeed, for the matter of that, I always thinkit would be best just to walk to church and to walk home againwithout saying anything to anybody. I hate fuss and nonsense, andreally I don't think anybody would have a right to say anything if wewere to do it at once in that sort of way. I have had a bad time ofit for the last twelvemonth. You must allow that, and I think that Iought to be rewarded. 

'As for living, you shall have your choice. Indeed you shall liveanywhere you please at Timbuctoo if you like it. I don't want to giveup Plaistow, because my father and grandfather farmed the landthemselves; but I am quite prepared not to live here. I don't thinkit would suit you, because it has so much of the farm-house about it. Only I should like you sometimes to come and look at the old place. What I should like would be to pull down the house at Belton andbuild another. But you mustn't propose to put it off till that'sdone, as I should never have the heart to do it. If you think thatwould suit you, I'll make up my mind to live at Belton for aconstancy; and then I'd go in for a lot of cattle, and don't doubtI'd make a fortune. I'm almost sick of looking at the straight ridgesin the big square fields every day of my life. 

'Give my love to Mary. I hope she fights my battle for me. Pray thinkof all this, and relent if you can. I do so long to have an end ofthis purgatory. If there was any use, I wouldn't say a word; butthere's no good in being tortured, when there is no use. God blessyou, dearest love. I do love you so well!

'Yours most affectionately, 'W. BELTON. '

She kissed the letter twice, pressed it to her bosom, and then satsilent for half an hour thinking of it of it, and the man who wroteit, and of the man who had written the other letter. She could notbut remember how that other man had thought to treat her, when it washis intention and her intention that they two should join their lotstogether how cold he had been; how full of caution and counsel; howhe had preached to her himself and threatened her with the preachingof his mother; how manifestly he had purposed to make her life asacrifice to his life; how he had premeditated her incarceration atPerivale, while he should be living a bachelor's life in London! WillBelton's ideas of married life were very different. Only come to meat once now, immediately, and everything else shall be disposed justas you please. This was his offer. What he proposed to give or ratherhis willingness to be thus generous, was very sweet to her; but itwas not half so sweet as his impatience in demanding his reward. Howshe doted on him because he considered his present state to be apurgatory! How could she refuse anything she could give to one whodesired her gifts so strongly?

As for her future residence, it would be a matter of indifference toher where she should live, so long as she might live with him; butfor him she felt that but one spot in the world was fit for him. Hewas Belton of Belton, and it would not be becoming that he shouldlive elsewhere. Of course she would go with him to Plaistow Hall asoften as he might wish it; but Belton Castle should be his permanentresting-place. It would be her duty to be proud for him, andtherefore, for his sake, she would beg that their home might be inSomersetshire. 

'Mary, ' she said to her cousin soon afterwards, 'Will sends his loveto you. '

'And what else does he say?'

'I couldn't tell you everything. You shouldn't expect it. '

'I don't expect it; but perhaps there may be something to be told. '

'Nothing that I need tell specially. You, who know him so well, canimagine what he would say. '

'Dear Will! I am sure he would mean to write what was pleasant. '

Then the matter would have dropped had Clara been so minded, --but she, in truth, was anxious to be forced to talk about the letter. Shewished to be urged by Mary to do that which Will urged her to do or, at least, to learn whether Mary thought that her brother's wish mightbe gratified without impropriety. 'Don't you think we ought to livehere?' she said. 

'By all means, --if you both like it. '

'He is so good, --so unselfish, that he will only ask me to do what Ilike best. '

'And which would you like best?'

'I think he ought to live here because it is the old family property. I confess that the name goes for something with me. He says that hewould build a new house. '

'Does he think he could have it ready by the time you are married?'

'Ah that is just the difficulty. Perhaps, after all, you had betterread his letter. I don't know why I should not show it to you. Itwill only tell you what you know already that he is the most generousfellow in all the world. ' Then Mary read the letter. 'What am I tosay to him?' Clara asked. 'It seems so hard to refuse anything to onewho is so true, and good, and generous. '

'It is hard. '

'But you see my poor, dear father's death has been so recent. '

'I hardly know, ' said Mary, 'how the world feels about such things. '

'I think we ought to wait at least twelve months, ' said Clara, verysadly. 

