CHAPTER VI.
SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING ONCE AGAIN.
For a considerable time Belton stood under the porch of the house,thinking of what had happened to him, and endeavouring to steadyhimself under the blow which he had received. I do not know that hehad been sanguine of success. Probably he had made to himself noassurances on the subject. But he was a man to whom failure, ofitself, was intolerable. In any other event of life he would havetold himself that he would not fail--that he would persevere andconquer. He could imagine no other position as to which he could atonce have been assured of failure, in any project on which he had sethis heart. But as to this project it was so. He had been told thatshe could not love him--that she could never love him;--and he hadbelieved her. He had made his attempt and had failed; and, as hethought of this, standing under the porch, he became convinced thatlife for him was altogether changed, and that he who had been sohappy must now be a wretched man.
He was still standing there when Mr. Amedroz came down into thehall, dressed for dinner, and saw his figure through the open doors."Will," he said, coming up to him, "it only wants five minutes todinner." Belton started and shook himself, as though he were shakingoff a lethargy, and declared that he was quite ready. Then heremembered that he would be expected to dress, and rushed up-stairs,three steps at a time, to his own room. When he came down, Clara andher father were already in the dining-room, and he joined them there.
Mr. Amedroz, though he was not very quick in reading facts from themanners of those with whom he lived, had felt assured that things hadgone wrong between Belton and his daughter. He had not as yet had aminute in which to speak to Clara, but he was certain that it was so.Indeed, it was impossible not to read terrible disappointment anddeep grief in the young man's manner. He made no attempt to concealit, though he did not speak of it. Through the whole evening, thoughhe was alone for a while with the squire, and alone also for a timewith Clara, he never mentioned or alluded to the subject of hisrejection. But he bore himself as though he knew and they knew--asthough all the world knew that he had been rejected. And yet he didnot remain silent. He talked of his property and of his plans, andexplained how things were to be done in his absence. Once only wasthere something like an allusion made to his sorrow. "But you will behere at Christmas?" said Mr. Amedroz, in answer to something whichBelton had said as to work to be done in his absence. "I do not knowhow that may be now," said Belton. And then they had all been silent.
It was a terrible evening to Clara. She endeavoured to talk, butfound it to be impossible. All the brightness of the last few dayshad disappeared, and the world seemed to her to be more sad andsolemn than ever. She had no idea when she was refusing him that hewould have taken it to heart as he had done. The question had comebefore her for decision so suddenly, that she had not, in fact, hadtime to think of this as she was making her answer. All she had donewas to feel that she could not be to him what he wished her to be.And even as yet she had hardly asked herself why she must be sosteadfast in her refusal. But she had refused him steadfastly, andshe did not for a moment think of reducing the earnestness of herresolution. It seemed to be manifest to her, from his present manner,that he would never ask the question again; but she was sure, let itbe asked ever so often, that it could not be answered in any otherway.
Mr. Amedroz, not knowing why it was so, became cross and querulous,and scolded his daughter. To Belton, also, he was captious, makinglittle difficulties, and answering him with petulance. This therejected lover took with most extreme patience, as though such atrifling annoyance had no effect in adding anything to his misery. Hestill held his purpose of going on the Saturday, and was still intenton work which was to be done before he went; but it seemed that hewas satisfied to do everything now as a duty, and that the enjoymentof the thing, which had heretofore been so conspicuous, was over.
At last they separated, and Clara, as was her wont, went up to herfather's room. "Papa," she said, "what is all this about Mr. Belton?"
"All what, my dear? what do you mean?"
"He has asked me to be,--to be his wife; and has told me that he camewith your consent."
"And why shouldn't he have my consent? What is there amiss with him?Why shouldn't you marry him if he likes you? You seemed, I thought,to be very fond of him."
This surprised Clara more than anything. She could hardly have toldherself why, but she would have thought that such a propositionfrom her cousin would have made her father angry,--unreasonablyangry;--angry with him for presuming to have such an idea; but now itseemed that he was going to be angry with her for not accepting hercousin out of hand.
