CHAPTER X.
SHOWING HOW CAPTAIN AYLMER KEPT HIS PROMISE.
The next day was necessarily very sad. Clara had declared herdetermination to follow her aunt to the churchyard, and did so,together with Martha, the old servant. There were three or fourmourning coaches, as family friends came over from Taunton, oneor two of whom were to be present at the reading of the will. Howmelancholy was the occasion, and how well the work was done; howsubstantial and yet how solemn was the luncheon, spread after thefuneral for the gentlemen; and how the will was read, without aword of remark, by Mr. Palmer, need hardly be told here. The willcontained certain substantial legacies to servants--the amount tothat old handmaid Martha being so great as to produce a fit offainting, after which the old handmaid declared that if ever therewas, by any chance, an angel of light upon the earth, it was her latemistress; and yet Martha had had her troubles with her mistress; andthere was a legacy of two hundred pounds to the gentleman who wascalled upon to act as co-executor with Captain Aylmer. Other clausein the will there was none, except that one substantial clause whichbequeathed to her well-beloved nephew, Frederic Folliott Aylmer,everything of which the testatrix died possessed. The will had beenmade at some moment in which Clara's spirit of independence hadoffended her aunt, and her name was not mentioned. That nothingshould have been left to Clara was the one thing that surprised therelatives from Taunton who were present. The relatives from Taunton,to give them their due, expected nothing for themselves; but as therehad been great doubt as to the proportions in which the propertywould be divided between the nephew and adopted niece, there wasaroused a considerable excitement as to the omission of the name ofMiss Amedroz--an excitement which was not altogether unpleasant. Whenpeople complain of some cruel shame, which does not affect themselvespersonally, the complaint is generally accompanied by an unexpressedand unconscious feeling of satisfaction.
On the present occasion, when the will had been read and refolded,Captain Aylmer, who was standing on the rug near the fire, spoke afew words. His aunt, he said, had desired to add a codicil to thewill, of the nature of which Mr. Palmer was well aware. She hadexpressed her intention to leave fifteen hundred pounds to herniece, Miss Amedroz; but death had come upon her too quickly toenable her to perform her purpose. Of this intention on the part ofMrs. Winterfield, Mr. Palmer was as well aware as himself; and hementioned the subject now, merely with the object of saying that, asa matter of course, the legacy to Miss Amedroz was as good as thoughthe codicil had been completed. On such a question as that therecould arise no question as to legal right; but he understood that thelegal claim of Miss Amedroz, under such circumstances, was as validas his own. It was therefore no affair of generosity on his part.Then there was a little buzz of satisfaction on the part of thosepresent, and the meeting was broken up.
A certain old Mrs. Folliott, who was cousin to everybody concerned,had come over from Taunton to see how things were going. She hadalways been at variance with Mrs. Winterfield, being a woman wholoved cards and supper parties, and who had throughout her lifestabled her horses in stalls very different to those used by thelady of Perivale. Now this Mrs. Folliott was the first to tell Claraof the will. Clara, of course, was altogether indifferent. She hadknown for months past that her aunt had intended to leave nothingto her, and her only hope had been that she might be left free fromany commiseration or remark on the subject. But Mrs. Folliott, withsundry shakings of the head, told her how her aunt had omitted toname her--and then told her also of Captain Aylmer's generosity."We all did think, my dear," said Mrs. Folliott, "that she wouldhave done better than that for you, or at any rate that she wouldnot have left you dependent on him." Captain Aylmer's horses werealso supposed to be stabled in strictly Low Church stalls, and weretherefore regarded by Mrs. Folliott with much dislike.
"I and my aunt understood each other perfectly," said Clara.
"I dare say. But if so, you really were the only person that didunderstand her. No doubt what she did was quite right, seeing thatshe was a saint; but we sinners would have thought it very wicked tohave made such a will, and then to have trusted to the generosity ofanother person after we were dead."
"But there is no question of trusting to any one's generosity, Mrs.Folliott."
"He need not pay you a shilling, you know, unless he likes it."
"And he will not be asked to pay me a shilling."
"I don't suppose he will go back after what he has said publicly."
"My dear Mrs. Folliott," said Clara earnestly, "pray do not let ustalk about it. It is quite unnecessary. I never expected any of myaunt's property, and knew all along that it was to go to CaptainAylmer,--who, indeed, was Mrs. Winterfield's heir naturally. Mrs.Winterfield was not really my aunt, and I had no claim on her."
