CHAPTER XX.
WILLIAM BELTON DOES NOT GO OUT HUNTING.
We will now follow the other message which was sent down intoNorfolk, and which did not get into Belton's hands till the Mondaymorning. He was sitting with his sister at breakfast, and wasprepared for hunting, when the paper was brought into the room.Telegraphic messages were not very common at Plaistow Hall, and onthe arrival of any that had as yet reached that house, somethingof that awe had been felt with which such missives were alwaysaccompanied in their earliest days. "A telegruff message, mum, forMr. William," said the maid, looking at her mistress with eyes openedwide, as she handed the important bit of paper to her master. Willopened it rapidly, laying down the knife and fork with which he wasabout to operate upon a ham before him. He was dressed in boots andbreeches, and a scarlet coat,--in which garb he was, in his sister'seyes, the most handsome man in Norfolk.
"Oh, Mary!" he exclaimed.
"What is it, Will?"
"Mr. Amedroz is dead."
Miss Belton put out her hand for the paper before she spoke again, asthough she could better appreciate the truth of what she heard whenreading it herself on the telegraph slip than she had done from herbrother's words. "How sudden! how terribly sudden!" she said.
"Sudden indeed. When I left him he was not well, certainly, but Ishould have said that he might have lived for twenty years. Poor oldman! I can hardly say why it was so, but I had taken a liking tohim."
"You take a liking to everybody, Will."
"No I don't. I know people I don't like." Will Belton as he said thiswas thinking of Captain Aylmer, and he pressed the heel of his boothard against the floor.
"And Mr. Amedroz is dead! It seems to be so terribly sudden. Whatwill she do, Will?"
"That's what I'm thinking about."
"Of course you are, my dear. I can see that. I wish,--I wish--"
"It's no good wishing anything, Mary. I don't think wishing ever didany good yet. If I might have my wish, I shouldn't know how to haveit."
"I was wishing that you didn't think so much about it."
"You need not be troubled about me. I shall do very well. But what isto become of her,--now at once? Might she not come here? You are nowthe nearest female relation that she has." Mary looked at him withher anxious, painful eyes, and he knew by her look that she did notapprove of his plan. "I could go away," he continued. "She could cometo you without being troubled by seeing me.
"And where would you go, Will?"
"What does it matter? To the devil, I suppose."
"Oh, Will, Will!"
"You know what I mean. I'd go anywhere. Where is she to find a hometill,--till she is married?" He had paused at the word; but wasdetermined not to shrink from it, and bolted it out in a loud, sharptone, so that both he and she recognised all the meaning of theword,--all that was conveyed in the idea. He hated himself when heendeavoured to conceal from his own mind any of the misery that wascoming upon him. He loved her. He could not get over it. The passionwas on him,--like a palsy, for the shaking off of which no sufficientphysical energy was left to him. It clung to him in his goings outand comings in with a painful, wearing tenacity, against which hewould now and again struggle, swearing that it should be so nolonger,--but against which he always struggled in vain. It was withhim when he was hunting. He was ever thinking of it when the birdrose before his gun. As he watched the furrow, as his men and horseswould drive it straight and deep through the ground, he was thinkingof her,--and not of the straightness and depth of the furrow, as hadbeen his wont in former years. Then he would turn away his face, andstand alone in his field, blinded by the salt drops in his eyes,weeping at his own weakness. And when he was quite alone, he wouldstamp his foot on the ground, and throw abroad his arms, and cursehimself. What Nessus's shirt was this that had fallen upon him, andunmanned him from the sole of his foot to the top of his head? Hewent through the occupations of the week. He hunted, and shot, andgave his orders, and paid his men their wages;--but he did it allwith a palsy of love upon him as he did it. He wanted her, and hecould not overcome the want. He could not bear to confess to himselfthat the thing by which he had set so much store could never belongto him. His sister understood it all, and sometimes he was almostangry with her because of her understanding it. She sympathised withhim in all his moods, and sometimes he would shake away her sympathyas though it scalded him. "Where is she to find a home till,--tillshe is married?" he said.
Not a word had as yet been said between them about the property whichwas now his estate. He was now Belton of Belton, and it must besupposed that both he and she had remembered that it was so. Buthitherto not a word had been said between them on that point. Now shewas compelled to allude to it. "Cannot she live at the Castle for thepresent?"
"What;--all alone?"
"Of course she is remaining there now."
