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The Belton Estate

A >> Anthony Trollope >> The Belton Estate




It was clear enough at any rate that this was expected from her nay,
imperatively demanded by him who was to be her lord by him to whom her
future obedience would be due. Whatever might be her immediate
decision, he would have a right to call upon her to be guided by his
judgment as soon as she would become his wife. And indeed, she felt
that he had such right now unless she should decide that no such right
should be his, now or ever. It was still within her power to say that
she could not submit herself to such a rule as his but having received
his commands she must do that or obey them. Then she declared to
herself, not following the matter out logically, but urged to her
decision by sudden impulse, that at any rate she would not obey Lady
Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, in any such matter, with Lady
Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god to her. That question about the
house at Perivale had been very painful to her. She felt that she could
have endured the dreary solitude at Perivale without complaint, if,
after her marriage, her husband's circumstances had made such a mode of
living expedient. But to have been asked to pledge her consent to such
a life before her marriage, to feel that he was bargaining for the
privilege of being rid of her, to know that the Aylmer people were
arranging that he, if he would marry her, should be as little troubled
with his wife as possible all this had been very grievous to her. She
had tried to console herself by the conviction that Lady Aylmer not
Frederic had been the sinner; but even in that consolation there had
been the terrible flaw that the words had come to her written by
Frederic's hand. Could Will Belton have written such a letter to his
future wife?

In her present emergency she must be guided by her own judgment or her
own instincts not by any edicts from Aylmer Park! If in what she might
do she should encounter the condemnation of Captain Aylmer, she would
answer him she would be driven to answer him by counter-condemnation of
him and his mother. Let it be so. Anything would be better than a mean,
truckling subservience to the imperious mistress of Aylmer Park.

But what should she do as regarded Mrs Askerton? That the story was
true she was beginning to believe. That there was some such history was
made certain to her by the promise which Mrs Askerton had given her.

'If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will
answer them.' Such a promise would not have been volunteered unless
there was something special to be told. It would be best, perhaps, to
demand from Mrs Askerton the fulfilment of this promise. But then in
doing so she must own from whence her information had come. Mrs
Askerton had told her that the 'communication' would be made by her
Cousin Will. Her Cousin Will had gone away without a word of Mrs
Askerton, and now the 'communication' had come from Captain Aylmer!

The Monday and Tuesday were rainy days, and the rain was some excuse
for her not going to the cottage. On the Wednesday her father was ill,
and his illness made a further excuse for her remaining at home. But on
the Wednesday evening there came a note to her from Mrs Askerton. 'You
naughty girl, why do you not come to me? Colonel Askerton has been away
since yesterday morning, and I am forgetting the sound of my own voice.
I did not trouble you when your divine cousin was here for reasons; but
unless you come to me now I shall think that his divinity has
prevailed. Colonel Askerton is in Ireland, about some property, and
will not be back till next week.'

Clara sent back a promise by the messenger, and on the following
morning she put on her hat and shawl, and started on her dreaded task.
When she left the house she had not even yet quite made up her mind
what she would do. At first she put her lover's letter into her pocket,
so that she might have it for reference; but, on second thoughts, she
replaced it in her desk, dreading lest she might be persuaded into
showing or reading some part of it. There had come a sharp frost after
the rain, and the ground was hard and dry. In order that she might gain
some further last moment for thinking, she walked round, up among the
rocks, instead of going straight to the cottage; and for a moment
though the air was sharp with frost she sat upon the stone where she
had been seated when her Cousin Will blurted out the misfortune of his
heart. She sat there on purpose that she might think of him, and recall
his figure, and the tones of his voice, and the look of his eyes, and
the gesture of his face. What a man he was so tender, yet so strong; so
thoughtful of others, and yet so self- sufficient! She had,
unconsciously, imputed to him one fault, that he had loved and then
forgotten his love unconsciously, for she had tried to think that this
was a virtue rather than a fault but now with a full knowledge of what
she was doing, but without any intention of doing it she acquitted him
of that one fault. Now that she could acquit him, she owned that it
would have been a fault. To have loved, and so soon to have forgotten
it! No; he had loved her truly, and alas! he was one who could not be
made to forget it. Then she went on to the cottage, exercising her
thoughts rather on the contrast between the two men than on the subject
to which she should have applied them.