"Yes, papa; I am fond of him; but not like that. I did not expectthat he would think of me in that way."
"But why shouldn't he think of you? It would be a very good marriagefor you, as far as money is concerned."
"You would not have me marry any one for that reason;--would you,papa?"
"But you seemed to like him. Well; of course I can't make you likehim. I meant to do for the best; and when he came to me as he did,I thought he was behaving very handsomely, and very much like agentleman."
"I am sure he would do that."
"And if I could have thought that this place would be your home whenI am gone, it would have made me very happy;--very happy."
She now came and stood close to him and took his hand. "I hope, papa,you do not make yourself uneasy about me. I shall do very well. I'msure you can't want me to go away and leave you."
"How will you do very well? I'm sure I don't know. And if your auntWinterfield means to provide for you, it would only be kind in herto let me know it, so that I might not have the anxiety always on mymind."
Clara knew well enough what was to be the disposition of her aunt'sproperty, but she could not tell her father of that now. She almostfelt that it was her duty to do so, but she could not bring herselfto do it. She could only beg him not to be anxious on her behalf,making vague assurances that she would do very well. "And you aredetermined not to change your mind about Will?" he said at last.
"I shall not change my mind about that, papa, certainly," sheanswered. Then he turned away from her, and she saw that he wasdispleased.
When alone, she was forced to ask herself why it was that she was socertain. Alas! there could in truth be no doubt on that subject inher own mind. When she sat down, resolved to give herself an answer,there was no doubt. She could not love her cousin, Will Belton,because her heart belonged to Captain Aylmer.
But she knew that she had received nothing in exchange for her heart.He had been kind to her on that journey to Taunton, when the agonyarising from her brother's death had almost crushed her. He hadoften been kind to her on days before that,--so kind, so soft inhis manners, approaching so nearly to the little tendernesses ofincipient love-making, that the idea of regarding him as her loverhad of necessity forced itself upon her. But in nothing had he gonebeyond those tendernesses, which need not imperatively be madeto mean anything, though they do often mean so much. It was nowtwo years since she had first thought that Captain Aylmer wasthe most perfect gentleman she knew, and nearly two years sinceMrs. Winterfield had expressed to her a hope that Captain Aylmermight become her husband. She had replied that such a thing wasimpossible,--as any girl would have replied; and had in consequencetreated Captain Aylmer with all the coolness which she had beenable to assume whenever she was in company with him in her aunt'spresence. Nor was it natural to her to be specially gracious to a manunder such trying circumstances, even when no Mrs. Winterfield wasthere to behold. And so things had gone on. Captain Aylmer had nowand again made himself very pleasant to her,--at certain tryingperiods of joy or trouble almost more than pleasant. But nothing hadcome of it, and Clara had told herself that Captain Aylmer had nospecial feeling in her favour. She had told herself this, ever sincethat journey together from Perivale to Taunton; but never till nowhad she also confessed to herself what was her own case.
She made a comparison between the two men. Her cou
sin Will was, shethought, the more generous, the more energetic,--perhaps, by nature,the man of the higher gifts. In person he was undoubtedly thesuperior. He was full of noble qualities;--forgetful of self,industrious, full of resources, a very man of men, able to command,eager in doing work for others' good and his own,--a man altogetheruncontaminated by the coldness and selfishness of the outer world.But he was rough, awkward, but indifferently educated, and with fewof those tastes which to Clara Amedroz were delightful. He couldnot read poetry to her, he could not tell her of what the world ofliterature was doing now or of what it had done in times past. Heknew nothing of the inner world of worlds which governs the world.She doubted whether he could have told her who composed the existingcabinet, or have given the name of a single bishop beyond the see inwhich his own parish was situated. But Captain Aylmer knew everybody,and had read everything, and understood, as though by instinct, allthe movements of the world in which he lived.
