CHAPTER XXIX.
THERE IS NOTHING TO TELL.
Captain Aylmer had never before this knelt to Clara Amedroz. Suchkneeling on the part of lovers used to be the fashion because loversin those days held in higher value than they do now that which theyasked their ladies to give,--or because they pretended to do so. Theforms at least of supplication were used; whereas in these wiser daysAugustus simply suggests to Caroline that they two might as wellmake fools of themselves together,--and so the thing is settledwithout the need of much prayer. Captain Aylmer's engagement hadbeen originally made somewhat after this fashion. He had not,indeed, spoken of the thing contemplated as a folly, not being aman given to little waggeries of that nature; but he had been calm,unenthusiastic, and reasonable. He had not attempted to evince anypassion, and would have been quite content that Clara should believethat he married as much from obedience to his aunt as from lovefor herself, had he not found that Clara would not take him at allunder such a conviction. But though she had declined to come tohim after that fashion,--though something more than that had beenneeded,--still she had been won easily, and, therefore, lightlyprized. I fear that it is so with everything that we value,--with ourhorses, our houses, our wines, and, above all, with our women. Whereis the man who has heart and soul big enough to love a woman withincreased force of passion because she has at once recognised in himall that she has herself desired? Captain Aylmer having won his spurseasily, had taken no care in buckling them, and now found, to hissurprise, that he was like to lose them. He had told himself that hewould only be too glad to shuffle his feet free of their bondage; butnow that they were going from him, he began to find that they werevery necessary for the road that he was to travel. "Clara," he said,kneeling by her side, "you are more to me than my mother; ten timesmore!"
This was all new to her. Hitherto, though she had never desiredthat he should assume such attitude as this, she had constantlybeen unconsciously wounded by his coldness,--by his cold proprietyand unbending self-possession. His cold propriety and unbendingself-possession were gone now, and he was there at her feet. Such anargument, used at Aylmer Park, would have conquered her,--would havewon her at once, in spite of herself; but now she was minded to beresolute. She had sworn to herself that she would not peril herself,or him, by joining herself to a man with whom she had so littlesympathy, and who apparently had none with her. But in what waywas she to answer such a prayer as that which was now made to her?The man who addressed her was entitled to use all the warmth of anaccepted lover. He only asked for that which had already been givento him.
"Captain Aylmer--," she began.
"Why is it to be Captain Aylmer? What have I done that you should useme in this way? It was not I who,--who,--made you unhappy at AylmerPark."
"I will not go back to that. It is of no use. Pray get up. It shocksme to see you in this way."
"Tell me, then, that it is once more all right between us. Say that,and I shall be happier than I ever was before;--yes, than I ever wasbefore. I know how much I love you now, how sore it would be to loseyou. I have been wrong. I had not thought enough of that, but I willthink of it now."
She found that the task before her was very difficult,--so difficultthat she almost broke down in performing it. It would have been soeasy and, for the moment, so pleasant to have yielded. He had hishand upon her arm, having attempted to take her hand. In preventingthat she had succeeded, but she could not altogether make herselffree from him without rising. For a moment she had paused,--paused asthough she were about to yield. For a moment, as he looked into hereyes, he had thought that he would again be victorious. Perhaps therewas something in his glance, some too visible return of triumph tohis eyes, which warned her of her danger. "No!" she said, getting upand walking away from him; "no!"
"And what does 'no' mean, Clara?" Then he also rose, and stoodleaning on the table. "Does it mean that you will be forsworn?"
"It means this,--that I will not come between you and your mother;that I will not be taken into a family in which I am scorned; that Iwill not go to Aylmer Park myself or be the means of preventing youfrom going there."
"There need be no question of Aylmer Park."
"There shall be none!"
"But, so much being allowed, you will be my wife?"
"No, Captain Aylmer;--no. I cannot be your wife. Do not press itfurther; you must know that on such a subject I would think muchbefore I answered you. I have thought much, and I know that I amright."
"And your promised word is to go for nothing?"
"If it will comfort you to say so, you may say it. If you do notperceive that the mistake made between us has been as much yourmistake as mine, and has injured me more than it has injured you, Iwill not remind you of it,--will never remind you of it after this."
"But there has been no mistake,--and there shall be no injury."
"Ah, Captain Aylmer! you do not understand; you cannot understand.I would not for worlds reproach you; but do you think I sufferednothing from your mother?"
"And must I pay for her sins?"
