CHAPTER V.
NOT SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING.
"Why don't you call him Will?" Clara said to her father. Thisquestion was asked on the evening of that Monday on which Mr. Amedrozhad 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 itimpertinent now."
"Indeed he would not; he would like it. He has told me so. It soundsso cold to him to be called Mr. Belton by his relations."
The father looked at his daughter as though for a moment he almostsuspected that matters had really been arranged between her and herfuture lover without his concurrence, and before his sanction hadbeen obtained. But if for a moment such a thought did cross his mind,it did not dwell there. He trusted Belton; but as to his daughter, heknew that he might be sure of her. It would be impossible with her tokeep such a secret from him, even for half a day. And yet, how oddit was! Here was a man who in three days had fallen in love with hisdaughter; and here was his daughter apparently quite as ready to bein love with the man. How could she, who was ordinarily circumspect,and almost cold in her demeanour towards strangers--who was fromcircumstances and from her own disposition altogether hostile toflirting intimacies--how could his Clara have changed her natureso speedily? The squire did not understand it, but was prepared tobelieve that it was all for the best. "I'll call him Will, if youlike it," said he.
"Do, papa, and then I can do so also. He is such a good fellow, andI am so fond of him."
On the next morning Mr. Amedroz did, with much awkwardness, callhis guest by his Christian name. Clara caught her cousin's eye andsmiled, and he also smiled. At that moment he was more in love thanever. Could anything be more charming than this? Immediately afterbreakfast he was going over to Redicote, to see a builder in a smallway who lived there, and whom he proposed to employ in putting up theshed for the cattle; but he almost begrudged the time, so anxious washe to begin his suit. But his plan had been laid out and he wouldfollow it. "I think I shall be back by three o'clock," he said toClara, "and then we'll have our walk."
"I'll be ready; and you can call for me at Mrs. Askerton's. I must godown there, and it will save you something in your walk to pick me upat 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. Whatshe had heard from her cousin as to a certain Miss Vigo of old dayshad interested her, and also what she had heard of a certain Mr.Berdmore. It had been evident to her that her cousin had thoughtlittle about it. The likeness of the lady he then saw to the lady hehad before known, had at first struck him; but when he found that thetwo ladies were not represented by one and the same person, he wassatisfied, and there was an end of the matter for him. But it wasnot so with Clara. Her feminine mind dwelt on the matter with moreearnestness than he had cared to entertain, and her clearer intellectsaw possibilities which did not occur to him. But it was not tillshe found herself walking across the park to the cottage thatshe remembered that any inquiries as to her past life might bedisagreeable to Mrs. Askerton. She had thought of asking her friendplainly whether the names of Vigo and Berdmore had ever been familiarto her; but she reminded herself that there had been rumours afloat,and that there might be a mystery. Mrs. Askerton would sometimes talkof her early life; but she would do this with dreamy, indistinctlanguage, speaking of the sorrows of her girlhood, but not specifyingtheir exact nature, seldom mentioning any names, and never referringwith clear personality to those who had been nearest to her whenshe had been a child. Clara had seen her friend's maiden name, MaryOliphant, written in a book, and seeing it had alluded to it. Onthat occasion Mrs. Askerton had spoken of herself as having been anOliphant, and thus Clara had come to know the fact. But now, as shemade her way to the cottage, she remembered that she had learnednothing more than this as to Mrs. Askerton's early life. Such beingthe case, she hardly knew how to ask any question about the two namesthat had been mentioned. And yet, why should she not ask such aquestion? 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 certainlywould ask no such question in his presence. He was a slight built,wiry man, about fifty, with iron-grey hair and beard,--who seemed tohave no trouble in life, and to desire but few pleasures. Nothingcould be more regular than the course of his days, and nothing moreidle. He breakfasted at eleven, smoked and read till the afternoon,when he rode for an hour or two; then he dined, read again, smokedagain, and went to bed. In September and October he shot, and twicein the year, as has been before stated, went away to seek a littleexcitement elsewhere. He seemed to be quite contented with his lot,and was never heard to speak an angry word to any one. Nobody caredfor him much; but then he troubled himself with no one's affairs. Henever went to church, and had not eaten or drank in any house but hisown since he had come to Belton.