'So you have come at last!' said Mrs Askerton. 'Till I got your message
I thought there was to be some dreadful misfortune.'

'What misfortune?'

'Something dreadful! One often anticipates something very bad without
exactly knowing what. At least, I do. I am always expecting a
catastrophe when I am alone that is and then I am so often alone.'

'That simply means low spirits, I suppose?'

'It's more than that, my dear.'

'Not much more, I take it.'

'Once when we were in India we lived close to the powder magazine, and
we were always expecting to be blown up. You never lived near a powder
magazine.'

'No, never unless there's one at Belton. But I should have thought that
was exciting.'

'And then there was the gentleman who always had the sword hanging over
him by the horse's hair.'

'What do you mean, Mrs Askerton?'

'Don't look so innocent, Clara. You know what I mean. What were the
results at last of your cousin's diligence as a detective officer?'

'Mrs Askerton, you wrong my cousin greatly. He never once mentioned
your name while he was with us. He did not make a single allusion to
you, or to Colonel Askerton, or to the cottage.'

'He did not?'

'Never once.'

'Then I beg his pardon. But not the less has he been busy making
inquiries.'

'But why should you say that there is a powder magazine, or a sword
hanging over your head?'

'Ah, why?'

Here was the subject ready opened to her hand, and yet Clara did not
know how to go on with it. It seemed to her now that it would have been
easier for her to commence it, if Mrs Askerton had made no commencement
herself. As it was, she knew not how to introduce the subject of
Captain Aylmer's letter, and was almost inclined to wait, thinking that
Mrs Askerton might tell her own story without any such introduction.
But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. Mrs Askerton began to talk of
the frost, and then went on to abuse Ireland, complaining of the
hardship her husband endured in being forced to go thither in winter to
look after his tenants.

'What did you mean', said Clara, at last, 'by the sword hanging over
your head?'

'I think I told you what I meant pretty plainly. If you did not
understand me I cannot tell you more plainly.'

'It is odd that you should say so much, and not wish to say more.'

'Ah! you are making your inquiries now.'

'In my place would not you do so too? How can I help it when you talked
of a sword? Of course you make me ask what the sword is.'

'And am I bound to satisfy your curiosity?'

'You told me, just before my cousin came here, that if I asked any
question you would answer me.'

'And I am to understand that you are asking such a question now?'

'Yes if it will not offend you.'

'But what if it will offend me offend me greatly? Who likes to be
inquired into?'

'But you courted such inquiry from me.'

'No, Clara, I did not do that. I'll tell you what I did. I gave you to
understand that if it was needful that you should hear about me and my
antecedents certain matters as to which Mr Belton had been inquiring
into in a manner that I thought to be most unjustifiable I would tell
you that story.'

'And do so without being angry with me for asking.'

'I meant, of course, that I would not make it a ground for quarrelling
with you. If I wished to tell you, I could do so without any inquiry.'

'I have sometimes thought that you did wish to tell me.'

'Sometimes I have almost.'

'But you have no such wish now?'

'Can't you understand? It may well be that one so much alone as I am
living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance, except
yourself should often feel a longing for that comfort which full
confidence between us would give me.'

'Then why not'

'Stop a moment. Can't you understand that I may feel this, and yet
entertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tell our
own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a woman burns to
make a full confession, who would be as mute as death before a
policeman.'

'I am no policeman.'

'But you are determined to ask a policeman's questions?'

To this Clara made no immediate reply. She felt that she was acting
almost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in fact
aware of all the circumstances which Mrs Askerton could tell but she
did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. She
sincerely wished that Mrs Askerton should be made acquainted with the
truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did not
make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy was
distressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried,
eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longer any
doubt between them.

'Mrs Askerton,' she said, 'I know it all. There is nothing for you to
tell. I know what the sword is.'

'What is it that you know?'

'That you were married long ago to Mr Berdmore.'