"There shall be no paying, no punishment, and no reproaches. Thereshall be none at least from me. But,--do not think that I speak inanger or in pride,--I will not marry into Lady Aylmer's family."
"This is too bad,--too bad! After all that is past, it is too bad!"
"What can I say? Would you advise me to do that which would make usboth wretched?"
"It would not make me wretched. It would make me happy. It wouldsatisfy me altogether."
"It cannot be, Captain Aylmer. It cannot be. When I speak to you inthat way, will you not let it be final?"
He paused a moment before he spoke again, and then he turned sharpupon her. "Tell me this, Clara; do you love me? Have you ever lovedme?" She did not answer him, but stood there, listening quietly tohis accusations. "You have never loved me, and yet you have allowedyourself to say that you did. Is not that true?" Still she did notanswer. "I ask you whether that is not true?" But though he askedher, and paused for an answer, looking the while full into her face,yet she did not speak. "And now I suppose you will become yourcousin's wife?" he said. "It will suit you to change, and to say thatyou love him."
Then at last she spoke. "I did not think that you would have treatedme in this way, Captain Aylmer! I did not expect that you wouldinsult me!"
"I have not insulted you."
"But your manner to me makes my task easier than I could have hopedit to be. You asked me whether I ever loved you? I once thought thatI did so; and so thinking, told you, without reserve, all my feeling.When I came to find that I had been mistaken, I conceived myselfbound by my engagement to rectify my own error as best I could; and Iresolved, wrongly,--as I now think, very wrongly,--that I could learnas your wife to love you. Then came circumstances which showed methat a release would be good for both of us, and which justified mein accepting it. No girl could be bound by any engagement to a manwho looked on and saw her treated in his own home, by his own mother,as you saw me treated at Aylmer Park. I claim to be released myself,and I know that this release is as good for you as it is for me."
"I am the best judge of that."
"For myself at any rate I will judge. For myself I have decided. NowI have answered the questions which you asked me as to my love foryourself. To that other question which you have thought fit to putto me about my cousin, I refuse to give any answer whatsoever." Then,having said so much, she walked out of the room, closing the doorbehind her, and left him standing there alone.
We need not follow her as she went up, almost mechanically, into herown room,--the room that used to be her own,--and then shut herselfin, waiting till she should be assured, first by sounds in the house,and then by silence, that he was gone. That she fell away greatlyfrom the majesty of her demeanour when she was thus alone, anddescended to the ordinary ways of troubled females, we may be quitesure. But to her there was no further difficulty. Her work for theday was done. In due time she would take herself to the cottage, andall w
ould be well, or, at any rate, comfortable with her. But whatwas he to do? How was he to get himself out of the house, and takehimself back to London? While he had been in pursuit of her, andwhen he was leaving his vehicle at the public-house in the villageof Belton, he,--like some other invading generals,--had failed toprovide adequately for his retreat. When he was alone he took a turnor two about the room, half thinking that Clara would return to him.She could hardly leave him alone in a strange house,--him, who, as hehad twice told her, had come all the way from Yorkshire to see her.But she did not return, and gradually he came to understand that hemust provide for his own retreat without assistance. He was hardlyaware, even now, how greatly he had transcended his usual modes ofspeech and action, both in the energy of his supplication and in theviolence of his rebuke. He had been lifted for awhile out of himselfby the excitement of his position, and now that he was subsidinginto quiescence, he was unconscious that he had almost mounted intopassion,--that he had spoken of love very nearly with eloquence. Buthe did recognise this as a fact,--that Clara was not to be his wife,and that he had better get back from Belton to London as quickly aspossible. It would be well for him to teach himself to look back onthe result of his aunt's dying request as an episode in his lifesatisfactorily concluded. His mother had undoubtedly been right.Clara, he could now see, would have led him a devil of a life; andeven had she come to him possessed of a moiety of the property,--asupposition as to which he had very strong doubts,--still she mighthave been dear at the money. "No real feeling," he said to himself,as he walked about the room,--"none whatever; and then so deficientin delicacy!" But still he was discontented,--because he had beenrejected, and therefore tried to make himself believe that he couldstill have her if he chose to persevere. "But no," he said, as hecontinued to pace the room, "I have done everything,--more thaneverything that honour demands. I shall not ask her again. It isher own fault. She is an imperious woman, and my mother read hercharacter aright." It did not occur to him, as he thus consoledhimself for what he had lost, that his mother's accusation againstClara had been altogether of a different nature. When we consoleourselves by our own arguments, we are not apt to examine theiraccuracy with much strictness.