"But everybody understood that she was to provide for you."
"As I was not one of the everybodies myself, it will not signify."Then Mrs. Folliott retreated, having, as she thought, performed herduty to Clara, and contented herself henceforth with abusing Mrs.Winterfield's will in her own social circles at Taunton.
On the evening of that day, when all the visitors were gone and thehouse was again quiet, Captain Aylmer thought it expedient to explainto Clara the nature of his aunt's will, and the manner in which shewould be allowed to inherit under it the amount of money which heraunt had intended to bequeath to her. When she became impatient andobjected to listen to him, he argued with her, pointing out to herthat this was a matter of business to which it was now absolutelynecessary that she should attend. "It may be the case," he said,"and, indeed, I hope it will, that no essential difference will bemade by it;--except that it will gratify you to know how carefulshe was of your interests in her last moments. But you are bound induty to learn your own position; and I, as her executor, am bound toexplain it to you. But perhaps you would rather discuss it with Mr.Palmer."
"Oh no;--save me from that."
"You must understand, then, that I shall pay over to you the sum offifteen hundred pounds as soon as the will has been proved."
"I understand nothing of the kind. I know very well that if I wereto take it, I should be accepting a present from you, and to that Icannot consent."
"But Clara--"
"It is no good, Captain Aylmer. Though I don't pretend to understandmuch about law, I do know that I can have no claim to anything thatis not put into the will; and I won't have what I could not claim.My mind is quite made up, and I hope I mayn't be annoyed about it.Nothing is more disagreeable than having to discuss money matters."
Perhaps Captain Aylmer thought that the having no money matters todiscuss might be even more disagreeable. "Well," he said, "I can onlyask you to consult any friend whom you can trust upon the matter. Askyour father, or Mr. Belton, and I have no doubt that either of themwill tell you that you are as much entitled to the legacy as thoughit had been written in the will."
"On such a matter, Captain Aylmer, I don't want to ask anybody. Youcan't pay me the money unless I choose to take it, and I certainlyshall not do that." Upon hearing this he smiled, assuming, asClara fancied that he was sometimes wont to do, a look of quietsuperiority; and then, for that time, he allowed the subject to bedropped between them.
But Clara knew that she must discuss it at length with her father,and the fear of that discussion made her unhappy. She had alreadywritten to say that she would return home on the day but one afterthe funeral, and had told Captain Aylmer of her purpose. So veryprudent a man as he of course could not think it right that a younglady should remain with him, in his house, as his visitor; and to herdecision on this point he had made no objection. She now heartilywished that she had named the day after the funeral, and that shehad not been deterred by her dislike of making a Sunday journey. Shedreaded this day, and would have been very thankful if he would haveleft her and gone back to London. But he intended, he said, to remainat Perivale throughout the next week, and she must endure the day asbest she might be able. She wished that it were possible to ask Mr.Possi
tt to his accustomed dinner; but she did not dare to make theproposition to the master of the house. Though Captain Aylmer haddeclared Mr. Possitt to be a very worthy man, Clara surmised that hewould not be anxious to commence that practice of a Sabbatical dinnerso soon after his aunt's decease. The day, after all, would be butone day, and Clara schooled herself into a resolution to bear it withgood humour.
Captain Aylmer had made a positive promise to his aunt on herdeathbed that he would ask Clara Amedroz to be his wife, and he hadno more idea of breaking his word than he had of resigning the wholeproperty which had been left to him. Whether Clara would accept himhe had much doubt. He was a man by no means brilliant, not naturallyself-confident, nor was he, perhaps, to be credited with thepossession of high principles of the finest sort; but he was clever,in the ordinary sense of the word, knowing his own interest, knowing,too, that that interest depended on other things besides money; andhe was a just man, according to the ordinary rules of justice in theworld. Not for the first time, when he was sitting by the bedside ofhis dying aunt, had he thought of asking Clara to marry him. Thoughhe had never hitherto resolved that he would do so--though he hadnever till then brought himself absolutely to determine that he wouldtake so important a step--he had pondered over it often, and wasaware that he was very fond of Clara. He was, in truth, as much inlove with her as it was in his nature to be in love. He was not aman to break his heart for a girl;--nor even to make a strong fightfor a wife, as Belton was prepared to do. If refused once, he mightprobably ask again,--having some idea that a first refusal was notalways intended to mean much,--and he might possibly make a thirdattempt, prompted by some further calculation of the same nature. Butit might be doubted whether, on the first, second, or third occasion,he would throw much passion into his words; and those who knew himwell would hardly expect to see him die of a broken heart, should heultimately be unsuccessful.