"Oh, Clara, you naughty girl," said Mrs. Askerton, "why didn't youcome yesterday? I was expecting you all day."
"I was busy. Really, we've grown to be quite industrious people sincemy cousin came."
"They tell me he's taking the land into his own hands," said theColonel.
"Yes, indeed; and he is going to build sheds, and buy cattle; andI don't know what he doesn't mean to do; so that we shall be aliveagain."
"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 heardof his proceedings I began to be afraid."
"I don't think he would do anything to annoy you for the world," saidClara, enthusiastically. "He's the most unselfish person I ever met."
"He'd have a perfect right to take the shooting if he liked it,--thatis always supposing that he and your father agreed about it."
"They agree about everything now. He has altogether disarmed papa'sprejudices, and it seems to be recognised that he is to have his ownway about the place. But I don't think he'll interfere about theshooting."
"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 thehorse'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 anill-natured smile, and Clara felt that she blushed. Was it not cruelthat she could not say a word in favour of a friend and a cousin,--acousin who had promised to be a brother to her, without being treatedwith such words and such looks as these? But she was determined notto be put down. "I'm quite sure of this," she said, "that my cousinwould do nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike."
"There would be nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike in it. I shouldn'ttake 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 himbefore he goes. I did call yesterday, but he was out."
"He'll be here soon. He's to come here for me." But ColonelAskerton's horse was brought to the door, and he could not thereforewait to make Mr. Belton's acquaintance on that occasion.
"What a phoenix this cousin of yours is," said Mrs. Askerton, assoon as her husband was gone.
"He is a splendid fellow;--he is indeed. There's so much life abouthim! He's always doing something. He says that doing good will alwayspay 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. Hecouldn't bear the idea of Will's coming, and now he is alreadybeginning 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 beanything 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 besuch a suspicion because he and I are thrown closely together, andare fond of each other. Whether he is a sixth, eighth, or tenthcousin 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 naturalthat he should be my friend;--and such a comfort that he should besuch a friend as he is! I own it seems cruel to me that under suchcircumstances there should be any suspicion."
"Suspicion, my dear;--suspicion of what?"
"Not that I care for it. I am prepared to love him as if hewere my brother. I think him one of the finest creatures I everknew,--perhaps the finest I ever did know. His energy and good-naturetogether are just the qualities to make the best kind of man. I amproud of him as my friend and my cousin, and now you may suspect whatyou please."
"But, my dear, why should not he fall in love with you? It would bethe most proper, and also the most convenient thing in the world."
"I hate talking of falling in love;--as though a woman has nothingelse 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 hisface, and hear it in his voice, and am so happy that it is so. But itisn't in the way that you mean. Heaven knows that I may want a friendsome of these days, and I feel that I may trust to him. His feelingsto me will be always those of a brother."
"Perhaps so. I have seen that fraternal love before under similarcircumstances, 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 makesyou so indignant,--is simply a suggestion that a thing should happenwhich, of all things in the world, would be the best for both ofyou."
"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 aboutany one else. It makes me feel ashamed of my sex, when I find thatI cannot talk of myself to another woman without being supposed tobe either in love or thinking of love,--either looking for it oravoiding it. When it comes, if it comes prosperously, it's a verygood thing. But I for one can do without it, and I feel myselfinjured when such a state of things is presumed to be impossible."
"It is worth any one's while to irritate you, because yourindignation is so beautiful."
"It is not beautiful to me; for I always feel ashamed afterwards ofmy own energy. And now, if you please, we won't say anything moreabout 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 seemedto think that he had known you ever so many years ago." Clara, asshe said this, did not look direct at her friend's face; but stillshe could perceive that Mrs. Askerton was disconcerted. There came ashade 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 notyou, but somebody whom he remembers to have been like you. He saysthat the lady was a Miss Vigo." As she pronounced the name, Claraturned her face away, feeling instinctively that it would be kind todo so.
