The Belton Estate

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It was a terrible evening to Clara. She endeavoured to talk, but found
it to be impossible. All the brightness of the last few days had
disappeared, and the world seemed to her to be more sad and solemn than
ever. She had no idea when she was refusing him that he would have
taken it to heart as he had done. The question had come before her for
decision so suddenly, that she had not, in fact, had time to think of
this as she was making her answer. All she had done was 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 so steadfast in her refusal.
But she had refused him steadfastly, and she did not for a moment think
of reducing the earnestness of her resolution. It seemed to be manifest
to her, from his present manner, that he would never ask the question
again; but she was sure, let it be asked ever so often, that it could
not be answered in any other way.

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

At last they separated, and Clara, as was her wont, went up to her
father'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 came
with 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 told
herself why, but she would have thought that such a proposition from
her cousin would have made her father angry unreasonably angry angry
with him for presuming to have such an idea; but now it seemed that he
was going to be angry with her for not accepting her cousin out of hand.

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

'But why shouldn't he think of you? It would be a very good marriage
for 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 like him.
I meant to do for the best; and when he came to me as he did, I thought
he was behaving very handsomely, and very much like a gentleman.'

'I am sure he would do that.'

'And if I could have thought that this place would be your home when I
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. Fm sure
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 aunt
Winterfield means to provide for you, it would only be kind in her to
let me know it, so that I might not have the anxiety always on my mind.'

Clara knew well enough what was to be the disposition of her aunt's
property, but she could not tell her father of that now. She almost
felt that it was her duty to do so, but she could not bring herself to
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 you determined
not to change your mind about Will?' he said at last.

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

When alone, she was forced to ask herself why it was that she was so
certain. Alas! there could in truth be no doubt on that subject in her
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 agony
arising from her brother's death had almost crushed her. He had often
been kind to her on days before that so kind, so soft in his manners,
approaching so nearly to the little tenderness of incipient
love-making, that the idea of regarding him as her lover had of
necessity forced itself upon her. But in nothing had he gone beyond
those tendernesses, which need not imperatively be made to mean
anything, though they do often mean so much. It was now two years since
she had first thought that Captain Aylmer was the most perfect
gentleman she knew, and nearly two years since Mrs Winterfield had
expressed to her a hope that Captain Aylmer might become her husband.
She had replied that such a thing was impossible as any girl would have
replied; and had in consequence treated Captain Aylmer with all the
coolness which she had been able to assume whenever she was in company
with him in her aunt's presence. Nor was it natural to her to be
specially gracious to a man under such trying circumstances, even when
no Mrs Winterfield was there to behold. And so things had gone on.
Captain Aylmer had now and again made himself very pleasant to her at
certain trying periods of joy or trouble almost more than pleasant. But
nothing had come of it, and Clara had told herself that Captain Aylmer
had no special feeling in her favour. She had told herself this, ever
since that journey together from Perivale to Taunton; but never till
now had she confessed to herself what was her own case.

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

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

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

At breakfast, therefore, the cloud had passed from his brow. When he
came in he found Clara alone in the room, and he simply shook hands
with her after his ordinary fashion. He said nothing of yesterday, and
almost succeeded in looking as though yesterday had been in no wise
memorable. She was not so much at her ease, but she also received some
comfort from his demeanour. Mr Amedroz came down almost immediately,
and Belton soon took an opportunity of saying that he would 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 to
unsettle it. But I have thought it over again, and I find that I can
manage 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 said you
would have it made of deal slabs with oak posts.'

'You must have a foundation, sir. I propose to carry the brickwork a
foot 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 down
again.'

'No it can never come down again.'

'It can and it shall, if you don't like it. I never think anything of
changes 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 much
difference 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 overcome
the disappointment of the preceding day. It was probable that he was a
man not prone to be deeply sensitive in such matters for any long
period. The period now had certainly not been long, and yet Will Belton
was alive again.

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

'What's that?' said Mr Amedroz, who, having no cows of his own, was not
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 said nothing.
Had the cow come without any such scene as that of yesterday, she would
have welcomed the animal with all cordiality, and would have sworn to
her cousin that the cow should be cherished for his sake. But after
what had passed it was different. How was she to take any present from
him now?

But Belton faced the difficulty without any bashfulness or apparent
regret. 'I told you I would give you a cow,' said he 'and here she is.'

'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 the
present 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 got grass
for it!'

'There's plenty of grass,' said Belton. 'Come, Mr Amedroz; I've made a
point of getting this little creature for Clara, and you mustn't stand
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 did not
see Colonel Askerton, nor did he again see Mrs Askerton. He went to the
cottage once, with the special object of returning the colonel's call;
but the master was out, and he was not specially invited in to see the
mistress. He said nothing more to Clara about her friends, but he
thought of the matter more than once, as he was going about the place,
and became aware that he would like to ascertain whether there was a
mystery, and if so, what was its nature. He knew that he did not like
Mrs Askerton, and he felt also that Mrs Askerton did not like him. This
was, as he thought, unfortunate; for might it not be the case, that in
the one matter which was to him of so much importance, Mrs Askerton
might have considerable influence over Clara?

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

'Oh no,' he said.