"Yes," said he, "of course she is there now. Now! Why, remember whatthese telegraphic messages are. He died only on yesterday morning.Of course she is there, but I do not think it can be good that sheshould remain there. There is no one near her where she is but thatMrs. Askerton. It can hardly be good for her to have no other femalefriend at such a time as this."
"I do not think that Mrs. Askerton will hurt her."
"Mrs. Askerton will not hurt her at all,--and as long as Clara doesnot know the story, Mrs. Askerton may serve as well as another. Butyet--"
"Can I go to her, Will?"
"No, dearest. The journey would kill you in winter. And he would notlike it. We are bound to think of that for her sake,--cold-hearted,thankless, meagre-minded creature as I know he is."
"I do not know why he should be so bad."
"No, nor I. But I know that he is. Never mind. Why should we talkabout him? I suppose she'll have to go there,--to Aylmer Park. Isuppose they will send for her, and keep her there till it's allfinished. I'll tell you what, Mary,--I shall give her the place."
"What,--Belton Castle?"
"Why not? Will it ever be of any good to you or me? Do you want to goand live there?"
"No, indeed;--not for myself."
"And do you think that I could live there? Besides, why should she beturned out of her father's house?"
"He would not be mean enough to take it."
"He would be mean enough for anything. Besides, I should take verygood care that it should be settled upon her."
"That's nonsense, Will;--it is indeed. You are now William Belton ofBelton, and you must remain so."
"Mary,--I would sooner be Will Belton with Clara Amedroz by my sideto get through the world with me, and not the interest of an acreeither at Belton Castle or at Plaistow Hall! And I believe I shouldbe the richer man at the end,--if there were any good in that." Thenhe went out of the room, and she heard him go through the kitchen,and knew that he passed out into the farm-yard, towards the stable,by the back-door. He intended, it seemed, to go on with his huntingin spite of this death which had occurred. She was sorry for it,but she could not venture to stop him. And she was sorry also thatnothing had been settled as to the writing of any letter to Clara.She, however, would take upon herself to write while he was gone.
He went straight out towards the stables, hardly conscious of what hewas doing or where he was going, and found his hack ready saddled forhim in the stall. Then he remembered that he must either go or cometo some decision that he would not go. The horse that he intendedto ride had been sent on to the meet, and if he were not to be used,some message must be despatched as to the animal's return. But Willwas half inclined to go, although he knew that the world would judgehim to be heartless if he were to go hunting immediately on thereceipt of the tidings which had reached him that morning. He thoughtthat he would like to set the world at defiance in this matter. LetFrederic Aylmer go into mourning for the old man who was dead. LetFrederic Aylmer be solicitous for the daughter who was left lonely inthe old house. No doubt he, Will Belton, had inherited the dead man'sestate, and should, therefore, in accordance with all the ordi
naryrules of the world on such matters, submit himself at any rate to thedecency of funereal reserve. An heir should not be seen out huntingon the day on which such tidings as to his heritage had reached him.But he did not wish, in his present mood, to be recognised as theheir. He did not want the property. He would have preferred to ridhimself altogether of any of the obligations which the ownership ofthe estate entailed upon him. It was not permitted to him to have thecustody of the old squire's daughter, and therefore he was unwillingto meddle with any of the old squire's concerns.
Belton had gone into the stable, and had himself loosed the animal,leading him out into the yard as though he were about to mount him.Then he had given the reins to a stable boy, and had walked awayamong the farm buildings, not thinking of what he was doing. The ladstood staring at him with open mouth, not at all understanding hismaster's hesitation. The meet, as the boy knew, was fourteen milesoff, and Belton had not allowed himself above an hour and a half forthe journey. It was his practice to jump into the saddle and bustleout of the place, as though seconds were important to him. He wouldlook at his watch with accuracy, and measure his pace from spot tospot, as though minutes were too valuable to be lost. But now hewandered away like one distraught, and the stable boy knew thatsomething was wrong. "I thout he was a thinken of the white cow aschoked 'erself with the tunnup that was skipped in the chopping,"said the boy, as he spoke of his master afterwards to the old groom.At last, however, a thought seemed to strike Belton. "Do you get onBrag," he said to the boy, "and ride off to Goldingham Corner, andtell Daniel to bring the horse home again. I shan't hunt to-day. AndI think I shall go away from home. If so, tell him to be sure thehorses are out every morning;--and tell him to stop their beans. Imightn't hunt again for the next month." Then he returned into thehouse, and went to the parlour in which his sister was sitting. "Ishan't go out to-day," he said.
"I thought you would not, Will," she answered.