'Poor Will! He will be broken-hearted a dozen times before that. Butthen, when his happiness does come, he will be all the happier. 'Clara, when she heard this, almost hated her cousin Mary not for herown sake, but on Will's account. Will trusted so implicitly to hissister, and yet she could not make a better fight for him than this!It almost seemed that Mary was indifferent to her brother'shappiness. Had Will been her brother, Clara thought, and had any girlasked her advice under similar circumstances, she was sure that shewould have answered in a different way. She would have told such girlthat her first duty was owing to the man who was to be her husband, and would not have said a word to her about the feeling of the world. After all, what did the feeling of the world signify to them, whowere going to be all the world to each other?

On that afternoon she went up to Mrs Askerton's; and succeeded ingetting advice from her also, though she did not show Will's letterto that lady. 'Of course, I know what he says, ' said Mrs Askerton. 'Unless I have mistaken the man, he wants to be married tomorrow. '

'He is not so bad as that, ' said Clara. 

'Then the next day, or the day after. Of course he is impatient, anddoes not see any earthly reason why his impatience should not begratified. '

'He is impatient. '

'And I suppose you hesitate because of your father's death?

'It seems but the other day;--does it not?' said Clara. 

'Everything seems but the other day to me. It was but the other daythat I myself was married. '

'And, of course, though I would do anything I could that he would askme to do--'

'But would you do anything?'

'Anything that was not wrong I would. Why should I not, when he is sogood to me?'

'Then write to him, my dear, and tell him that it shall be as hewishes it. Believe me, the days of Jacob are over. Men don'tunderstand waiting now, and it's always as well to catch your fishwhen you can. '

'You don't suppose I have any thought of that kind?'

'I am sure you have not and I'm sure that he deserves no such thoughtbut the higher that are his deserts, the greater should be hisreward. If I were you, I should think of nothing but him, and Ishould do exactly as he would have me. ' Clara kissed her friend asshe parted from her, and again resolved that all that woman's sinsshould be forgiven her. A woman who could give such excellent advicedeserved that every sin should be forgiven her. 'They'll be marriedyet before the summer is over, ' Mrs Askerton said to her husband thatafternoon. 'I believe a man may have anything he chooses to ask for, if he'll only ask hard enough. '

And they were married in the autumn, if not actually in the summer. With what precise words Clara answered her lover's letter I will notsay; but her answer was of such a nature that he found himselfcompelled to leave Plaistow, even before the wheat was garnered. Great confidence was placed in Bunce on that occasion, and I havereason to believe that it was not misplaced. They were married inSeptember yes, in September, although that letter of Will's waswritten in August, and by the beginning of October they had returnedfrom their wedding trip to Plaistow. Clara insisted that she shouldbe taken to Plaistow, and was very anxious when there to learn allthe particulars of the farm. She put down in a little book how manyacres there were in each field, and what was the average produce ofthe land. She made inquiry about four-crop rotation, and endeavoured, with Bunce, to go into the great subject of stall-feeding. But Beltondid not give her as much encouragement as he might have done. 'We'llcome here for the shooting next year, ' he said; 'that is, if there isnothing to prevent us. '

'I hope there'll be nothing to prevent us. '

'There might be, perhaps; but we'll always come if there is not. Forthe rest of it, I'll leave it to Bunce, and just run over once ortwice in the year. It would not be a nice place for you to live atlong. '

'I like it of all things. I am quite interested about the farm. '

'You'd get very sick of it if you were here in the winter. The truthis that if you farm well, you must farm ugly. The picturesque nooksand corners have all to be turned inside out, and the hedgerows mustbe abolished, because we want the sunshine. Now, down at Belton, justabove the house, we won't mind farming well, but will stick to thepicturesque. '