'Then Mr Belton did do me the honour of talking about me when he was
here?' As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood before Clara
with flashing eyes.

'Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any one
belonging to you. I have heard it from another.'

'From what other?'

'I do not know that that signifies but I have learned it.'

'Well and what next?'

'I do not know what next. As so much has been told me, and as you had
said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shall
believe your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from any
other teller.'

'And suppose I refuse to answer you?'

'Then I can say nothing further.'

'And what will you do?'

'Ah that I do not know. But you are harsh to me, while I am longing to
be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced upon me
partly by yourself?'

'And the other part who has forced that upon you? Who is your
informant? If you mean to be generous, be generous altogether. Is it a
man or a woman that has taken the trouble to rip up old sorrows that my
name may be blackened? But what matters? There I was married to Captain
Berdmore. I left him, and went away with my present husband. For three
years I was a man's mistress, and not his wife. When that poor creature
died we were married, and then came here. Now you know it all all all
though doubtless your informant has made a better story of it. After
that, perhaps, I have been very wicked to sully the air you breathe by
my presence.'

'Why do you say that to me?'

'But no you do not know it all. No one can ever know it all. No one can
ever know how I suffered before I was driven to escape, or how good to
me has been he who who who ' Then she turned her back upon Clara, and,
walking off to the window, stood there, hiding the tears which clouded
her eyes, and concealing the sobs which choked her utterance.

For some moments for a space which seemed long to both of them Clara
kept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak; and though she
longed to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. At last she too
rose and followed the other to the window. She uttered no words,
however, but gently putting her arm around Mrs Askerton's waist, stood
there close to her, looking out upon the cold wintry flower-beds not
venturing to turn her eyes upon her companion. The motion of her arm
was at first very gentle, but after a while she pressed it closer, and
thus by degrees drew her friend to her with an eager, warm, and
enduring pressure. Mrs Askerton made some little effort towards
repelling her, some faint motion of resistance; but as the embrace
became warmer the poor woman yielded herself to it, and allowed her
face to fall upon Clara's shoulder. So they stood, speaking no word,
making no attempt to rid themselves of the tears which were blinding
their eyes, but gazing out through the moisture on the bleak wintry
scene before them. Clara's mind was the more active at the moment, for
she was resolving that in this episode of her life she would accept no
lesson whatever from Lady Aylmer's teaching no, nor any lesson whatever
from the teaching of any Aylmer in existence. And as for the world's
rules, she would fit herself to them as best she could; but no such
fitting should drive her to the unwomanly cruelty of deserting this
woman whom she had known and loved and whom she now loved with a
fervour which she had never before felt towards her.

'You have heard it all now,' said Mrs Askerton at last.

'And is it not better so?'

'Ah I do not know. How should I know?'

'Do you not know?' And as she spoke, Clara pressed her arm still
closer. 'Do you not know yet?' Then, turning herself half round, she
clasped the other woman full in her arms, and kissed her forehead and
her lips.

'Do you not know yet?'

'But you will go away, and people will tell you that you are wrong.'

'What people?' said Clara, thinking as she spoke of the whole family at
Aylmer Park.

'Your husband will tell you so.'

'I have no husband as yet to order me what to think or what not to
think.'

'No not quite as yet. But you will tell him all this.'

'He knows it. It was he who told me.

'What! Captain Aylmer?'

'Yes; Captain Aylmer.'

'And what did he say?'

'Never mind. Captain Aylmer is not my husband not as yet. If he takes
me, he must take me as I am, not as he might possibly have wished me to
be. Lady Aylmer'

'And does Lady Aylmer know it?'

'Yes. Lady Aylmer is one of those hard, severe women who never forgive.'

'Ah, I see it all now. I understand it all. Clara, you must forget me,
and come here no more. You shall not be ruined because you are
generous.'

'Ruined! If Lady Aylmer's displeasure can ruin me, I must put up with
ruin. I will not accept her for my guide. I am too old, and have had my
own way too long. Do not let that thought trouble you. In this matter I
shall judge for myself. I have judged for myself already.'

'And your father?'

'Papa knows nothing of it.'