"Not that I see any harm in it."
"I don't say that there is any harm, but it is as well on suchoccasions to do as others do."
"That's humbug, Mary."
"No, Will; I do not think that. When any practice has become thefixed rule of the society in which we live, it is always wise toadhere to that rule, unless it call upon us to do something that isactually wrong. One should not offend the prejudices of the world,even if one is quite sure that they are prejudices."
"It hasn't been that that has brought me back, Mary. I'll tell youwhat. I think I'll go down to Belton--after all."
His sister did not know what to say in answer to this. Her chiefanxiety was, of course, on behalf of her brother. That he should bemade to forget Clara Amedroz, if that were only possible, was hergreat desire; and his journey at such a time as this down to Beltonwas not the way to accomplish such forgetting. And then she felt thatClara might very possibly not wish to see him. Had Will simply beenher cousin, such a visit might be very well; but he had attempted tobe more than her cousin, and therefore it would probably not be well.Captain Aylmer might not like it; and Mary felt herself bound toconsider even Captain Aylmer's likings in such a matter. And yet shecould not bear to oppose him in anything. "It would be a very longjourney," she said.
"What does that signify?"
"And then it might so probably be for nothing."
"Why should it be for nothing?"
"Because--"
"Because what? Why don't you speak out? You need not be afraid ofhurting me. Nothing that you can say can make it at all worse than itis."
"Dear Will, I wish I could make it better."
"But you can't. Nobody can make it either better or worse. I promisedher once before that I would go to her when she might be in trouble,and I will be as good as my word. I said I would be a brother toher;--and so I will. So help me God, I will!" Then he rushed out ofthe room, striding through the door as though he would knock it down,and hurried up-stairs to his own chamber. When there he strippedhimself of his hunting things, and dressed himself again with allthe expedition in his power; and then he threw a heap of clothesinto a large portmanteau, and set himself to work packing as thougheverything in the world were to depend upon his catching a certaintrain. And he went to a locked drawer, and taking out a cheque-book,folded it up and put it into his pocket. Then he rang the bellviolently; and as he was locking the portmanteau, pressing down thelid with all his weight and all his strength, he ordered that acertain mare should be put into a certain dog-cart, and that somebodymight be ready to drive over with him to the Downham Station. Withintwenty minutes of the time of his rushing up-stairs he appeared againbefore his sister with a great-coat on, and a railway rug hangingover his arm. "Do you mean that you are going to-day?" said she.
"Yes. I'll catch the 11.40 up-train at Downham. What's the good ofgoing unless I go at once? If I can be of any use it will be at thefirst. It may be that she will have nobody there to do anything forher."
"There is the clergyman, and Colonel Askerton,--even if CaptainAylmer has not gone down."
"The clergyman and Colonel Askerton are nothing to her. And if thatman is there I can come back again."
"You will not quarrel with him?"
"Why should I quarrel with him? What is there to quarrel about? I'mnot such a fool as to quarrel with a man because I hate him. If heis there I shall see her for a minute or two, and then I shall comeback."
"I know it is no good my trying to dissuade you."
"None on earth. If you knew it all you would not try to dissuade me.Before I thought of asking her to be my wife,--and yet I thought ofthat very soon;--but before I ever thought of that, I told her thatwhen she wanted a brother's help I would give it her. Of course I wasthinking of the property,--that she shouldn't be turned out of herfather's house like a beggar. I hadn't any settled plan then;--howcould I? But I meant her to understand that when her father diedI would be the same to her that I am to you. If you were alone, indistress, would I not go to you?"
"But I have no one else, Will," said she, stretching out her hand tohim where he stood.
"That makes no difference," he replied, almost roughly. "A promise isa promise, and I resolved from the first that my promise should holdgood in spite of my disappointment. Dear, dear;--it seems but theother day when I made it,--and now, already, everything is changed."As he was speaking the servant entered the room, and told him thatthe horse and gig were ready for him. "I shall just do it nicely,"said he, looking at his watch. "I have over an hour. God bless you,Mary. I shan't be away long. You may be sure of that."
"I don't suppose you can tell as yet, Will."
"What should keep me long? I shall see Green as I go by, and that ishalf of my errand. I dare say I shan't stay above a night down inSomersetshire."
"You'll have to give some orders about the estate."