When he had first thought of marrying Miss Amedroz he had imaginedthat she would have shared with him his aunt's property, and indeedsuch had been his belief up to the days of the last illness of Mrs.Winterfield. The match therefore had recommended itself to him asbeing prudent as well as pleasant; and though his aunt had neverhitherto pressed the matter upon him, he had understood what herwishes were. When she first told him, three or four days before herdeath, that her property was left altogether to him, and then, onhearing how totally her niece was without hope of provision from herfather, had expressed her desire to give a sum of money to Clara, shehad spoken plainly of her desire;--but she had not on that occasionasked him for any promise. But afterwards, when she knew that she wasdying, she had questioned him as to his own feelings, and he, in hisanxiety to gratify her in her last wishes, had given her the promisewhich she was so anxious to hear. He made no difficulty in doing so.It was his own wish as well as hers. In a money point of view hemight no doubt now do better; but then money was not everything. Hewas very fond of Clara, and felt that if she would accept him hewould be proud of his wife. She was well born and well educated, andit was the proper sort of thing for him to do. No doubt he had someidea, seeing how things had now arranged themselves, that he wouldbe giving much more than he would get; and perhaps the manner ofhis offer might be affected by that consideration; but not on thataccount did he feel at all sure that he would be accepted. ClaraAmedroz was a proud girl,--perhaps too proud. Indeed, it was herfault. If her pride now interfered with her future fortune in life,it should be her own fault, not his. He would do his duty to her andto his aunt;--he would do it perseveringly and kindly; and then, ifshe refused him, the fault would not be his.
Such, I think, was the state of Captain Aylmer's mind when he got upon the Sunday morning, resolving that he would on that day make goodhis promise. And it must be remembered, on his behalf, that he wouldhave prepared himself for his task with more animation if he hadhitherto received warmer encouragement. He had felt himself to berepulsed in the little efforts which he had already made to pleasethe lady, and had no idea whatever as to the true state of herfeelings. Had he known what she knew, he would, I think, have beenanimated enough, and gone to his task as happy and thriving a loveras any. But he was a man somewhat diffident of himself, thoughsufficiently conscious of the value of the worldly advantages whichhe possessed;--and he was, perhaps, a little afraid of Clara, givingher credit for an intellect superior to his own.
He had promised to walk with her on the Saturday after the readingof the will, intending to take her out through the gardens down toa farm, now belonging to himself, which lay at the back of the town,and which was held by an old widow who had been senior in life toher late landlady; but no such walk had been possible, as it wasdark before the last of the visitors from Taunton had gone. Atbreakfast on Sunday he again proposed the walk, offering to take herimmediately after luncheon. "I suppose you will not go to church?" hesaid.
"Not to-day. I could hardly bring myself to do it to-day."
"I think you are right. I shall go. A man can always do these thingssooner than a lady can. But you will come out afterwards?" To thisshe assented, and then she was left alone throughout the morning.The walk she did not mind. That she and Captain Aylmer should walktogether was all very well. They might probably have done so had Mrs.Winterfield been still alive. It was the long evening afterwards thatshe dreaded--the long winter evening, in which she would have to sitwith him as his guest, and with him only. She could not pass thesehours without talking to him, and she felt that she could not talk tohim naturally and easily. It would, however, be but for once, and shewould bear it.
They went together down to the house of Mrs. Partridge, the tenant,and made their kindly speeches to the old woman. Mrs. Partridgealready knew that Captain Aylmer was to be her landlord, but havinghitherto seen more of Miss Amedroz than of the Captain, and havingalways regarded her landlady's niece as being connected irrevocablywith the property, she addressed them as though the estate were ajoint affair.
"I shan't be here to trouble you long;--that I shan't, Miss Clara,"said the old woman.
"I am sure Captain Aylmer would be very sorry to lose you," repliedClara, speaking loud, and close to the poor woman's ear, for she wasdeaf.