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

And on the following morning she was up before him. She hardly
understood, herself, why she was doing this. She knew that it should be
her object to avoid any further special conversation on that subject
which they discussed up among the rocks. She knew that she could give
him no comfort, and that he could give none to her. It would seem that
he was willing to let the remembrance of the scene pass away, so that
it should be as though it had never been; and surely it was not for her
to disturb so salutary an arrangement! But yet she was up to bid him
God speed as he went. She could not bear,. so she excused the matter to
herself she could not bear to think that he should regard her as
ungrateful. She knew all that he had done for them. She had perceived
that the taking of the land, the building of the sheds, the life which
he had contrived in so short a time to throw into the old place, had
all come from a desire on his part to do good to those in whose way he
stood by family arrangements made almost before his birth; and she
longed to say to him one word of thanks. And had he not told her once
in the heat of his disappointment; for then at that moment, as Clara
had said to herself, she supposed that he must have been in some
measure disappointed had he not even then told her that when she wanted
a brother's care, a brother's care should be given to her by him? Was
she not therefore~ bound to do for him what she would do for a brother?

She, with her own hands, brought the coffee into the little breakfast
parlour, and handed the cup into his hands. The gig, which had come
overnight from Taunton, was not yet at the door, and there was a minute
or two during which they must speak to each other. Who has not seen
some such girl when she has come down early, without the full
completeness of her morning toilet, and yet nicer, fresher, prettier to
the eye of him who is so favoured, than she has ever been in more
formal attire? And what man who has been so favoured has not loved her
who has so favoured him, even though he may not previously have been
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 to
trench upon dangerous ground, but feeling, as the words came from her,
that she had done so. 'You have been so good to us, so very good to
papa, that we owe you everything. I am so grateful to you for saying
that you will come back at Christmas.'

He had resolved that he would refrain from further love-making till the
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 he would
never let her go to claim her at once savagely as his own, that was the
line of conduct to which temptation prompted him. How could she look at
him so sweetly, how could she stand before him, ministering to him with
all her pretty maidenly charms brought so close to him, without
intending that he should love her? But he did refrain. 'Blood is
thicker than water,' said he. 'That's the real reason why I first came.'

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

'Not at all. I shall get my money back again. And if I didn't, what
then? 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 was obliged
therefore to begin again. 'Papa will look forward so to the winter now.'

'And so shall I.'

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

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

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

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

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

As he turned from her he saw the tears in her eyes; and as he sat in
the 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 common by
the perusal of legions of love stories but still he knew enough of the
game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were, of their
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 his own. As he
remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of her voice, and the
pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that had become tender in its
expression, he could not hut think that he would be 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 his wife. As he drove along
he saw little of the Quantock hills, little of the rich Somersetshire
pastures, little of the early beauty of the August morning. He saw
nothing but her eyes, moistened with bright tears, and before he
reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with many revilings in that he
had parted from her and not kissed her.

Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out of sight
watching it as well as her tears would allow. What a grand cousin he
was! Had it not been a pity a thousand pities that that grievous
episode should have come to mar the brotherly love, the sisterly
confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfect between them?
But perhaps it might all be well yet. Clara knew, or thought that she
knew, that men and women differed in their appreciation of love. She,
having once loved, could not change. Of that she was sure. Her love
might be fortunate or unfortunate. It might be returned, or it might
simply be her own, to destroy all hope of happiness for her on earth.
But whether it were this or that, whether productive of good or evil,
the love itself could not be changed. But with men she thought it might
be different. Her cousin, doubtless, had been 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 believed that he would have loved
her truly and constantly. Such was his nature. But she also believed
that love with him, unrequited love, would have no enduring effect, and
that he had already resolved, with equal courage and wisdom, to tread
this short-lived passion out beneath his feet. One night had sufficed
to him for that treading out. As she thought of this the tears ran
plentifully down her cheek; and going again to her room she remained
there crying till it was time for her to wipe away the 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 cousin
was 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 to
Perivale for a few days in November. Indeed it seemed to be a
recognized fact in her life that she was to make the journey from
Belton to Perivale and back very often, as there prevailed an idea that
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. Had there
been any intention on the part of Mrs Winterfield to provide for her,
the thing would have been intelligible according to the usual
arrangements which are made in the world on such matters; but Mrs
Winterfield had scarcely a right to call upon her niece for dutiful
attendance after having settled it with her own conscience that her
property was all to go to her nephew. But Clara entertained no thought
of rebelling, and had agreed to make the accustomed journey 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, called at
Belton Castle, and in the course of conversation with Mr Amedroz
renewed one of those ill-natured rumours which had before been spread
about Mrs Askerton. Clara did not see him, but she heard an account of
it all from her father.

'Does it mean, papa,' she said, speaking almost with anger, 'that you
want 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 then
you can decide for yourself.'

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

'That man, as you call him, is the rector of the parish, and I've known
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 the
Askertons are not Askertons at all, but ought to be called something
else. Now we know that he served as Captain and Major Askerton for
seven years in India and in fact it all means nothing. If I know
anything, I know that he is Colonel Askerton.'

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

'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 lady that you
ever knew. But I know that she is her husband's wife, as we all 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 at least 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 such
things. And then this that he's saying now isn't the same that he said
before.'

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

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