The Belton Estate

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'What Belton Castle?'

'Why not? Will it ever be of any good to you or me? Do you want to go
and live there?'

'No, indeed not for myself.'

'And do you think that I could live there? Besides why should she be
turned 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 very good
care that it should be settled upon her.'

'That's nonsense, Will it is indeed. You are now William Belton of
Belton, and you must remain so.'

'Mary I would sooner be Will Belton with Clara Amedroz by my side to
get through the world with me, and not the interest of an acre either
at Belton Castle or at Plaistow Hall! And I believe I should be the
richer man at the end if there were any good in that.' Then he went out
of the room, and she heard him go through the kitchen, and knew that he
passed out into the farm-yard, towards the stable, by the back-door. He
intended, it seemed, to go on with his hunting in spite of this death
which had occurred. She was sorry for it, but she could not venture to
stop him. And she was sorry also that nothing had been settled as to
the writing of any letter to Clara. She, however, would take upon
herself to write while he was gone.

He went straight out towards the stables, hardly conscious of what he
was doing or where he was going, and found his hack ready saddled for
him in the stall. Then he remembered that he must either go or come to
some decision that he would not go. The horse that he intended to ride
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 Will was half
inclined to go, although he knew that the world would judge him to be
heartless if he were to go hunting immediately on the receipt of the
tidings which had reached him that morning. He thought that he would
like to set the world at defiance in this matter. Let Frederic Aylmer
go into mourning for the old man who was dead. Let Frederic Aylmer be
solicitous for the daughter who was left lonely in the old house. No
doubt. he, Will Belton, had inherited the dead man's estate, and
should, therefore, in accordance with all the ordinary rules of the
world on such matters, submit himself at any rate to the decency of
funereal reserve. An heir should not be seen out hunting on the day on
which such tidings as to his heritage had reached him. But he did not
wish, in his present mood, to be recognized as the heir. He did not
want the property. He would have preferred to rid himself altogether of
any of the obligations which the ownership of the estate entailed upon
him. It was not permitted to him to have the custody of the old
squire's daughter, and therefore he was unwilling to meddle with any of
the old squire's concerns.

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 away among
the farm buildings, not thinking of what he was doing. The lad stood
staring at him with open mouth, not at all understanding his master's
hesitation. The meet, as the boy knew, was fourteen miles off, and
Belton had not allowed himself above an hour and a half for the
journey. It was his practice to jump into the saddle and bustle out of
the place, as though seconds were important to him. He would look at
his watch with accuracy, and measure his pace from spot to spot, as
though minutes were too valuable to be lost. But now he wandered away
like one distraught, and the stable boy knew that something was wrong.
'I thout he was a thinken of the white cow as choked '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 on Brag,' he said to the boy, 'and
ride off to Goldingham Corner, and tell Daniel to bring the horse home
again. I shan't hunt today. And I think I shall go away from home. If
so, tell him to be sure the horses are out every morning and tell him
to stop their beans. I mightn't hunt again for the next month.' Then he
returned into the house, and went to the parlour in which his sister
was sitting. 'I shan'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 such
occasions to do as others do.'

'That's humbug, Mary.'

'No, Will; I do not think that. When any practice has become the fixed
rule of the society in which we live, it is always wise to adhere to
that rule, unless it call upon us to do something that is actually
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 you
what. I think I'll go down to Belton after all.'

His sister did not know what to say in answer to this. Her chief
anxiety was, of course, on behalf of her brother. That he should be
made to forget Clara Amedroz, if that were only possible, was her great
desire; and his journey at such a time as this down to Belton was not
the way to accomplish such forgetting. And then she felt that Clara
might very possibly not wish to see him. Had Will simply been her
cousin, such a visit might be very well; but he had attempted to be
more than her cousin, and therefore it would probably not be well.
Captain Aylmer might not like it; and Mary felt herself bound to
consider even Captain Aylmer's likings in such a matter. And yet she
could not bear to oppose him in anything. 'It would be a very long
journey,' 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 of
hurting me. Nothing that you can say can make it at all worse than it
is.'

'Dear Will, I wish I could make it better.'