"I never looked to live after she was gone, Miss Clara;--never. Nomore I didn't. Deary;--deary! And I suppose you'll be living at thebig house now; won't ye?"
"The big house belongs to Captain Aylmer, Mrs. Partridge." She wasdriven to bawl out her words, and by no means liked the task. ThenCaptain Aylmer said something, but his speech was altogether lost.
"Oh;--it belongs to the Captain, do it? They told me that was the wayof the will; but I suppose it's all one."
"Yes; it's all one," said Captain Aylmer, gaily.
"It's not exactly all one, as you call it," said Clara, attempting tolaugh, but still shouting at the top of her voice.
"Ah;--I don't understand; but I hope you'll both live theretogether,--and I hope you'll be as good to the poor as she that isgone. Well, well; I didn't ever think that I should be still here,while she is lying under the stones up in the old church!"
Captain Aylmer had determined that he would ask his question on theway back from the farm, and now resolved that he might as well beginwith some allusion to Mrs. Partridge's words about the house. Theafternoon was bright and cold, and the lane down to the farmhousehad been dried by the wind, so that the day was pleasant for walking."We might as well go on to the bridge," he said, as they left thefarm-yard. "I always think that Perivale church looks better fromCreevy bridge than any other point." Perivale church stood high inthe centre of the town, on an eminence, and was graced with a spirewhich was declared by the Perivalians to be preferable to that ofSalisbury in proportion, though it was acknowledged to be somewhatinferior to it in height. The little river Creevy, which ran througha portion of the suburbs of the town, and which, as there seen, washardly more than a ditch, then sloped away behind Creevy Grange, asthe farm of Mrs. Partridge was called, and was crossed by a smallwooden bridge, from which there was a view, not
only of the church,but of all that side of the hill on which Mrs. Winterfield's largebrick house stood conspicuously. So they walked down to Creevybridge, and, when there, stood leaning on the parapet and lookingback upon the town.
"How well I know every house and spot in the place as I see them fromhere," he said.
"A good many of the houses are your own,--or will be some day; andtherefore you should know them."
"I remember, when I used to be here as a boy fishing, I alwaysthought Aunt Winterfield's house was the biggest house in thecounty."
"It can't be nearly so large as your father's house in Yorkshire."
"No; certainly it is not. Aylmer Park is a large place; but the housedoes not stretch itself out so wide as that; nor does it stand onthe side of a hill so as to show out its proportions with so muchostentation. The coach-house and the stables, and the old brewhouse,seem to come half way down the hill. And when I was a boy I had muchmore respect for my aunt's red-brick house in Perivale than I had forAylmer Park."
"And now it's your own."
"Yes; now it's my own,--and all my respect for it is gone. I used tothink the Creevy the best river in England for fish; but I wouldn'tgive a sixpence now for all the perch I ever caught in it."
"Perhaps your taste for perch is gone also."
"Yes; and my taste for jam. I never believed in the store-room atAylmer Park as I did in my aunt's store-room here."
"I don't doubt but what it is full now."
"I dare say; but I shall never have the curiosity even to inquire.Ah, dear,--I wish I knew what to do about the house."
"You won't sell it, I suppose?"
"Not if I could either live in it, or let it. It would be wrong tolet it stand idle."
"But you need not decide quite at once."
"That's just what I want to do. I want to decide at once."
"Then I'm sure I cannot advise you. It seems to me very unlikelythat you should come and live here by yourself. It isn't like acountry-house exactly."
"I shan't live there by myself certainly. You heard what Mrs.Partridge said just now."
"What did Mrs. Partridge say?"
"She wanted to know whether it belonged to both of us, and whether itwas not all one. Shall it be all one, Clara?"
She was leaning over the rail of the bridge as he spoke, with hereyes fixed on the slowly moving water. When she heard his words,she raised her face and looked full upon him. She was in some sortprepared for the moment, though it would be untrue to say that shehad now expected it. Unconsciously she had made some resolve thatif ever the question were put to her by him, she would not be takenaltogether off her guard; and now that the question was put to her,she was able to maintain her composure. Her first feeling was oneof triumph,--as it must be in such a position to any woman who hasalready acknowledged to herself that she loves the man who then asksher to be his wife. She looked up into Captain Aylmer's face, and hiseye almost quailed beneath hers. Even should he be triumphant, he wasnot perfectly assured that his triumph would be a success.
