The Belton Estate

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XI.

  MISS AMEDROZ IS TOO CANDID BY HALF.

  Clara, when she left her accepted lover in the drawing-room and wentup to her own chamber, had two hours for consideration before shewould see him again;--and she had two hours for enjoyment. She wasvery happy. She thoroughly believed in the man who was to be herhusband, feeling confident that he possessed those qualities whichshe thought to be most necessary for her married happiness. She hadquizzed him at times, pretending to make it matter of accusationagainst him that his life was not in truth all that his aunt believedit to be;--but had it been more what Mrs. Winterfield would havewished, it would have been less to Clara's taste. She liked hisposition in the world; she liked the feeling that he was a man ofinfluence; perhaps she liked to think that to some extent he was aman of fashion. He was not handsome, but he looked always like agentleman. He was well educated, given to reading, prudent, steadyin his habits, a man likely to rise in the world; and she loved him.I fear the reader by this time may have begun to think that her loveshould never have been given to such a man. To this accusation I willmake no plea at present, but I will ask the complainant whether suchmen are not always loved. Much is said of the rashness of women ingiving away their hearts wildly; but the charge when made generallyis, I think, an unjust one. I am more often astonished by theprudence of girls than by their recklessness. A woman of thirty willoften love well and not wisely; but the girls of twenty seem tome to like propriety of demeanour, decency of outward life, and acompetence. It is, of course, good that it should be so; but if itis so, they should not also claim a general character for generousand passionate indiscretion, asserting as their motto that Love shallstill be Lord of All. Clara was more than twenty; but she was notyet so far advanced in age as to have lost her taste for decency ofdemeanour and propriety of life. A Member of Parliament, with a smallhouse near Eaton Square, with a moderate income, and a liking forcommittees, who would write a pamphlet once every two years, andread Dante critically during the recess, was, to her, the model fora husband. For such a one she would read his blue books, copy hispamphlets, and learn his translations by heart. She would be safe inthe hands of such a man, and would know nothing of the miseries whichher brother had encountered. Her model may not appear, when thusdescribed, to be a very noble one; but I think it is the model mostapproved among ladies of her class in England.

  She made up her mind on various points during those two hours ofsolitude. In the first place, she would of course keep her purpose ofreturning home on the following day. It was not probable that CaptainAylmer would ask her to change it; but let him ask ever so much itmust not be changed. She must at once have the pleasure of tellingher father that all his trouble about her would now be over; andthen, there was the consideration that her further sojourn in thehouse, with Captain Aylmer as her lover, would hardly be more properthan it would have been had he not occupied that position. And whatwas she to say if he pressed her as to the time of their marriage?Her aunt's death would of course be a sufficient reason why it shouldbe delayed for some few months; and, upon the whole, she thought itwould be best to postpone it till the next session of Parliamentshould have nearly expired. But she would be prepared to yield toCaptain Aylmer, should he name any time after Easter. It was clearlyhis intention to keep up the house in Perivale as his countryresidence. She did not like Perivale or the house, but she wouldsay nothing against such an arrangement. Indeed, with what facecould she do so? She was going to bring nothing to the commonaccount,--absolutely nothing but herself! As she thought of this herlove grew warmer, and she hardly knew how sufficiently to testify toherself her own gratitude and affection.

  She became conscious, as she was preparing herself for dinner, ofsome special attention to her toilet. She was more than ordinarilycareful with her hair, and felt herself to be aware of an anxiety tolook her best. She had now been for some time so accustomed to dressherself in black, that in that respect her aunt's death had made nodifference to her. Deep mourning had ceased from habit to impress herwith any special feeling of funereal solemnity. But something aboutherself, or in the room, at last struck her with awe, bidding herremember how death had of late been busy among those who had been herdearest and nearest friends; and she sat down, almost frightened ather own heartlessness, in that she was allowing herself to be happyat such a time. Her aunt had been carried away to her grave onlyyesterday, and her brother's death had occurred under circumstancesof peculiar distress within the year;--and yet she was happy,triumphant,--almost lost in the joy of her own position! She remainedfor a while in her chair, with her black dress hanging across herlap, as she argued with herself as to her own state of mind. Was ita sign of a hard heart within her, that she could be happy at sucha time? Ought the memory of her poor brother to have such an effectupon her as to make any joy of spirits impossible to her? Should sheat the present moment be so crushed by her aunt's demise, as to beincapable of congratulating herself upon her own success? Shouldshe have told him, when he asked her that question upon the bridge,that there could be no marrying or giving in marriage between them,no talking on such a subject in days so full of sorrow as these?I do not know that she quite succeeded in recognising it as atruth that sorrow should be allowed to bar out no joy that it doesnot bar out of absolute necessity,--by its own weight, withoutreference to conventional ideas; that sorrow should never, under anycircumstances, be nursed into activity, as though it were a thing initself divine or praiseworthy. I do not know that she followed outher arguments till she had taught herself that it is the Love that isdivine,--the Love which, when outraged by death or other severance,produces that sorrow which man would control if he were strongenough, but which he cannot control by reason of the weakness ofhis humanity. I doubt whether so much as this made itself plainto her, as she sat there before her toilet table, with her sombredress hanging from her hands on to the ground. But something of thestrength of such reasoning was hers. Knowing herself to be full ofjoy, she would not struggle to make herself believe that it behovedher to be unhappy. She told herself that she was doing what was goodfor others as well as for herself;--what would be very good for herfather, and what should be good, if it might be within her power tomake it so, for him who was to be her husband. The blackness of thecloud of her brother's death would never altogether pass away fromher. It had tended, as she knew well, to make her serious, grave, andold, in spite of her own efforts to the contrary. The cloud had beenso black with her that it had nearly lost for her the prize which wasnow her own. But she told herself that that blackness was an injuryto her, and not a benefit, and that it had now become a duty toher,--for his sake, if not for her own,--to dispel its shadows ratherthan encourage them. She would go down to him full of joy, though notfull of mirth, and would confess to him frankly, that in receivingthe assurance of his love, she had received everything that hadseemed to have any value for her in the world. Hitherto she had beenindependent;--she had specially been careful to show to him herresolve to be independent of him. Now she would put aside all that,and let him know that she recognised in him her lord and master aswell as husband. To her father had been left no strength on whichshe could lean, and she had been forced therefore to trust to herown strength. Now she would be dependent on him who was to be herhusband. As heretofore she had rejected his offers of assistancealmost with disdain, so now would she accept them without scruple,looking to him to be her guide in all things, putting from her thatcarping spirit in which she had been wont to judge of his actions,and believing in him,--as a wife should believe in her husband.