But what mattered any such comparison? Even though she should be ableto prove to herself beyond the shadow of a doubt that her cousin Willwas of the two the fitter to be loved,--the one more worthy of herheart,--no such proof could alter her position. Love does not go byworth. She did not love her cousin as she must love any man to whomshe could give her hand,--and, alas! she did love that other man.
On this night I doubt whether Belton did slumber with that solidityof repose which was usual to him. At any rate, before he came down inthe morning he had found time for sufficient thought, and had broughthimself to a resolution. He would not give up the battle as lost. Tohis thinking there was something weak and almost mean in abandoningany project which he had set before himself. He had been awkward, andhe exaggerated to himself his own awkwardness. He had been hasty, andhad gone about his task with inconsiderate precipitancy. It might bethat he had thus destroyed all his chance of success. But, as he saidto himself, "he would never say die, as long as there was a puff ofbreath left to him." He would not mope, and hang down his head, andwear the willow. Such a state of things would ill suit either theroughness or the readiness of his life. No! He would bear like a manthe disappointment which had on this occasion befallen him, and wouldreturn at Christmas and once more try his fortune.
At breakfast, therefore, the cloud had passed from his brow. When hecame in he found Clara alone in the room, and he simply shook handswith her after his ordinary fashion. He said nothing of yesterday,and almost succeeded in looking as though yesterday had been inno wise memorable. She was not so much at her ease, but she alsoreceived some comfort from his demeanour. Mr. Amedroz came downalmost immediately, and Belton soon took an opportunity of sayingthat he would be back at Christmas if Mr. Amedroz would receive him.
"Certainly," said the squire. "I thought it had been all settled."
"So it was;--till I said a word yesterday which foolishly seemed tounsettle it. But I have thought it over again, and I find that I canmanage it."
"We shall be so glad to have you!" said Clara.
"And I shall be equally glad to come. They are already at work, sir,about the sheds."
"Yes; I saw the carts full of bricks go by," said the squire,querulously. "I didn't know there was to be any brickwork. You saidyou would have it made of deal slabs with oak posts."
"You must have a foundation, sir. I propose to carry the brickwork afoot and a half above the ground."
"I suppose you know best. Only that kind of thing is so very ugly."
"If you find it to be ugly after it is done, it shall be pulled downagain."
"No;--it can never come down again."
"It can;--and it shall, if you don't like it. I never think anythingof changes like that."
"I think they'll be very pretty!" said Clara.
"I dare say," said the squire; "but at any rate it won't make muchdifference to me. I shan't be here long to see them."
This was rather melancholy; but Belton bore up even against this,speaking cheery words and expressing bright hopes,--so that itseemed, both to Clara and to her father, that he had in a greatmeasure overcome the disappointment of the preceding day. It wasprobable that he was a man not prone to be deeply sensitive in suchmatters for any long period. The period now had certainly not beenlong, and yet Will Belton was alive again.
Immediately after breakfast there occurred a little incident whichwas not without its effect upon them all. There came up on the drive,immediately before the front door, under the custody of a boy, a cow.It was an Alderney cow, and any man or woman at all understandingcows, would at once have perceived that this cow was perfect in herkind. Her eyes were mild, and soft, and bright. Her legs were likethe legs of a deer; and in her whole gait and demeanour she almostgave the lie to her own name, asserting herself to have sprung fromsome more noble origin among the woods, than may be supposed tobe the origin of the ordinary domestic cow,--a useful animal, butheavy in its appearance, and seen with more pleasure at some littledistance than at close quarters. But this cow was graceful in itsmovements, and almost tempted one to regard her as the far-offdescendant of the elk or the antelope.
"What's that?" said Mr. Amedroz, who, having no cows of his own, wasnot pleased to see one brought up in that way before his hall door."There's somebody's cow come here."
Clara understood it in a moment; but she was pained, and saidnothing. Had the cow come without any such scene as that ofyesterday, she would have welcomed the animal with all cordiality,and would have sworn to her cousin that the cow should be cherishedfor his sake. But after what had passed it was different. How was sheto take any present from him now?
