Miss Amedroz was a handsome young woman, tall, well-made, active, and full of health. She carried herself as though she thought her limbs were made for use, and not simply for ease upon a sofa. Her head and neck stood well upon her shoulders, and her waist showed none of those waspish proportions of which ladies used to be more proud than I believe them to be now, in their more advanced state of knowledge and taste. There was much about her in which she was like her cousin, as though the blood they had in common between them had given to both the same proportions and the same comeliness. Her hair was of a dark brown colour, as was his. Her eyes were somewhat darker than his, and perhaps not so full of constant movement; but they were equally bright, and possessed that quick power of expressing tenderness which belonged to them. Her nose was more finely cut, as was also her chin, and the oval of her face; but she had the same large expressive mouth, and the same perfection of ivory-white teeth. As has been said before, Clara Amedroz, who was now nearly twenty-six years of age, was not a young-looking woman. To the eyes of many men that would have been her fault; but in the eyes of Belton it was no fault. He had not made himself fastidious as to women by much consort with them, and he was disposed to think that she who was to become his wife had better be something more than a girl not long since taken out of the nursery. He was well-to-do in the world, and could send his wife out in her carriage, with all becoming bravery of appurtenances. And he would do so, too, when he should have a wife. But still he would look to his wife to be a useful partner to him. She should be a woman not above agricultural solicitude, or too proud to have a care for her cows. Clara, he was sure, had no false pride; and yet,—as he was sure also, she was at every point such a lady as would do honour to the carriage and the bravery when it should be forthcoming. And then such a marriage as this would put an end to all the trouble which he felt in reference to the entail on the estate. He knew that he was to be master of Belton, and of course had, in that knowledge, the satisfaction which men do feel from the consciousness of their future prosperity. And this with him was enhanced by a strong sympathy with old-fashioned prejudices as to family. He would be Belton of Belton; and there had been Beltons of Belton in old days, for a longer time backwards than he was able to count. But still the prospect had not been without its alloy, and he had felt real distress at the idea of turning his cousin out of her father's house. Such a marriage as that he now contemplated would put all these things right.

When he got up in the morning he was quite as keen about it as he had been on the previous evening and as he thought about it the more, he became keener and still more keen. On the previous evening, as he was leaning out of the window endeavouring to settle in his own mind what would be the proper conduct of the romance of the thing, he had considered that he had better not make his proposal quite at once. He was to remain eight days at Belton, and as eight days was not a long period of acquaintance, he had reflected that it might be well for him to lay what foundation for love it might be in his power to construct during his present sojourn, and then return and complete the work before Christmas. But as he was shaving himself, the habitual impatience of his nature predominated, and he became disposed to think that delay would be useless, and might perhaps be dangerous. It might be possible that Clara would be unable to give him a decisive answer so quickly as to enable him to return home an accepted lover; but if such doubt were left, such doubt would give him an excuse for a speedy return to Belton. He did not omit to tell himself that very probably he might not succeed at all. He was a man not at all apt to feel assurance that he could carry all before him in love. But in this matter, as in all others which required from him any personal effort, he prepared himself to do his best, leaving the consequences to follow as they might. When he threw his seed corn into the earth with all such due appliances of agricultural skill and industry as his capital and experience enabled him to use, he did his part towards the production of next year's crop; and after that he must leave it to a higher Power to give to him, or to withhold from him, the reward of his labour. He had found that, as a rule, the reward had been given when the labour had been honest; and he was now prepared to follow the same plan, with the same hopes, in this matter of his love-making.

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

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

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

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

'A flatterer! I?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'There's nothing wrong; is there?'

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

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

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

The squire had listened to it all, and had not as yet said a word. And now, when Belton ceased, he did not know what word to speak. He was a man whose thoughts about women were chivalrous, and perhaps a little old-fashioned. Of course, when a man contemplates marriage, he could do nothing better, nothing more honourable, than consult the lady's father in the first instance. But he felt that even a father should be addressed on such a subject with great delicacy. There should be ambages in such a matter. The man who resolved to commit himself to such a task should come forward with apparent difficulty with great diffidence, and even with actual difficulty. He should keep himself almost hidden, as behind a mask, and should tell of his own ambition with doubtful, quivering voice. And the ambages should take time. He should approach the citadel to be taken with covered ways working his way slowly and painfully. But this young man, before he had been in the house three days, said all that he had to say without the slightest quaver in his voice, and evidently expected to get an answer about the squire's daughter as quickly as he had got it about the squire's land.