"I shall not say a word on the subject,--to anybody; that is, not toanybody there. I am going to look after her, and not the estate."Then he stooped down and kissed his sister, and in another minute wasturning the corner out of the farm-yard on to the road at a quickpace, not losing a foot of ground in the turn, in that fashion ofrapidity which the horses at Plaistow Hall soon learned from theirmaster. The horse is a closely sympathetic beast, and will make histurns, and do his trottings, and comport himself generally in strictunison with the pulsations of his master's heart. When a horse won'tjump it is generally the case that the inner man is declining to jumpalso, let the outer man seem ever so anxious to accomplish the feat.
Belton, who was generally very communicative with his servants,always talking to any man he might have beside him in his dog-cartabout the fields and cattle and tillage around him, said not a wordto the boy who accompanied him on this occasion. He had a goodmany things to settle in his mind before he got to London, and hebegan upon the work as soon as he had turned the corner out of thefarm-yard. As regarded this Belton estate, which was now altogetherhis own, he had always had doubts and qualms,--qualms of feelingrather than of conscience; and he had, also, always ent
ertaineda strong family ambition. His people, ever so far back, had beenBeltons of Belton. They told him that his family could be tracedback to very early days,--before the Plantagenets, as he believed,though on this point of the subject he was very hazy in hisinformation,--and he liked the idea of being the man by whom thefamily should be reconstructed in its glory. Worldly circumstanceshad been so kind to him, that he could take up the Belton estate withmore of the prestige of wealth than had belonged to any of the ownersof the place for many years past. Should it come to pass that livingthere would be desirable, he could rebuild the old house, and makenew gardens, and fit himself out with all the pleasant braveries ofa well-to-do English squire. There need be no pinching and scraping,no question whether a carriage would be possible, no doubt as tothe prudence of preserving game. All this had given much that wasdelightful to his prospects. And he had, too, been instigated by asomewhat weak desire to emerge from that farmer's rank into which heknew that many connected with him had supposed him to have sunk. Itwas true that he farmed land that was half his own,--and that, evenat Plaistow, he was a wealthy man; but Plaistow Hall, with all itscomforts, was a farm-house; and the ambition to be more than a farmerhad been strong upon him.
But then there had been the feeling that in taking the Belton estatehe would be robbing his cousin Clara of all that should have beenhers. It must be remembered that he had not been brought up in thebelief that he would ever become the owner of Belton. All his highambition in that matter had originated with the wretched death ofClara's brother. Could he bring himself to take it all with pleasure,seeing that it came to him by so sad a chance,--by a catastrophe sodeplorable? When he would think of this, his mind would revolt fromits own desires, and he would declare to himself that his inheritancewould come to him with a stain of blood upon it. He, indeed, wouldhave been guiltless; but how could he take his pleasure in the shadesof Belton without thinking of the tragedy which had given him theproperty? Such had been the thoughts and desires, mixed in theirnature and militating against each other, which had induced him tooffer his first visit to his cousin's house. We know what was theeffect of that visit, and by what pleasant scheme he had endeavouredto overcome all his difficulties, and so to become master of Beltonthat Clara Amedroz should also be its mistress. There had been a waywhich, after two days' intimacy with Clara, seemed to promise himcomfort and happiness on all sides. But he had come too late, andthat way was closed against him! Now the estate was his, and what washe to do with it? Clara belonged to his rival, and in what way wouldit become him to treat her? He was still thinking simply of thecruelty of the circumstances which had thrown Captain Aylmer betweenhim and his cousin, when he drove himself up to the railway stationat Downham.
"Take her back steady, Jem," he said to the boy.
"I'll be sure to take her wery steady," Jem answered.
"And tell Compton to have the samples of barley ready for me. I maybe back any day, and we shall be sowing early this spring."
Then he left his cart, followed the porter who had taken his luggageeagerly, knowing that Mr. Belton was always good for sixpence, and infive minutes' time he was again in motion.
On his arrival in London he drove at once to the chambers of hisfriend, Mr. Green, and luckily found the lawyer there. Had he misseddoing this, it was his intention to go out to his friend's house; andin that case he could not have gone down to Taunton till the nextmorning; but now he would be able to say what he wished to say, andhear what he wished to hear, and would travel down by the night-mailtrain. He was anxious that Clara should feel that he had hurriedto her without a moment's delay. It would do no good. He knew that.Nothing that he could do would alter her, or be of any service tohim. She had accepted this man, and had herself no power of makinga change, even if she should wish it. But still there was to himsomething of gratification in the idea that she should be madeto feel that he, Belton, was more instant in his affection, moreurgent in his good offices, more anxious to befriend her in herdifficulties, than the man whom she had consented to take for herhusband. Aylmer would probably go down to Belton, but Will was veryanxious to be the first on the ground,--very anxious,--though hisdoing so could be of no use. All this was wrong on his part. He knewthat it was wrong, and he abused himself for his own selfishness. Butsuch self-abuse gave him no aid in escaping from his own wickedness.He would, if possible, be at Belton before Captain Aylmer; and hewould, if possible, make Clara feel that, though he was not a memberof Parliament, though he was not much given to books, though he wasonly a farmer, yet he had at any rate as much heart and spirit as thefine gentleman whom she preferred to him.