'But you will tell him?'

'I do not know. Poor papa is very ill. If he were well I would tell
him, and he would think as I do.'

'And your cousin?'

'You say that he has heard it all.'

'I think so. Do you know that I remembered him the first moment that I
saw him? But what could I do? When you mentioned to me my old name, my
real name, how could I be honest? I have been driven to do that which
has made honesty to me impossible. My life has been a lie; and yet how
could I help it? I must live somewhere and how could I live anywhere
without deceit?'

'And yet that is so sad.'

'Sad indeed! But what could I do? Of course I was wrong in the
beginning. Though how am I to regret it, when it has given me such a
husband as I have? Ah if you could know it all, I think I think you
would forgive me.'

Then by degrees she told it all, and Clara was there for hours
listening to her story. The reader will not care to hear more of it
than he has heard. Nor would Clara have desired any closer revelation;
but as it is often difficult to obtain a confidence, so is it
impossible to stop it in the midst of its effusion. Mrs Askerton told
the history of her life of her first foolish engagement, her belief,
her half-belief, in the man's reformation, of the miseries which
resulted from his vices, of her escape and shame, of her welcome
widowhood, and of her second marriage. And as she told it, she paused
at every point to insist on the goodness of him who was now her
husband. 'I shall tell him this,' she said at last. 'as I do
everything; and then he will know that I have in truth got a friend.'

She asked again and again about Mr Belton, but Clara could only tell
her that she knew nothing of her cousin's knowledge. Will might have
heard it all, but if so he had kept his information to himself.

'And now what shall you do?' Mrs Askerton asked of Clara, at length
prepared to go.

'Do? in what way? I shall do nothing.'

'But you will write to Captain Aylmer?'

'Yes I shall write to him.'

'And about this?'

'Yes I suppose I must write to him.'

'And what will you say?'

'That I cannot tell. I wish I knew what to say. If it were to his
mother I could write my letter easily enough.'

'And what would you say to her?'

'I would tell her that I was responsible for my own friends. But I must
go now. Papa will complain that I am so long away.' Then there was
another embrace, and at last Clara found her way out of the house and
was alone again in the park.

She clearly acknowledged to herself that she had a great difficulty
before her. She had committed herself altogether to Mrs Askerton, and
could no longer entertain any thought of obeying the very plainly
expressed commands which Captain Aylmer had given her. The story as
told by Captain Aylmer had been true throughout; but, in the teeth of
that truth, she intended to maintain her acquaintance with Mrs
Askerton. From that there was now no escape. She had been carried away
by impulse in what she had done and said at the cottage, but she could
not bring herself to regret it. She could not believe that it was her
duty to throw over and abandon a woman whom she loved, because that
woman had once, in her dire extremity, fallen away from the path of
virtue. But how was she to write the letter?

When she reached her father he complained of her absence, and almost
scolded her for having been so long at the cottage. 'I cannot see',
said he, 'what you find in that woman to make so much of her.'

'She is the only neighbour I have, papa.'

'And better none than her, if all that people say of her is true.'

'All that people say is never true, papa.'

'There is no smoke without fire. I am not at all sure that it's good
for you to be so much with her.'

'Oh, papa don't treat me like a child.'

'And I'm sure it's not good for me that you should be so much away. For
anything I have seen of you all day you might have been at Perivale.
But you are going soon, altogether, so I suppose I may as well make up
my mind to it.'

'I'm not going for a long time yet, papa.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'I mean that there's nothing to take me away from here at present.'

'You are engaged to be married.'

'But it will be a long engagement. It is one of those engagements in
which neither party is very anxious for an immediate change.' There was
something bitter in Clara's tone as she said this, which the old man
perceived, but could only half understand. Clara remained with him then
for the rest of the day, going down-stairs for five minutes to her
dinner, and then returning to him and reading aloud while he dozed. Her
winter evenings at Belton Castle were not very bright, but she was used
to them and made no complaint.

When she left her father for the night she got out her desk and
prepared herself for her letter to her lover. She was determined that
it should be finished that night before she went to bed. And it was so
finished; though the writing of it gave her much labour, and occupied
her till the late hours had come upon her. When completed it was as
follows:

'Belton Castle,

Thursday Night.

