The Belton Estate

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

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

'I'll be ready; and you can call for me at Mr Askerton's. I must go
down there, and it will save you something in your walk to pick me up
at 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. What she
had heard from her cousin as to a certain Miss Vigo of old days had
interested her, and also what she had heard of a certain Mr Berdmore.
It had been evident to her that her cousin had thought little about it.
The likeness of the lady he then saw to the lady he had before known.
had at first struck him; but when he found that the two ladies were not
represented by one and the same person, he was satisfied, and there was
an end of the matter for him. But it was not so with Clara. Her
feminine mind dwelt on the matter with more earnestness than he had
cared to entertain, and her clearer intellect saw possibilities which
did not occur to him. But it was not till she found herself walking
across the park to the cottage that she remembered that any inquiries
as to her past life might be disagreeable to Mrs Askerton. She had
thought of asking her friend plainly whether the names of Vigo and
Berdmore had ever been familiar to her; but she reminded herself that
there had been rumours afloat, and that there might be a mystery. Mrs
Askerton would sometimes talk of her early life; but she would do this
with dreamy, indistinct language, speaking of the sorrows of her
girlhood, but not specifying their exact nature, seldom mentioning any
names, and never referring with clear personality to those who had been
nearest to her when she had been a child. Clara had seen her friend's
maiden name, Mary Oliphant, written in a book, and seeing it had
alluded to it. On that occasion Mrs Askerton had spoken of herself as
having been an Oliphant, and thus Clara had come to know the fact. But
now, as she made her way to the cottage, she remembered that she had
learned nothing more than this as to Mrs Askerton's early life. Such
being the case, she hardly knew how to ask any question about the two
names that had been mentioned. And yet, why should she not ask such a
question? 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 certainly
would ask no such question in his presence. He was a slight built, wiry
man, about fifty, with iron-grey hair and beard who seemed to have no
trouble in life, and to desire but few pleasures. Nothing could be more
regular than the course of his days, and nothing more idle. He
breakfasted at eleven, smoked and read till the afternoon, when he rode
for an hour or two; then he dined, read again, smoked again, and went
to bed. In September and October he shot, and twice in the year, as has
been before stated, went away to seek a little excitement elsewhere. He
seemed to be quite contented with his lot, and was never heard to speak
an angry word with any one. Nobody cared for him much; but then he
troubled himself with no one's affairs. He never went to church, and
had not eaten or drank in any house but his own since he had come to
Belton.

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

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

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

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

'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 heard of
his proceedings I began to be afraid.'

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

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

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

'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 the
horse'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, and
then she paused. Colonel Askerton looked up at Clara with an
ill-natured smile, and Clara felt that she blushed. Was it not cruel
that she could not say a word in favour of a friend and a cousin a
cousin who had promised to be a brother to her, without being treated
with such words and such looks as these? But she was determined not to
be put down. 'I'm quite sure of this,' she said, 'that my cousin would
do nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike.'

'There would be nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike in it. I shouldn't
take 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 him before he
goes. I did call yesterday, but he was out.'

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

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

'He is a splendid fellow he is indeed. There's so much life about him!
He's always doing something. He says that doing good will always pay 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. He
couldn't bear the idea of Will's coming, and now he is already
beginning 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 anything
more 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 be
such a suspicion because he and I are thrown closely together, and are
fond of each other. Whether he is a sixth, eighth, or tenth cousin
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 natural that he
should be my friend and such a comfort that he should be such a friend
as he is! I own it seems cruel to me that under such circumstances
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 my
brother. I think him one of the finest creatures I ever knew perhaps
the finest I ever did know. His energy and good-nature together are
just the qualities to make the best kind of man. I am proud of him as
my 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 be the
most proper, and also the most convenient thing in the world.'

'I hate talking of falling in love as though a woman had nothing else
to 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 his
face, and hear it in his voice, and am so happy that it is so. But it
isn't in the way that you mean. Heaven knows that I may want a friend
some of these days, and I feel that I may trust to him. His feelings to
me will be always those of a brother.'

'Perhaps so. I have seen that fraternal love before under similar
circumstances, 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 you so
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 about any
one else. It makes me feel ashamed of my sex, when I find that I cannot
talk of myself to another woman without being supposed to be either in
love or thinking of love cither looking for it or avoiding it. When it
comes, if it cornea prosperously, it's a very good thing. But I for one
can do without it, and I feel myself injured when such a state of
things is presumed to be impossible.'

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

'It is not beautiful to me; for I always feel ashamed afterwards of my
own energy. And now, if you please, we won't say anything more about 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 seemed to
think that he had known you ever so many years ago.' Clara, as she said
this, did not look direct at her friend's face; but still she could
perceive that Mrs Askerton was disconcerted. There came a shade of
paleness over her face, and a look of trouble on her brow, and for a
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 not you,
but somebody whom he remembers to have been like you. He says that the
lady was a Miss Vigo.' As she pronounced the name, Clara turned her
face away, feeling instinctively that it would be kind to do so.

'Miss Vigo!' said Mrs Askerton at once; and there was that in the tone
of her voice which made Clara feel that all was not right with her. 'I
remember that there were Miss Vigos; two of them, I think. I didn'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, and
there was an evident struggle, as though the woman was making a
vehement effort to speak in her natural voice. Then Clara looked at
her, feeling that if she abstained from doing so, the very fact of her
so abstaining would be remarkable. There was the look of pain on Mrs
Askerton's brow, and her cheeks were still pale, but she smiled as she
went on speaking. 'I'm sure I'm flattered, for I remember that they
were both considered beauties. Did he know anything more of her?