"I thought I should see you," said the lawyer; "but I hardly expectedyou so soon as this."
"I ought to have been a day sooner, only we don't get our telegraphicmessages on a Sunday." He still kept his great-coat on; and it seemedby his manner that he had no intention of staying where he was abovea minute or two.
"You'll come out and dine with me to-day?" said Mr. Green.
"I can't do that, for I shall go down by the mail train."
"I never saw such a fellow in my life. What good will that do? It isquite right that you should be there in time for the funeral; but Idon't suppose he will be buried before this day week."
But Belton had never thought about the funeral. When he had spoken tohis sister of saying but a few words to Clara and then returning, hehad forgotten that there would be any such ceremony, or that he wouldbe delayed by any such necessity.
"I was not thinking about the funeral," said Belton.
"You'll only find yourself uncomfortable there."
"Of course I shall be uncomfortable."
"You can't do anything about the property, you know."
"What do you mean by doing anything?" said Belton, in an angry tone.
"You can't very well take possession of the place, at any rate, tillafter the funeral. It would not be considered the proper thing todo."
"You think, then, that I'm a bird of prey, smelling the feast fromafar off, and hurrying at the dead man's carcase as soon as thebreath is out of his body?"
"I don't think anything of the kind, my dear fellow."
"Yes, you do, or you wouldn't talk to me about doing the properthing! I don't care a straw about the proper thing! If I find thatthere's anything to be done to-morrow that can be of any use, I shalldo it, though all Somersetshire should think it improper! But I'm notgoing to look after my own interests!"
"Take off your coat and sit down, Will, and don't look so angry atme. I know that you're not greedy, well enough. Tell me what you aregoing to do, and let me see if I can help you."
Belton did as he was told; he pulled off his coat and sat himselfdown by the fire. "I don't know that you can do anything to helpme,--at least, not as yet. But I must go and see after her. Perhapsshe may be all alone."
"I suppose she is all alone."
"He hasn't gone down, then?"
"Who;--Captain Aylmer? No;--he hasn't gone down, certainly. He is inYorkshire."
"I'm glad of that!"
"He won't hurry himself. He never does, I fancy. I had a letter fromhim this morning about Miss Amedroz."
"And what did he say?"
"He desired me to send her seventy-five pounds,--the interest of heraunt's money."
"Seventy-five pounds!" said Will Belton, contemptuously.
"He thought she might want money at once; and I sent her the chequeto-day. It will go down by the same train that carries you."
"Seventy-five pounds! And you are sure that he has not gone himself?"
"It isn't likely that he should have written to me, and passedthrough London himself, at the same time;--but it is possible, nodoubt. I don't think he even knew the old squire; and there is noreason why he should go to the funeral."
"No reason at all," said Belton,--who felt that Captain Aylmer'spresence at the Castle would be an insult to himself. "I don't knowwhat on earth he should do there,--except that I think him just thefellow to intrude where he
is not wanted." And yet Will was in hisheart despising Captain Aylmer because he had not already hurrieddown to the assistance of the girl whom he professed to love.
"He is engaged to her, you know," said the lawyer, in a low voice.
"What difference does that make with such a fellow as he is, acold-blooded fish of a man, who thinks of nothing in the world butbeing respectable? Engaged to her! Oh, damn him!"
"I've not the slightest objection. I don't think, however, thatyou'll find him at Belton before you. No doubt she will have heardfrom him; and it strikes me as very possible that she may go toAylmer Park."
"What should she go there for?"
"Would it not be the best place for her?"
"No. My house would be the best place for her. I am her nearestrelative. Why should she not come to us?"
Mr. Green turned round his chair and poked the fire, and fidgetedabout for some moments before he answered. "My dear fellow, you mustknow that that wouldn't do." He then said, "You ought to feel that itwouldn't do;--you ought indeed."
"Why shouldn't my sister receive Miss Amedroz as well as that oldwoman down in Yorkshire?"
"If I may tell you, I will."