"Shall what be all one?" she asked.
"Shall it be your house and my house? Can you tell me that you willlove me and be my wife?" Again she looked at him, and he repeated hisquestion. "Clara, can you love me well enough to take me for yourhusband?"
"I can," she said. Why should she hesitate, and play the coy girl,and pretend to any doubts in her mind which did not exist there?She did love him, and had so told herself with much earnestness. Tohim, while his words had been doubtful,--while he had simply playedat making love to her, she had given no hint of the state of heraffections. She had so carried herself before him as to make himdoubt whether success could be possible for him. But now,--why shouldshe hesitate now? It was as she had hoped,--or as she had hardlydared to hope. He did love her. "I can," she said; and then, beforehe could speak again, she repeated her words with more emphasis."Indeed I can; with all my heart."
As regarded herself, she was quite equal to the occasion; but had sheknown more of the inner feelings of men and women in general, shewould have been slower to show her own. What is there that any mandesires,--any man or any woman,--that does not lose half its valuewhen it is found to be easy of access and easy of possession? Wine isvalued by its price, not its flavour. Open your doors freely to Jonesand Smith, and Jones and Smith will not care to enter them. Shut yourdoors obdurately against the same gentlemen, and they will use alltheir little diplomacy to effect an entrance. Captain Aylmer, when heheard the hearty tone of the girl's answer, already began almost todoubt whether it was wise on his part to devote the innermost bin ofhis cellar to wine that was so cheap.
Not that he had any idea of receding. Principle, if not love,prevented that. "Then the question about the house is decided," hesaid, giving his hand to Clara as he spoke.
"I don't care a bit about the house now," she answered.
"That's unkind."
"I am thinking so much more of you,--of you and of myself. What doesan old house matter?"
"It's in very good repair," said Captain Aylmer.
"You must not laugh at me," she said; and in truth he was notlaughing at her. "What I mean is that anything about a house isindifferent to me now. It is as though I had got all that I want inthe world. Is it wrong of me to say so?"
"Oh, dear, no;--not wrong at all. How can it be wrong?" He didnot tell her that he also had got all he wanted; but his lackof enthusiasm in this respect did not surprise her, or at firsteven vex her. She had always known him to be a man careful of hiswords,--knowing their value,--not speaking with hurried rashness aswould her dear cousin Will. And she doubted whether, after all, suchhurried words mean as much as words which are slower and calmer.After all his heat in love and consequent disappointment, WillBelton had left her apparently well contented. His fervour had beenshort-lived. She loved her cousin dearly, and was so very glad thathis fervour had been short-lived!
"When you asked me, I could but tell you the truth," she said,smiling at him.
The truth is very well, but he would have liked it better had thetruth come to him by slower degrees. When his aunt had told him tomarry Clara Amedroz, he had been at once reconciled to the order by afeeling on his own part that the conquest of Clara would not be toofacile. She was a woman of value, not to be snapped up easily,--or byany one. So he had thought then; but he began to fancy now that hehad been wrong in that opinion.
The walk back to the house was not of itself very exciting, thoughto Clara it was a short period of unalloyed bliss. No doubt had thencome upon her to cloud her happiness, and she was "wrapped up inmeasureless content." It was well that they should both be silentat such a moment. Only yesterday had been buried their dear oldfriend,--the friend who had brought them together, and been soanxious for their future happiness! And Clara Amedroz was not a younggirl, prone to jump out of her shoes with elation because she had gota lover. She could be steadily happy without many immediate wordsabout her happiness. When they had reached the house, and were oncemore together in the drawing-room, she again gave him her hand, andwas the first to speak. "And you; are you contented?" she asked. Whodoes not know the smile of triumph with which a girl asks such aquestion at such a moment as that?
"Contented?--well,--yes; I think I am," he said.
But even those words did not move her to doubt. "If you are," shesaid, "I am. And now I will leave you till dinner, that you may thinkover what you have done."
"I had thought about it before, you know," he replied. Then hestooped over her and kissed her. It was the first time he had doneso; but his kiss was as cold and proper as though they had been manand wife for years! But it sufficed for her, and she went to her roomas happy as a queen.