'No; nothing more.'

'There must have been some casual likeness I suppose.' Mrs Askerton was
a clever woman, and had by this time almost recovered her
self-possession. Then there came a ring at the front door, and in
another minute Mr Belton was in the room. Mrs Askerton felt that it was
imperative on her to make some allusion to the conversation which had
just taken place, and dashed at the subject at once. 'Clara tells me
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 to
say that she was my friend, Mrs Askerton,' he said; 'indeed there was
hardly what might be called an acquaintance between us; but you
certainly are extremely like a certain Miss Vigo that I remember.'

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

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

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

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

'I fancy that I have seen it in this house,' said Clara. 'You may more
likely have heard it, my dear. My memory is very poor, but if I
remember rightly, Colonel Askerton did know a Captain Berdmore a long
while ago, before he was married; and you may probably have heard him
mention the name.' This did not quite satisfy Clara, but she said
nothing more about it then. If there was a mystery which Mrs Askerton
did not wish to have explored, why should she explore it?

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

'It is a long time for me to be away from home. Farmers can hardly ever
dare to leave their work. But in spite of my farm, I am talking of
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 you
not?' Then they went, and Belton had to consider how he would begin the
work before him. He had some idea that too much precipitancy might do
him an injury, but he hardly knew how to commence without coming 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,' he said.

'But you see that they are not.'

'It's not only the likeness, but the voice. It so chanced that I once
saw that Miss Vigo in some trouble. I happened to meet her in company
with 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 it
now. 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 Mrs Askerton
just now so like the look of that Miss Vigo then, that I cannot get rid
of the idea.'

'They can't be the same, as she was certainly a Miss Oliphant. And you
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 has
certainly been a great comfort to me. It is sad not having some woman
near one that one can speak to and then, I really do like her very
much.'

'No doubt it's all right.'

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

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

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

'And I say you're the prettiest girl in England, and you can't
contradict me.'

This annoyed Clara, and almost made her feel that her paragon of a
cousin was not quite so perfect as she had represented him to be. 'I
see', 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 about
at all. What would you think if I began to pay you foolish personal
compliments?'

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

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

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

'Will!' she exclaimed.

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

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

'Why should anything be over between us? Why should it be wrong in me
to 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 I
might 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 seat
and stood before her. He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and he
could assume a look and mien that were almost noble when he was moved
as he was moved now.

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

'You cannot love me then as my wife?'

'No.' She pronounced the monosyllable alone, and then he walked away
from 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 two
hundred yards, as though the interview was over, and he were leaving
her. She, as she saw him go, wished that he would return that she might
say some word of comfort to him. Not that she could have said the only
word that would have comforted him. At the first blush of the thing, at
the first sound of the address which he had made to her, she had been
angry with him. He had disappointed her, and she was indignant. But her
anger had already melted and turned itself to ruth. She could not but
love him better, in that he had loved her so well; 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 the
distance that has been named, he turned back and came up to her slowly.
He had a trick of standing and walking with his thumbs fixed into the
armholes of his waistcoat, while his large hands rested on his breast.
He would always assume this attitude when he was assured that he was
right in his views, and was eager to carry some point at issue. Clara
already understood that this attitude signified his intention to be
autocratic. He now came close up to her and again stood over her,
before he spoke. 'My dear,' he said, 'I have been rough and hasty in
what I have said to you, and I have to ask you to pardon my want of
manners.'

'No, no, no,' she exclaimed.

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

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

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

'Be my brother always.'

A black cloud crossed his brow as this request reached his ears. She
was looking anxiously into his face, watching every turn in the
expression of his countenance. 'Will you not let it wait till
Christmas?' he asked.

She thought it would be cruel to refuse this request, and yet she knew
that no such waiting could be of service to him. He had been awkward in
his love-making, and was aware of it. He should have contrived this
period of waiting for himself; giving her no option but to wait and
think of it. He should have made no proposal, but have left her certain
that such proposal was coming. In such case she must have waited and if
good could have come to him from that, he might have received it. But,
as the question was now presented to her, it was impossible that she
should consent to wait. To have given such consent would have been
tantamount to receiving him as her lover. She was therefore forced to
be cruel.

'It will be of no avail to postpone my answer when I know what it must
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 a
question as that, and I should be worse than a fool were I to press it.
It must then be considered as settled?'

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

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

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

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

He gave her his hand. 'If you ever want a brother's care you shall have
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 because my
love is in vain. Instead of making me happy it will make me wretched.
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 had
opened the front door for her, he parted from her and stood alone under
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 steady
himself under the blow which he had received. I do not know that he had
been sanguine of success. Probably he had made to himself no assurances
on the subject. But he was a man to whom failure, of itself, was
intolerable. In any other event of life he would have told himself that
he would not fail that he would persevere and conquer. He could imagine
no other position as to which he could at once have been assured of
failure, in any project on which he had set his heart. But as to this
project it was so. He had been told that she could not love him that
she could never love him and he had believed her. He had made his
attempt and had failed; and, as he thought of this, standing under the
porch, he became convinced that life for him was altogether changed,
and that he who had been so happy 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 to dinner.'
Belton started and shook himself, as though he were shaking off a
lethargy, and declared that he was quite ready. Then he remembered that
he would be expected to dress, and rushed upstairs, three steps at a
time, to his own room. When he came down, Clara and her father were
already in the dining-room, and he joined them there.

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

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