But whether he were consoled or not, it was necessary that he shouldgo, and in his going he felt himself to be ill-treated. He left theroom, and as he went down-stairs was disturbed and tormented by thecreaking of his own boots. He tried to be dignified as he walkedthrough the hall, and was troubled at his failure, though he was notconscious of any one looking at him. Then it was grievous that heshould have to let himself out of the front door without attendance.At ordinary times he thought as little of such things as most men,and would not be aware whether he opened a door for himself or hadit opened for him by another;--but now there was a distressingawkwardness in the necessity for self-exertion. He did not know theturn of the handle, and was unfamiliar with the manner of exit. Hewas being treated with indignity, and before he had escaped fromthe house had come to think that the Amedroz and Belton people weresomewhat below him. He endeavoured to go out without a noise, butthere was a slam of the door, without which he could not get the lockto work; and Clara, up in her own room, knew all about it.
"Carriage;--yes; of course I want the carriage," he said to theunfortunate boy at the public-house. "Didn't you hear me say thatI wanted it?" He had come down with a pair of horses, and as he sawthem being put to the vehicle he wished he had been contented withone. As he was standing there, waiting, a gentleman rode by, andthe boy, in answer to his question, told him that the horsemanwas Colonel Askerton. Before the day was over Colonel Askertonwould probably know all that had happened to him. "Do move a littlequicker; will you?" he said to the boy and the old man who was todrive him. Then he got into the carriage, and was driven out ofBelton, devoutly purposing that he never would return; and as he madehis way back to Perivale he thought of a certain Lady Emily, whowould, as he assured himself, have behaved much better than ClaraAmedroz had done in any such scene as that which had just takenplace.
When Clara was quite sure that Captain Aylmer was off the premises,she, too, descended, but she did not immediately leave the house. Shewalked through the room, and rang for the old woman, and gave certaindirections,--as to the performance of which she certainly was notvery anxious, and was careful to make Mrs. Bunce understand thatnothing had occurred between her and the gentleman that was eitherexalting or depressing in its nature. "I suppose Captain Aylmer wentout, Mrs. Bunce?" "Oh yes, miss, a went out. I stood and see'd unfrom the top of the kitchen stairs." "You might have opened thedoor for him, Mrs. Bunce." "Indeed then I never thought of it, miss,seeing the house so empty and the like." Clara said that it did notsignify; and then, after an hour of composure, she walked back acrossthe park to the cottage.
"Well?" said Mrs. Askerton as soon as Clara was inside thedrawing-room.
"Well," replied Clara.
"What have you got to tell? Do tell me what you have to tell."
"I have nothing to tell."
"Clara, that is impossible. Have you seen him? I know you have seenhim, because he went by from the house about an hour since."
"Oh yes; I have seen him."
"And what have you said to him?"
"Pray do not ask me these questions just now. I have got to think ofit all;--to think what he did say and what I said."
"But you will tell me."
"Yes; I suppose so." Then Mrs. Askerton was silent on the subjectfor the remainder of the day, allowing Clara even to go to bedwithout another question. And nothing was asked on the followingmorning,--nothing till the usual time for the writing of letters.
"Shall you have anything for the post?" said Mrs. Askerton.
"There is plenty of time yet."
"Not too much if you mean to go out at all. Come, Clara, you hadbetter write to him at once."
"Write to whom? I don't know that I have any letter to write at all."Then there was a pause. "As far as I can see," she said, "I may giveup writing altogether for the future, unless some day you may care tohear from me."
"But you are not going away."
"Not just yet;--if you will keep me. To tell you the truth, Mrs.Askerton, I do not yet know where on earth to take myself."
"Wait here till we turn you out."
"I have got to put my house in order. You know what I mean. The jobought not to be a troublesome one, for it is a very small house."
"I suppose I know what you mean."
"It will not be a very smart establishment. But I must look it all inthe face; must I not? Though it were to be no house at all, I cannotstay here all my life."
"Yes, you may. You have lost Aylmer Park because you were too noblenot to come to us."
"No," said Clara, speaking aloud, with bright eyes,--almost with herhands clenched. "No;--I deny that."
"I shall choose to think so for my own purposes. Clara, you aresavage to me;--almost always savage; but next to him I love youbetter than all the world beside. And so does he. 'It's her courage,'he said to me the other day. 'That she should dare to do as shepleases here, is nothing; but to have dared to persevere in thefangs of that old dragon,'--it was just what he said,--'that waswonderful!'"