'But you can't. Nobody can make it either better or worse. I promised
her 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 to her
and so I will. So help me God, I will!' Then he rushed out of the room,
striding through the door as though he would knock it down, and hurried
up. stairs to his own chamber. When there he stripped himself of his
hunting things, and dressed himself again with all the expedition in
his power; and then he threw a heap of clothes into a large
portmanteau, and set himself to work packing as though everything in
the world were to depend upon his catching a certain train. 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 bell violently; and as he was
locking the portmanteau, pressing down the lid with all his weight and
all his strength, he ordered that a certain mare should be put into a
certain dog-cart and that somebody might be ready to drive over with
him to the Downham Station. Within twenty minutes of the time of his
rushing upstairs he appeared again before his sister with a greatcoat
on, and a railway rug hanging over his 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 of
going unless I go at once? If I can be of any use it will be at the
first. It may be that she will have nobody there to do anything for
her.'

'There is the clergyman, and Colonel Askerton even if Captain Aylmer
has not gone down.'

'The clergyman and Colonel Askerton are nothing to her. And if that man
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'm not
such a fool as to quarrel with a man because I hate him. If he is there
I shall see her for a minute or two, and then I shall come back.'

'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 of that
very soon but before I ever thought of that, I told her that when she
wanted a brother's help I would give it her. Of course I was thinking
of the property that she shouldn't be turned out of her father's house
like a beggar. I hadn't any settled plan then how could I? But I meant
her to understand that when her father died I would be the same to her
that I am to you. If you were alone, in distress, would I not go to
you?'

'But I have no one else, Will,' said she, stretching out her hand to
him where he stood.

'That makes no difference,' he replied, almost roughly. A promise is a
promise, and I resolved from the first that my promise should hold good
in spite of my disappointment. Dear, dear it seems but the other day
when I made it and now, already, everything is changed.' As he was
speaking the servant entered the room, and told him that the horse and
gig were ready for him. 'I shall just do it nicely,' said he, 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 is
half of my errand. I dare say I shan't stay above a night down in
Somersetshire.'

'You'll have to give some orders about the estate.'

'I shall not say a word on the subject to anybody; that is, not to
anybody there. I am going to look after her, and not the estate.' Then
he stooped down and kissed his sister, and in another minute was
turning the corner out of the farm-yard on to the road at a quick pace,
not losing a foot of ground in the turn, in that fashion of rapidity
which the horses at Plaistow Hall soon learned from their master. The
horse is a closely sympathetic beast, and will make his turns, and do
his trottings, and comport himself generally in strict unison with the
pulsation of his master's heart. When a horse won't jump it is
generally the case that the inner man is declining to jump also, 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-cart about the
fields and cattle and tillage around him, said not a word to the boy
who accompanied him on this occasion. He had a good many things to
settle in his mind before he got to London, and he began upon the work
as soon as he had turned the corner out of the farm-yard. As regarded
this Belton estate, which was now altogether his own, he had always bad
doubts and qualms qualms of feeling rather than of conscience; and he
had, also, always entertained a strong family ambition. His people,
ever so far back, had been Beltons of Belton. They told him that his
family could be traced back to very early days before the Plantagenets,
as he believed, though on this point of the subject he was very hazy in
his information and he liked the idea of being the man by whom the
family should be reconstructed in its glory. Worldly circumstances had
been so kind to him, that he could take up the Belton estate with more
of the prestige of wealth than had belonged to any of the owners of the
place for many years past. Should it come to pass that living there
would be desirable, he could rebuild the old house, and make new
gardens, and fit himself out with all the pleasant braveries of a
well-to-do English squire. There need be no pinching and scraping, no
question whether a carriage would be possible, no doubt as to the
prudence of preserving game. All this had given much that was
delightful to his prospects. And he had, too, been instigated by a
somewhat weak desire to emerge from that farmer's rank into which he
knew that many connected with him had supposed him to have sunk. It was
true that he farmed land that was half his own and that, even at
Plaistow, he was a wealthy man; but Plaistow Hall, with all its
comforts, was a farm-house; and the ambition to be more than a farmer
had been strong upon him.