But Belton faced the difficulty without any bashfulness or apparentregret. "I told you I would give you a cow," said he, "and here sheis."
"What can she want with a cow?" said Mr. Amedroz.
"I am sure she wants one very much. At any rate she won't refuse thepresent from me; will you, Clara?"
What could she say? "Not if papa will allow me to keep it."
"But we've no place to put it!" said the squire. "We haven't gotgrass for it!"
"There's plenty of grass," said Belton. "Come, Mr. Amedroz; I've madea point of getting this little creature for Clara, and you mustn'tstand in the way of my gratification." Of course he was successful,and of course Clara thanked him with tears in her eyes.
The next two days passed by without anything special to mark them,and then the cousin was to go. During the period of his visit he didnot see Colonel Askerton, nor did he again see Mrs. Askerton. Hewent to the cottage once, with the special object of returning theColonel's call; but the master was out, and he was not speciallyinvited in to see the mistress. He said nothing more to Clara abouther friends, but he thought of the matter more than once, as hewas going about the place, and became aware that he would like toascertain whether there was a mystery, and if so, what was itsnature. He knew that he did not like Mrs. Askerton, and he feltalso that Mrs. Askerton did not like him. This was, as he thought,unfortunate; for might it not be the case, that in the one matterwhich was to him of so much importance, Mrs. Askerton might haveconsiderable influence over Clara?
During these days nothing special was said between him and Clara. Thelast evening passed over without anything to brighten it or to makeit memorable. Mr. Amedroz, in his passive, but gently querulous way,was sorry that Belton was going to leave him, as his cousin had beenthe creation of some new excitement for him, but he said nothing onthe subject; and when the time for going to bed had come, he bade hisguest farewell with some languid allusion to the pleasure which hewould have in seeing him again at Christmas. Belton was to start veryearly in the morning,--before six, and of course he was prepared totake leave also of Clara. But she told him very gently, so gentlythat her father did not hear it, that she would be up to give him acup of coffee before he went.
"Oh no," he said.
"But I shall. I won't have you go without seeing you out of thedoor."
And on the following morning she was up before him. She hardlyunderstood, herself, why she was d
oing this. She knew that it shouldbe her object to avoid any further special conversation on thatsubject which they had discussed up among the rocks. She knew thatshe could give him no comfort, and that he could give none to her. Itwould seem that he was willing to let the remembrance of the scenepass away, so that it should be as though it had never been; andsurely it was not for her to disturb so salutary an arrangement!But yet she was up to bid him Godspeed as he went. She could notbear,--so she excused the matter to herself,--she could not bear tothink that he should regard her as ungrateful. She knew all that hehad done for them. She had perceived that the taking of the land, thebuilding of the sheds, the life which he had contrived in so short atime to throw into the old place, had all come from a desire on hispart to do good to those in whose way he stood by family arrangementsmade almost before his birth; and she longed to say to him oneword of thanks. And had he not told her,--once in the heat ofhis disappointment; for then at that moment, as Clara said toherself, she supposed that he must have been in some measuredisappointed,--had he not even then told her that when she wanteda brother's care, a brother's care should be given to her by him?Was she not therefore bound to do for him what she would do for abrother?
She, with her own hands, brought the coffee into the little breakfastparlour, and handed the cup into his hands. The gig, which had comeovernight from Taunton, was not yet at the door, and there was aminute or two during which they must speak to each other. Who has notseen some such girl when she has come down early, without the fullcompleteness of her morning toilet, and yet nicer, fresher, prettierto the eye of him who is so favoured, than she has ever been in moreformal attire? And what man who has been so favoured has not lovedher who has so favoured him, even though he may not previously havebeen enamoured as deeply as poor Will Belton?
"This is so good of you," he said.
"I wish I knew how to be good to you," she answered,--not meaning totrench upon dangerous ground, but feeling, as the words came fromher, that she had done so. "You have been so good to us, so very goodto papa, that we owe you everything. I am so grateful to you forsaying that you will come back at Christmas."