"There is an end of the old dragon now, so far as I am concerned."
"Of course there is;--and of the young dragon too. You wouldn't havehad the heart to keep me in suspense if you had accepted him again.You couldn't have been so pleasant last night if that had been so."
"I did not know I was very pleasant."
"Yes, you were. You were soft and gracious,--gracious for you, atleast. And now, dear, do tell me about it. Of course I am dying toknow."
"There is nothing to tell."
"That is nonsense. There must be a thousand things to tell. At anyrate it is quite decided?"
"Yes; it is quite decided."
"All the dragons, old and young, are banished into outer darkness."
"Either that, or else they are to have all the light to themselves.
"
"Such light as glimmers through the gloom of Aylmer Park. And was hecontented? I hope not. I hope you had him on his knees before he leftyou."
"Why should you hope that? How can you talk such nonsense?"
"Because I wish that he should recognise what he has lost;--that heshould know that he has been a fool;--a mean fool."
"Mrs. Askerton, I will not have him spoken of like that. He is a manvery estimable,--of estimable qualities."
"Fiddle-de-dee. He is an ape,--a monkey to be carried on his mother'sorgan. His only good quality was that you could have carried him onyours. I can tell you one thing;--there is not a woman breathing thatwill ever carry William Belton on hers. Whoever his wife may be, shewill have to dance to his piping."
"With all my heart;--and I hope the tunes will be good."
"But I wish I could have been present to have heard whatpassed;--hidden, you know, behind a curtain. You won't tell me?"
"I will tell you not a word more."
"Then I will get it out from Mrs. Bunce. I'll be bound she waslistening."
"Mrs. Bunce will have nothing to tell you; I do not know why youshould be so curious."
"Answer me one question at least:--when it came to the last, did hewant to go on with it? Was the final triumph with him or with you?"
"There was no final triumph. Such things, when they have to end, donot end triumphantly."
"And is that to be all?"
"Yes;--that is to be all."
"And you say that you have no letter to write."
"None;--no letter; none at present; none about this affair. CaptainAylmer, no doubt, will write to his mother, and then all those whoare concerned will have been told."
Clara Amedroz held her purpose and wrote no letter, but Mrs. Askertonwas not so discreet, or so indiscreet, as the case might be. She didwrite,--not on that day or on the next, but before a week had passedby. She wrote to Norfolk, telling Clara not a word of her letter, andby return of post the answer came. But the answer was for Clara, notfor Mrs. Askerton, and was as follows:--
Plaistow Hall, April, 186--.
MY DEAR CLARA,
I don't know whether I ought to tell you but I suppose I may as well tell you, that Mary has had a letter from Mrs. Askerton. It was a kind, obliging letter, and I am very grateful to her. She has told us that you have separated yourself altogether from the Aylmer Park people. I don't suppose you'll think I ought to pretend to be very sorry. I can't be sorry, even though I know how much you have lost in a worldly point of view. I could not bring myself to like Captain Aylmer, though I tried hard.
Oh Mr. Belton, Mr. Belton!
He and I never could have been friends, and it is no use my pretending regret that you have quarrelled with them. But that, I suppose, is all over, and I will not say a word more about the Aylmers.
I am writing now chiefly at Mary's advice, and because she says that something should be settled about the estate. Of course it is necessary that you should feel yourself to be the mistress of your own income, and understand exactly your own position. Mary says that this should be arranged at once, so that you may be able to decide how and where you will live. I therefore write to say that I will have nothing to do with your father's estate at Belton;--nothing, that is, for myself. I have written to Mr. Green to tell him that you are to be considered as the heir. If you will allow me to undertake the management of the property as your agent, I shall be delighted. I think I could do it as well as any one else: and, as we agreed that we would always be dear and close friends, I think that you will not refuse me the pleasure of serving you in this way.
And now Mary has a proposition to make, as to which she will write herself to-morrow, but she has permitted me to speak of it first. If you will accept her as a visitor, she will go to you at Belton. She thinks, and I think too, that you ought to know each other. I suppose nothing would make you come here, at present, and therefore she must go to you. She thinks that all about the estate would be settled more comfortably if you two were together. At any rate, it would be very nice for her,--and I think you would like my sister Mary. She proposes to start about the 10th of May. I should take her as far as London and see her off, and she would bring her own maid with her. In this way she thinks that she would get as far as Taunton very well. She had, perhaps, better stay there for one night, but that can all be settled if you will say that you will receive her at the house.