Dear Frederic I received your letter last Sunday, but I could not
answer it sooner, as it required much consideration, and also some
information which I have only obtained today. About the plan of living
at Perivale I will not say much now, as my mind is so full of other
things. I think, however, I may promise that I will never make any
needless difficulty as to your plans. My cousin Will left us on Monday,
so your mother need not have any further anxiety on that head. It does
papa good to have him here, and for that reason I am sorry that he has
gone. I can assure you that I don't think what you said about him meant
anything at all particular. Will is my nearest cousin, and of course
you would be glad that I should like him which I do, very much.

And now about the other subject, which I own has distressed me, as you
supposed it would I mean about Mrs Askerton. I find it very difficult
in your letter to divide what comes from your mother and what from
yourself. Of course I want to make the division, as every word from you
has great weight with me. At present I don't know Lady Aylmer
personally, and I cannot think of her as I do of you. Indeed, were I to
know her ever so well, I could not have the same deference for her that
I have for the man who is to be my husband. I only say this, as I fear
that Lady Aylmer and I may not perhaps agree about Mrs Askerton.

I find that your story about Mrs Askerton is in the main true. But the
person who told it you does not seem to have known any of the
provocations which she received. She was very badly treated by Captain
Berdmore, who, I am afraid, was a terrible drunkard; and at last she
found it impossible to stay with him. So she went away. I cannot tell
you how horrid it all was, but I am sure that if I could make you
understand it, it would go a long way in inducing you to excuse her.
She was married to Colonel Askerton as soon as Captain Berdmore died,
and this took place before she came to Belton. I hope you will remember
that. It all occurred out in India, and I really hardly know what
business we have to inquire about it now.

At any rate, as I have been acquainted with her a long time, and very
intimately, and as I am sure that she has repented of anything that has
been wrong, I do not think that I ought to quarrel with her now. Indeed
I have promised her that I will not. I think I owe it you to tell you
the whole truth, and that is the truth.

Pray give my regards to your mother, and tell her that I am sure she
would judge differently if she were in my place. This poor woman has no
other friend here; and who am I, that I should take upon myself to
condemn her? I cannot do it. Dear Frederic, pray do not be angry with
me for asserting my own will in this matter. I think you would wish me
to have an opinion of my own. In my present position I am bound to have
one, as I am, as yet, responsible for what I do myself. I shall be
very, very sorry, if I find that you differ from me; but still I cannot
be made to think that I am wrong. I wish you were here, that we might
talk it over together, as I think that in that case you would agree
with me.

If you can manage to come to us at Easter, or any other time when
Parliament does not keep you in London, we shall be so delighted to see
you.

Dear Frederic,

Yours very affectionately,

Clara Amedroz.'




CHAPTER XI

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 the
breakfast-table. Domestic habits at Aylmer Park had grown with the
growth of years till they had become adamantine, and domestic habits
required prayers every morning at a quarter before nine o'clock. At
twenty minutes before nine Lady Aylmer would always be in the
dining-room to make the tea and open the post-bag, and as she was
always there alone, she knew more about other people's letters than
other people ever knew about hers. When these operations were over she
rang the bell, and the servants of the family, who by that time had
already formed themselves into line in the hail, would march in, and
settle themselves on benches prepared for them near the sideboard which
benches were afterwards carried away by the retiring procession. Lady
Aylmer herself always read prayers, as Sir Anthony never appeared till
the middle of breakfast. Belinda would usually come down in a scurry as
she heard her mother's bell, in such a way as to put the army in the
hail to some confusion; but Frederic Aylmer, when he was at home,
rarely entered the room till after the service was over. At Perivale no
doubt he was more strict in his conduct; but then at Perivale he had
special interests and influences which were wanting to him at Aylmer
Park. During those five minutes Lady Aylmer would deal round the
letters to the several plates of the inmates of her house not without
looking at the post-office marks upon them; and on this occasion she
had dealt a letter from Clara to her son.

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