He had resolved that he would refrain from further love-making tillthe winter; but he found it very hard to refrain when so addressed.To take her in his arms, and kiss her twenty times, and swear that hewould never let her go,--to claim her at once savagely as his own,that was the line of conduct to which temptation prompted him. Howcould she look at him so sweetly, how could she stand before him,ministering to him with all her pretty maidenly charms brought soclose to him, without intending that he should love her? But he didrefrain. "Blood is thicker than water," said he. "That's the realreason why I first came."
"I understand that quite, and it is that feeling that makes you sogood. But I'm afraid you are spending a great deal of money here--andall for our sakes."
"Not at all. I shall get my money back again. And if I didn't, whatthen? I've plenty of money. It is not money that I want."
She could not ask him what it was that he did want, and she wasobliged therefore to begin again. "Papa will look forward so to thewinter now."
"And so shall I."
"But you must come for longer then;--you won't go away at the end ofa week? Say that you won't."
"I'll see about it. I can't tell quite yet. You'll write me a line tosay when the shed is finished, won't you?"
"That I will, and I'll tell you how Bessy goes on." Bessy was thecow. "I will be so very fond of her. She'll come to me for applesalready."
Belton thought that he would go to her, wherever she might be, evenif he were to get no apples. "It's all cupboard love with them," hesaid. "I'll tell you what I'll do;--when I come, I'll bring you a dogthat will follow you without thinking of apples." Then the gig washeard on the gravel before the door, and Belton was forced to go. Fora moment he reflected whether, as her cousin, it was not his duty tokiss her. It was a matter as to which he had doubt,--as is the casewith many male cousins; but ultimately he resolved that if he kissedher at all he would not kiss her in that light, and so he againrefrained. "Good-bye," he said, putting out his great hand to her.
"Good-bye, Will, and God bless you." I almost think he might havekissed her, asking himself no questions as to the light in which itwas done.
As he turned from her he saw the tears in her eyes; and as he sat inthe gig, thinking of them, other tears came into his own. By heaven,he would have her yet! He was a man who had not read much of romance.To him all the imagined mysteries of passion had not been made commonby the perusal of legions of love stories;--but still he knew enoughof the game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were,of their own teeth. He knew that he could not now run away with her,taking her off by force; but still he might conquer her will by hisown. As he remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of hervoice, and the pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that hadbecome tender in its expression, he could not but think that he wouldbe wise to love her still. Wise or foolish, he did love her still;and it should not be owing to fault of his if she did not become hiswife. As he drove along he saw little of the Quantock hills, littleof the rich Somersetshire pastures, little of the early beauty of theAugust morning. He saw nothing but her eyes, moistened with brighttears, and before he reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with manyrevilings in that he had parted from her and not kissed her.
Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out ofsight,--watching it as well as her tears would allow. What a grandcousin he was! Had it not been a pity,--a thousand pities,--thatthat grievous episode should have come to mar the brotherly love,the sisterly confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfectbetween them? But perhaps it might all be well yet. Clara knew,or thought that she knew, that men and women differed in theirappreciation of love. She, having once loved, could not change. Ofthat she was sure. Her love might be fortunate or unfortunate. Itmight be returned, or it might simply be her own, to destroy allhope of happiness for her on earth. But whether it were this or that,whether productive of good or evil, the love itself could not bechanged. But with men she thought it might be different. Her cousin,doubtless, had been sincere in the full sincerity of his heart whenhe made his offer. And had she accepted it,--had she been able toaccept it,--she believed that he would have loved her truly andconstantly. Such was his nature. But she also believed that love withhim, unrequited love, would have no enduring effect, and that hehad already resolved, with equal courage and wisdom, to tread thisshort-lived passion out beneath his feet. One night had sufficedto him for that treading out. As she thought of this the tears ranplentifully down her cheek; and going again to her room she remainedthere crying till it was time for her to wipe away the marks of herweeping, that she might go to her father.
But she was very glad that Will bore it so well;--very glad! Hercousin was safe against love-making once again.
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