"Miss Vigo!" said Mrs. Askerton at once; and there was that in thetone of her voice which made Clara feel that all was not right withher. "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, andthere was an evident struggle, as though the woman was making avehement effort to speak in her natural voice. Then Clara looked ather, feeling that if she abstained from doing so, the very fact ofher so abstaining would be remarkable. There was the look of pain onMrs. Askerton's brow, and her cheeks were still pale, but she smiledas she went on speaking. "I'm sure I'm flattered, for I remember thatthey were both considered beauties. Did he know anything more ofher?"
"No; nothing more."
"There must have been some casual likeness I suppose." Mrs. Askertonwas a clever woman, and had by this time almost recovered herself-possession. Then there came a ring at the front door, and inanother minute Mr. Belton was in the room. Mrs. Askerton felt that itwas imperative on her to make some allusion to the conversation whichhad just taken place, and dashed at the subject at once. "Clara tellsme 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 tosay that she was my friend, Mrs. Askerton," he said; "indeed therewas hardly what might be called an acquaintance between us; but youcertainly are extremely like a certain Miss Vigo that I remember."
"I often wonder that one person isn't more often found to be likeanother," said Mrs. Askerton.
"People often are like," said he; "but not like in such a way as togive rise to mistakes as to identity. Now, I should have stopped youin the street and called you Mrs. Berdmore."
"Didn't I once see or hear the name of Berdmore in this house?" askedClara.
Then that look of pain returned. Mrs. Askerton had succeeded inrecovering the usual tone of her countenance, but now she was oncemore 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 CaptainBerdmore,--a long while ago, before he was married; and you mayprobably have heard him mention the name." This did not quite satisfyClara, but she said nothing more about it then. If there was amystery which Mrs. Askerton did not wish to have explored, why shouldshe explore it?
Soon after this Clara got up to go, and Mrs. Askerton, making anotherattempt to be cheerful, was almost successful. "So you're going backinto Norfolk on Saturday, Clara tells me. You are making a very shortvisit now that you're come among us."
"It is a long time for me to be away from home. Farmers can hardlyever dare to leave their work. But in spite of my farm, I am talkingof 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 younot?" Then they went, and Belton had to consider how he would beginthe work before him. He had some idea that too much precipitancymight do him an injury, but he hardly knew how to commence withoutcoming 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," hesaid.
"But you see that they are not."
"It's not only the likeness, but the voice. It so chanced that I oncesaw that Miss Vigo in some trouble. I happened to meet her in companywith a man who was,--who was tipsy, in fact, and I had to relieveher."
"Dear me,--how disagreeable!"
"It's a long time ago, and there can't be any harm in mentioning itnow. 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 Icannot get rid of the idea."
"They can't be the same, as she was certainly a Miss Oliphant. Andyou 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 hascertainly been a great comfort to me. It is sad not having some womannear one that one can speak to;--and then, I really do like her verymuch."
"No doubt it's all right."
"Yes; it's all right," said Clara. After that there was nothing moresaid about Mrs. Askerton, and Belton began his work. They had gonefrom the cottage, across the park, away from the house, up to a highrock which stood boldly out of the ground, from whence could be seenthe sea on one side, and on the other a far tract of country almostaway to the moors. And when they reached this spot they seatedthemselves. "There," said Clara, "I consider this to be the prettiestspot in England."
"I haven't seen all England," said Belton.
"Don't be so matter-of-fact, Will. I say it's the prettiest inEngland, and you can't contradict me."
"And I say you're the prettiest girl in England, and you can'tcontradict me."