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

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

'She is a good girl, Mr Belton.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Really, Mr Belton, you have taken me so much by surprise that I do not feel myself competent to answer you at once.'

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

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

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

'And you have said nothing to her?'

'Not a word.'

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

'I thought it best, at any rate, to come to you first. But as I must be back at Plaistow on this day week, I haven't much time to lose. So if you could think about it this afternoon, you know Mr Amedroz, much bewildered, promised that he would do his best, and eventually did bring himself to give an answer on the next morning. 'I have been thinking about this all night,' said Mr Amedroz.

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

'If you are quite sure of yourself'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It is short certainly,' said Belton.

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



CHAPTER V

NOT SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING

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

'Call him Will! Why should I?'

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

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

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

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

'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 comes 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.

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. I'm 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 Godspeed 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 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 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.'

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

'It's nothing to me what name they use. I know I wish they hadn't come here, if I'm to be troubled about them in this way first by Wright and then by you.'

'They have been very good tenants, papa.'

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

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

And she had been ruffled a second time by certain observations which Mrs Askerton made to her respecting her cousin or rather by little words which were dropped on various occasions. It was very clear that Mrs Askerton did not like Mr Belton, and that she wished to prejudice Clara against him. 'It's a pity he shouldn't be a lover of yours,' the lady said, 'because it would be such a fine instance of Beauty and the Beast.' It will of course be understood that Mrs Askerton had never been told of the offer that had been made.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That hour at the Taunton station was terrible to her. I know of no hours more terrible than those so passed. The minutes will not go away, and utterly fail in making good their claim to be called winged. A man walks up and down the platform, and in that way obtains something of the advantage of exercise; but a woman finds herself bound to sit still within the dreary dullness of the waiting-room. There are, perhaps, people who under such circumstances can read, but they are few in number. The mind altogether declines to be active, whereas the body is seized by a spirit of restlessness to which delay and tranquillity are loathsome. The advertisements on the walls are examined, the map of some new Eden is studied some Eden in which an irregular pond and a church are surrounded by a multiplicity of regular villas and shrubs till the student feels that no consideration of health or economy would induce him to live there. Then the porters come in and out, till each porter has made himself odious to the sight. Everything is hideous, dirty, and disagreeable; and the mind wanders away, to consider why station-masters do not more frequently commit suicide. Clara Amedroz had already got beyond this stage, and was beginning to think of herself rather than of the station-master, when at last there sounded, close to her ears, the bell of promise, and she knew that the train was at hand.

At Taunton there branched away from the main line that line which was to take her to Perivale, and therefore she was able to take her own place quietly in the carriage when she found that the down-train from London was at hand. This she did, and could then watch with equanimity, while the travelers from the other train went through the penance of changing their seats. But she had not been so watching for many seconds when she saw Captain Frederic Aylmer appear upon the platform. Immediately she sank back into her corner and watched no more. Of course he was going to Perivale; but why had not her aunt told her that she was to meet him? Of course she would be staying in the same house with him, and her present small attempt to avoid him would thus be futile. The attempt was made; but nevertheless she was probably pleased when she found that it was made in vain. He came at once to the carriage in which she was sitting, and had packed his coats, and dressing-bag, and desk about the carriage before he had discovered who was his fellow-traveller 'How do you do, Captain Aylmer?' she said, as he was about to take his seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What sort of looking man is he?'

'Extremely handsome at least I should say so.'

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

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

'Come, there is some relief in that.'

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

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

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

'Has he got plenty of money?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then they changed the subject of their conversation, and discussed Mrs Winterfield, as they had often done before. Captain Aylmer had said that he should return to London on the Saturday, the present day being Tuesday, and Clara accused him of escaping always from the real hard work of his position. 'I observe that you never stay a Sunday at Perivale,' she said.

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

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

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

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

'Now you mean to be ill-natured!'

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

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

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

'There is something in that, I suppose.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I haven't got any tenants.'

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

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

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

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

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

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