"Of course you may tell me."
"Because Miss Amedroz is engaged to be married to that old woman'sson, and is not engaged to be married to your sister's brother. Thething is done, and what is the good of interfering. As far as she isconcerned, a great burden is off your hands."
"What do you mean by a burden?"
"I mean that her engagement to Captain Aylmer makes it unnecessaryfor you to suppose that she is in want of any pecuniary assistance.You told me once before that you would feel yourself called upon tosee that she wanted nothing."
"So I do now."
"But Captain Aylmer will look after that."
"I tell you what it is, Joe; I mean to settle the Belton propertyin such a way that she shall have it, and that he shan't beable to touch it. And it shall go to some one who shall have myname,--William Belton. That's what I want you to arrange for me."
"After you are dead, you mean."
"I mean now, at once. I won't take the estate from her. I hate theplace and everything belonging to it. I don't mean her. There is noreason for hating her."
"My dear Will, you are talking nonsense."
"Why is it nonsense? I may give what belongs to me to whom I please."
"You can do nothing of the kind;--at any rate, not by my assistance.You talk as though the world were all over with you,--as though youwere never to be married or have any children of your own."
"I shall never marry."
"Nonsense, Will. Don't make such an ass of yourself as to supposethat you'll not get over such a thing as this. You'll be married andhave a dozen children yet to provide for. Let the eldest have BeltonCastle, and everything will go on then in the proper way."
Belton had now got the poker into his hands, and sat silent for sometime, knocking the coals about. Then he got up, and took his hat, andput on his coat. "Of course I can't make you understand me," he said;"at any rate not all at once. I'm not such a fool as to want to giveup my property just because a girl is going to be married to a man Idon't like. I'm not such an ass as to give him my estate for such areason as that;--for it will be giving it to him, let me tie it upas I may. But I've a feeling about it which makes it impossible forme to take it. How would you like to get a thing by another fellowhaving destroyed himself?"
"You can't help that. It's yours by law."
"Of course it is. I know that. And as it's mine I can do what I likewith it. Well;--good-bye. When I've got anything to say, I'll write."Then he went down to his cab and had himself driven to the GreatWestern Railway Hotel.
Captain Aylmer had sent to his betrothed seventy-five pounds; theexact interest at five per cent. for one year of the sum which hisaunt had left her. This was the first subject of which Belton thoughtwhen he found himself again in the railway carriage, and he continuedthinking of it half the way down to Taunton. Seventy-five pounds!As though this favoured lover were prepared to give her exactly herdue, and nothing more than her due! Had he been so placed, he, WillBelton, what would he have done? Seventy-five pounds might havebeen more money than she would have wanted, for he would have takenher to his own house,--to his own bosom, as soon as she would havepermitted, and would have so laboured on her behalf, taking from hershoulders all money troubles, that there would have been no questionas to principal or interest between them. At any rate he would nothave confined himself to sending to her the exact sum which was herdue. But then Aylmer was a cold-blooded man,--more like a fish than aman. Belton told himself over and over again that he had discoveredthat at the single glance which he had had when he saw Captain Aylmerin Green's chambers. Seventy-five pounds indeed! He himself wasprepared to give his whole estate to her, if she would take it,--eventhough she would not marry him, even though she was going to throwherself away upon that fish! Then he felt somewhat as Hamlet did whenhe jumped upon Laertes at the grave of Ophelia. Send her seventy-fivepounds indeed, while he was ready to drink up Esil for her, or tomake over to her the whole Belton estate, and thus abandon the ideafor ever of being Belton of Belton!
He reached Taunton in the middle of the night,--during the smallhours of the morning in a winter night; but yet he could not bringhimself to go to bed. So he knocked up an ostler at the nearest inn,and ordered out a gig. He would go down to the village of Redicote,on the Minehead road, and put up at the public-house there. He couldnot now have himself driven at once to Belton Castle, as he wouldhave done had the old squire been alive. He fancied that his presencewould be a nuisance if he did so. So he went to the little inn atRedicote, reaching that place between four and five o'clock in themorning; and very uncomfortable he was when he got there. But in hispresent frame of mind he preferred discomfort. He liked being tiredand cold, and felt, when he was put into a chill room, without fire,and with a sanded floor, that things with him were as they ought tobe.
Yes,--he could have a fly over to Belton Castle after breakfast.Having learned so much, and ordered a dish of eggs and bacon for hismorning's breakfast, he went up-stairs to a miserable little bedroom,to dress himself after his night's journey.