But then there had been the feeling that in taking the Belton estate he
would be robbing his Cousin Clara of all that should have been hers. It
must be remembered that he had not been brought up in the belief that
he would ever become the owner of Belton. All his high ambition in that
matter had originated with the wretched death of Clara'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 so deplorable? When he would
think of this, his mind would revolt from its own desires, and he would
declare to himself that his inheritance would come to him with a stain
of blood upon it. He, indeed, would have been guiltless; but how could
he take his pleasure in the shades of Belton without thinking of the
tragedy which had given him the property? Such had been the thoughts
and desires, mixed in their nature and militating against each other,
which had induced him to offer his first visit to his cousin's house.
We know what was the effect of that visit, and by what pleasant scheme
he had endeavoured to overcome all his difficulties, and so to become
master of Belton that Clara Amedroz should also be its mistress. There
had been a way which, after two days' intimacy with Clara, seemed to
promise him comfort and happiness on all sides. But he had come too
late, and that way was closed against him! Now the estate was his, and
what was he to do with it? Clara belonged to his rival, and in what way
would it become him to treat her? He was still thinking simply of the
cruelty of the circumstances which had thrown Captain Aylmer between
him and his cousin, when he drove himself up to the railway station at
Downham.

'Take her back steady, Jem,' he said to the boy.

'I'll be sure to take her wery steady,' Jem answered, 'and tell Compton
to have the samples of barley ready for me. I may be back any day, and
we shall be sowing early this spring.'

Then he left his cart, followed the porter who had taken his luggage
eagerly, knowing that Mr Belton was always good for sixpence, and in
five minutes' time he was again in motion.

On his arrival in London he drove at once to the chambers of his
friend, Mr Green, and luckily found the lawyer there. Had he missed
doing this, it was his intention to go out to his friend's house; and
in that case he could not have gone down to Taunton till the next
morning; but now he would be able to say what he wished to say, and
hear what he wished to hear, and would travel down by the night- mail
train. He was anxious that Clara should feel that he had hurried to her
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 to him. She had
accepted this man, and had herself no power of making a change, even if
she should wish it. But still there was to him something of
gratification in the idea that she should be made to feel that he,
Belton, was more instant in his affection, more urgent in his good
offices, more anxious to befriend her in her difficulties, than the man
whom she had consented to take for her husband. Aylmer would probably
go down to Belton, but Will was very anxious to be the first on the
ground very anxious though his doing so could be of no use. All this
was wrong on his part. He knew that it was wrong, and he abused himself
for his own selfishness. But such self-abuse gave him no aid in
escaping from his own wickedness. He would, if possible, be at Belton
before Captain Aylmer; and he would, if possible, make Clara feel that,
though he was not a Member of Parliament, though he was not much given
to books, though he was only a farmer, yet he had at any rate as much
heart and spirit as the fine gentleman whom she preferred to him.

'I thought I should see you,' said the lawyer; 'but I hardly expected
you so soon as this.'

'I ought to have been a day sooner, only we don't get our telegraphic
messages on a Sunday.'

He still kept his greatcoat on; and it seemed by his manner that he had
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 is
quite right that you should be there in time for the funeral; but I
don't suppose he will he buried before this day week.'

But Belton had never thought about the funeral. When he had spoken to
his sister of saying but a few words to Clara and then returning, he
had forgotten that there would be any such ceremony, or that he would
be delayed by any such necessity.

'I was not thinking about the funeral,' said Belton. 'You'll only find
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, till
after the funeral. It would not be considered the proper thing to do.'

'You think, then, that I'm a bird of prey, smelling the feast from afar
off, and hurrying at the dead man's carcase as soon as the breath 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 proper thing!
I don't care a straw about the proper thing! If I find that there's
anything to be done tomorrow that can be of any use, I shall do it,
though all Somersetshire should think it improper! But I'm not going to
look after my own interests!'

'Take off your coat and sit down, Will, and don't look angry at me. I
know that you're not greedy, well enough. Tell me what you are going to
do, and let me see if I can help you.'

Belton did as he was told; he pulled off his coat and sat himself down
by the fire. 'I don't know that you can do anything to help me at
least, not as yet. But I must go and see after her. Perhaps she may 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 in
Yorkshire.'

'I'm glad of that!'

'He won't hurry himself. He never does, I fancy. I had a letter from
him this morning about Miss Amedroz.'

'And what did he say?'

'He desired me to send her seventy-five pounds the interest of her
aunt's money.'