The new house was immediately commenced at Belton, and was made toproceed with all imaginable alacrity. It was supposed at one time atleast Belton himself said that he so supposed that the building wouldbe ready for occupation at the end of the first summer; but this wasnot found to be possible. 'We must put it off till May, after all, 'said Belton, as he was walking round the unfinished building withColonel Askerton. 'It's an awful bore, but there's no getting peoplereally to pull out in this country. '

'I think they've pulled out pretty well. Of course you couldn't havegone into a damp house for the winter. '

'Other people can get a house built within twelve months. Look whatthey do in London. '

'And other people with their wives and children die in consequence ofcolds and sore throats and other evils of that nature. I wouldn't gointo a new house, I know, till I was quite sure it was dry. '

As Will at this time was hardly ten months married, he was not as yetjustified in thinking about his own wife and children; but he hadalready found it expedient to make arrangements for the autumn, whichwould prevent that annual visit to Plaistow which Clara hadcontemplated, and which he had regarded with his characteristicprudence as being subject to possible impediments. He was to beabsent himself for the first week in September, but was to returnimmediately after that. This he did; and before the end of that monthhe was justified in talking of his wife and family. 'I suppose itwouldn't have done to have been moving now under all thecircumstances, ' he said to his friend, Mrs Askerton, as he stillgrumbled about the unfinished house. 

'I don't think it would have done at all, under all thecircumstances, ' said Mrs Askerton. 

But in the following spring or early summer they did get into the newhouse and a very nice house it was, as will, I think, be believed bythose who have known Mr William Belton. And when they were wellsettled, at which time little Will Belton was some seven or eightmonths old, --little Will, for whom great bonfires had been lit, asthough his birth in those parts was a matter not to be regardedlightly; for was he not the first Belton of Belton who had been bornthere for more than a century?--when that time came visitors appearedat the new Belton Castle, visitors of importance, who were entitledto, and who received, great consideration. These were no less thanCaptain Aylmer, Member for Perivale, and his newly-married bride, Lady Emily Aylmer, _nee_ Tagmaggert. They were then just married, andhad come down to Belton Castle immediately after their honeymoontrip. How it had come to pass that such friendship had sprung up, --orrather how it had been revived, --it would be bootless here to say. Butold affiances, such as that which had existed between the Aylmer andthe Amedroz families, do not allow themselves to die out easily, andit is well for us all that they should be long-lived. So CaptainAylmer brought his bride to Belton Park, and a small fatted calf waskilled, and the Askertons came to dinner on which occasion CaptainAylmer behaved very well, though we may imagine that he must have hadsome misgivings on the score of his young wife. The Askertons came todinner, and the old rector, and the squire from a neighbouringparish, and everything was very handsome and very dull. CaptainAylmer was much pleased with his visit, and declared to Lady Emilythat marriage had greatly improved Mr. William Belton. Now Will hadbeen very dull the whole evening, and very unlike the fiery, violent, unreasonable man whom Captain Aylmer remembered to have met at thestation hotel of the Great Northern Railway. 

'I was as sure of it as possible, ' Clara said to her husband thatnight. 

'Sure of what, my dear?'

'That she would have a red nose. '

'Who has got a red nose?'

'Don't be stupid, Will. Who should have it but Lady Emily?'

'Upon my word I didn't observe it. '

'You never observe anything, Will; do you? But don't you think she isvery plain?'

'Upon my word I don't know. She isn't as handsome as some people. '

'Don't be a fool, Will. How old do you suppose her to be?' 'How old?Let me see. Thirty, perhaps. '

'If she's not over forty, I'll consent to change noses with her. '

'No we won't do that; not if I know it. '

'I cannot conceive why any man should marry such a woman as that. Notbut what she's a very good woman, I dare say; only what can a man getby it? To be sure there's the title, if that's worth anything. ' ButWill Belton was never good for much conversation at this hour, andwas too fast asleep to make any rejoinder to the last remark.