I cannot finish my letter without saying one word for myself. You know what my feelings have been, and I think you know that they still are, and always must be, the same. From almost the first moment that I saw you I have loved you. When you refused me I was very unhappy; but I thought I might still have a chance, and therefore I resolved to try again. Then, when I heard that you were engaged to Captain Aylmer, I was indeed broken-hearted. Of course I could not be angry with you. I was not angry, but I was simply broken-hearted. I found that I loved you so much that I could not make myself happy without you. It was all of no use, for I knew that you were to be married to Captain Aylmer. I knew it, or thought that I knew it. There was nothing to be done,--only I knew that I was wretched. I suppose it is selfishness, but I felt, and still feel, that unless I can have you for my wife, I cannot be happy or care for anything. Now you are free again,--free, I mean, from Captain Aylmer;--and how is it possible that I should not again have a hope? Nothing but your marriage or death could keep me from hoping.
I don't know much about the Aylmers. I know nothing of what has made you quarrel with the people at Aylmer Park;--nor do I want to know. To me you are once more that Clara Amedroz with whom I used to walk in Belton Park, with your hand free to be given wherever your heart can go with it. While it is free I shall always ask for it. I know that it is in many ways above my reach. I quite understand that in education and habits of thinking you are my superior. But nobody can love you better than I do. I sometimes fancy that nobody could ever love you so well. Mary thinks that I ought to allow a time to go by before I say all this again;--but what is the use of keeping it back? It seems to me to be more honest to tell you at once that the only thing in the world for which I care one straw is that you should be my wife.
Your most affectionate Cousin,
WILLIAM BELTON.
"Miss Belton is coming here, to the castle, in a fortnight," saidClara that morning at breakfast. Both Colonel Askerton and his wifewere in the room, and she was addressing herself chiefly to theformer.
"Indeed, Miss Belton! And is he coming?" said Colonel Askerton.
"So you have heard from Plaistow?" said Mrs. Askerton.
"Yes;--in answer to your letter. No, Colonel Askerton, my cousinWilliam is not coming. But his sister purposes to be here, and I mustgo up to the house and get it ready."
"That will do when the time comes," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I did not mean quite immediately."
"And are you to be her guest, or is she to be yours?" said ColonelAskerton.
"It's her brother's home, and therefore I suppose I must be hers.Indeed it must be so, as I have no means of entertaining any one."
"Something, no doubt, will be settled," said the Colonel.
"Oh, what a weary word that is," said Clara; "weary, at least, fora woman's ears! It sounds of poverty and dependence, and endlesstrouble given to others, and all the miseries of female dependence.If I were a young man I should be allowed to settle for myself."
"There would be no question about the property in that case," saidthe Colonel.
"And there need be no question now," said Mrs. Askerton.
When the two women were alone together, Clara, of course, scolded herfriend for having written to Norfolk without letting it be known thatshe was doing so;--scolded her, and declared how vain it was for herto make useless efforts for an unattainable end; but Mrs. Askertonalways managed to sl
ip out of these reproaches, neither assertingherself to be right, nor owning herself to be wrong. "But you mustanswer his letter," she said.
"Of course I shall do that."
"I wish I knew what he said."
"I shan't show it you, if you mean that."
"All the same I wish I knew what he said."
Clara, of course, did answer the letter; but she wrote her answer toMary, sending, however, one little scrap to Mary's brother. She wroteto Mary at great length, striving to explain, with long and laboriousarguments, that it was quite impossible that she should accept theBelton estate from her cousin. That subject, however, and the mannerof her future life, she would discuss with her dear cousin Mary, whenMary should have arrived. And then Clara said how she would go toTaunton to meet her cousin, and how she would prepare William's housefor the reception of William's sister; and how she would love hercousin when she should come to know her. All of which was exceedinglyproper and pretty. Then there was a little postscript, "Give theenclosed to William." And this was the note to William:--
DEAR WILLIAM,
Did you not say that you would be my brother? Be my brother always. I will accept from your hands all that a brother could do; and when that arrangement is quite fixed, I will love you as much as Mary loves you, and trust you as completely; and I will be obedient, as a younger sister should be.
Your loving Sister,
C. A.
"It's all no good," said William Belton, as he crunched the note inhis hand. "I might as well shoot myself. Get out of the way there,will you?" And the injured groom scudded across the farm-yard,knowing that there was something wrong with his master.