'Seventy-five pounds!' said Will Belton, contemptuously.

'He thought she might want money at once; and I sent her the cheque
today. 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 passed through
London himself, at the same time but it is possible, no doubt. I don't
think he even knew the old squire; and there is no reason why he should
go to the funeral.'

'No reason at all,' said Belton who felt that Captain Aylmer's presence
at the Castle would be an insult to himself. 'I don't know what on
earth he should do there except that I think him just the fellow to
intrude where he is not wanted.' And yet Will was in his heart
despising Captain Aylmer because he had not already hurried down 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 a
cold-blooded fish of a man, who thinks of nothing in the world but
being respectable? Engaged to her! Oh, damn him!'

'I've not the slightest objection. I don't think, however, that you'll
find him at Belton before you. No doubt she will have heard from him;
and it strikes me as very possible that she may go to Aylmer 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 nearest
relative. Why should she not come to us?'

Mr Green turned round his chair and poked the fire, and fidgeted about
for some moments before he answered. 'My dear fellow, you must know
that that wouldn't do.' He then said, 'You ought to feel that it
wouldn't do you ought indeed.'

'Why shouldn't my sister receive Miss Amedroz as well as that old woman
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's son,
and is not engaged to be married to your sister's brother. The thing is
done, and what is the good of interfering? As far as she is concerned,
a great burden is off your hands.'

'What do you mean by a burden?'

'I mean that her engagement to Captain Aylmer makes it unnecessary for
you to suppose that she is in want of any pecuniary assistance. You
told me once before that you would feel yourself called upon to see
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 in
such a way that she shall have it, and that he shan't be able to touch
it. And it shall go to some one who shall have my name William Belton.
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 the
place and everything belonging to it. I don't mean her. There is no
reason 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 you were
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 suppose that
you'll not get over such a thing as this. You'll be married and have a
dozen children yet to provide for. Let the eldest have Belton Castle,
and everything will go on then in the proper way.'

Belton had now got the poker into his hands, and sat silent for some
time, knocking the coals about. Then he got up, and took his hat, and
put 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 give up my
property just because a girl is going to be married to a man I don't
like. I'm not such an ass as to give him my estate for such a reason as
that for it will be giving it to him, let me tie it up as I may. But
I've a feeling about it which makes it impossible for me to take it.
How would you like to get a thing by another fellow having destroyed
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 like
with 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 Great
Western Railway Hotel.

Captain Aylmer had sent to his betrothed seventy. five pounds; the
exact interest at five per cent, for one year of the sum which his aunt
had left her. This was the first subject of which Belton thought when
he found himself again in the railway carriage, and he continued
thinking of it half the way down to Taunton. Seventy-five pounds! As
though this favoured lover were prepared to give her exactly her due,
and nothing more than her due! Had he been so placed, he, Will Belton,
what would he have done? Seventy-five pounds might have been more money
than she would have wanted, for he would have taken her to his own
house to his own bosom as soon as she would have permitted, and would
have so laboured on her behalf, taking from her shoulders all money
troubles, that there would have been no question as to principal or
interest between them. At any rate be would not have confined 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 that at the single glance
which he had had when he saw Captain Aylmer in Green's chambers.
Seventy-five pounds indeed! He himself was prepared to give his whole
estate to her, if she would take it even though she would not marry
him, even though she was going to throw herself away upon that fish!
Then he felt somewhat as Hamlet did when he jumped upon Laertes at the
grave of Ophelia. Send her seventy-five pounds indeed, while he was
ready to drink up Esil for her, or to make over to her the whole Belton
estate, and thus abandon the idea for ever of being Belton of Belton!

He reached Taunton in the middle of the night during the small hours of
the morning in a winter night; but yet he could not bring himself to go
to bed. So he knocked up an ostler at the nearest inn, and ordered out
a gig. He would go down to the village of Redicote, on the Minehead
road, and put up at the public-house there. He could not now have
himself driven at once to Belton Castle, as he would have done had the
old squire been alive. He fancied that his presence would be a nuisance
if he did so. So he went to the little inn at Redicote, reaching that
place between four and five o'clock in the morning; and very
uncomfortable he was when he got there. But in his present frame of
mind he preferred discomfort. He liked being tired and 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 to be.

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