This annoyed Clara, and almost made her feel that her paragon of acousin was not quite so perfect as she had represented him to be. "Isee," 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 talkedabout at all. What would you think if I began to pay you foolishpersonal 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 couldnot be that after all her boastings she should have made so gross ablunder. "I hope you do love me," she said; "indeed, you are bound todo so, for you promised that you would be my brother."
"But that will not satisfy me now, Clara. Clara, I want to be yourhusband."
"Will!" she exclaimed.
"Now you know it all; and if I have been too sudden, I must beg yourpardon."
"Oh, Will, forget that you have said this. Do not go on untileverything must be over between us."
"Why should anything be over between us? Why should it be wrong in meto love you?"
"What will papa say?"
"Mr. Amedroz knows all about it already, and has given me hisconsent. I asked him directly I had made up my own mind, and he toldme 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 seatand stood before her. He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and hecould assume a look and mien that were almost noble when he was movedas he was moved now.
"Odious! Do you not know that I have loved you as my cousin--thatI have already learned to trust you as though you were really mybrother? But this breaks it all."
"You cannot love me then as my wife?"
"No." She pronounced the monosyllable alone, and then he walked awayfrom 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 twohundred yards, as though the interview was over, and he were leavingher. She, as she saw him go, wished that he would return that shemight say some word of comfort to him. Not that she could have saidthe only word that would have comforted him. At the first blush ofthe thing, at the first sound of the address which he had made toher, she had been angry with him. He had disappointed her, and shewas indignant. But her anger had already melted and turned itself toruth. She could not but love him better, in that he had loved her sowell; 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 hillthe distance that has been named, he turned back, and came up to herslowly. He had a trick of standing and walking with his thumbs fixedinto the armholes of his waistcoat, while his large hands rested onhis breast. He would always assume this attitude when he was assuredthat he was right in his views, and was eager to carry some pointat issue. Clara already understood that this attitude signified hisintention to be autocratic. He now came close up to her, and againstood over her, before he spoke. "My dear," he said, "I have beenrough and hasty in what I have said to you, and I have to ask you topardon my want of manners."
"No, no, no," she exclaimed.
"But in a matter of so much interest to us both you will not let anawkward manner prejudice me."
"It is not that; indeed, it is not."
"Listen to me, dearest. It is true that I promised to be yourbrother, and I will not break my word unless I break it by your ownsanction. I did promise to be your brother, but I did not know thenhow fondly I should come to love you. Your father, when I told him ofthis, bade me not to be hasty; but I am hasty, and I haven't knownhow 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 yourbrother, 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 inthe expression of his countenance. "Will you not let it wait tillChristmas?" he asked.
She thought it would be cruel to refuse this request, and yet sheknew that no such waiting could be of service to him. He had beenawkward in his love-making, and was aware of it. He should havecontrived this period of waiting for himself; giving her no optionbut to wait and think of it. He should have made no proposal, buthave left her certain that such proposal was coming. In such case shemust have waited--and if good could have come to him from that, hemight have received it. But, as the question was now presented toher, it was impossible that she should consent to wait. To have givensuch consent would have been tantamount to receiving him as herlover. She was therefore forced to be cruel.
"It will be of no avail to postpone my answer when I know what itmust 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 aquestion as that, and I should be worse than a fool were I to pressit. It must then be considered as settled?"
She got up and clung to his arm. "Oh, Will, do not look at me likethat!"
"It must then be considered as settled?" he repeated.
"Yes, Will, yes. Pray consider it as settled." He then sat down onthe rock again, and she came and sat by him,--near to him, but notclose as she had been before. She turned her eyes upon him, gazing onhim, but did not speak to him; and he sat also without speaking for awhile, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "I suppose we may go backto the house?" he said at last.
"Give me your hand, Will, and tell me that you will still love me--asyour sister."
He gave her his hand. "If you ever want a brother's care you shallhave 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 becausemy love is in vain. Instead of making me happy it will make mewretched. 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 hadopened the front door for her, he parted from her and stood aloneunder the porch, thinking of his misfortune.
The Belton Estate Page 5