  Such were the resolutions which Clara made in the first hour ofsolitude which came to her after her engagement; and they wouldhave been wise resolutions but for this flaw--that the stronger wassubmitting itself to the weaker, the greater to the less, the morehonest to the less honest, that which was nearly true to that whichwas in great part false. The theory of man and wife--that specialtheory in accordance with which the wife is to bend herself in lovingsubmission before her husband,
is very beautiful; and would be goodaltogether if it could only be arranged that the husband should bethe stronger and the greater of the two. The theory is based uponthat hypothesis;--and the hypothesis sometimes fails of confirmation.In ordinary marriages the vessel rights itself, and the stronger andthe greater takes the lead, whether clothed in petticoats, or incoat, waistcoat, and trousers; but there sometimes comes a terribleshipwreck, when the woman before marriage has filled herself fullwith ideas of submission, and then finds that her golden-headed godhas got an iron body and feet of clay.

  Captain Aylmer when he was left alone had also something to thinkabout; and as there were two hours left for such thought before hewould again meet Clara, and as he had nothing else with which tooccupy himself during those two hours, he again strolled down tothe bridge on which he had made his offer. He strolled down there,thinking that he was thinking, but hardly giving much mind to histhoughts, which he allowed to run away with themselves as theylisted. Of course he was going to be married. That was a thingsettled. And he was perfectly satisfied with himself in that he haddone nothing in a hurry, and could accuse himself of no folly even ifhe had no great cause for triumph. He had been long thinking that heshould like to have Clara Amedroz for his wife;--long thinking thathe would ask her to marry him; and having for months indulged suchthoughts he could not take blame to himself for having made to hisaunt that deathbed promise which she had exacted. At the moment inwhich she asked him the question he was himself anxious to do thething she desired of him. How then could he have refused her? And,having given the promise, it was a matter of course with him tofulfil it. He was a man who would have never respected himselfagain--would have hated himself for ever, had he failed to keep apromise from which no living being could absolve him. He had beenright therefore to make the promise, and having made it, had beenright to keep it, and to do the thing at once. And Clara was verygood and very wise, and sometimes looked very well, and would neverdisgrace him; and as she was in worldly matters to receive much andgive nothing, she would probably be willing to make herself amenableto any arrangements as to their future mode of life which he mightpropose. In respect of this matter he was probably thinking oflodgings for himself in London during the parliamentary session,while she remained alone in the big red house upon which his eyeswere fixed at the time. There was much of convenience in all this,which might perhaps atone to him for the sacrifice which he wasundoubtedly making of himself. Had marriage simply been of itselfa thing desirable, he could doubtless have disposed of himselfto better advantage. His prospects, present fortune, and generalposition were so favourable, that he might have dared to lifthis expectations, in regard both to wealth and rank, very high.The Aylmers were a considerable people, and he, though a youngerbrother, had much more than a younger brother's portion. His seatin Parliament was safe; his position in society was excellent andsecure; he was exactly so placed that marriage with a fortune wasthe only thing wanting to put the finishing coping-stone to hisedifice;--that, and perhaps also the useful glory of having someLady Mary or Lady Emily at the top of his table. Lady Emily Aylmer?Yes;--it would have sounded better, and there was a certain LadyEmily who might have suited. Now, as some slight regrets stole uponhim gently, he failed to remember that this Lady Emily had not ashilling in the world.

  Yes; some faint regrets did steal upon him, though he went on tellinghimself that he had acted rightly. His stars, which were generallyvery good to him, had not perhaps on this occasion been as good asusual. No doubt he had to a certain degree become encumbered withClara Amedroz. Had not the direct and immediate leap with which shehad come into his arms shown him somewhat too plainly that one wordof his mouth tending towards matrimony had been regarded by her asbeing too valuable to be lost? The fruit that falls easily from thetree, though it is ever the best, is never valued by the gardener.Let him have well-nigh broken his neck in gathering it, unripe andcrude, from the small topmost boughs of the branching tree, and thepippin will be esteemed by him as invaluable. On that morning, asCaptain Aylmer had walked home from church, he had doubted much whatwould be Clara's answer to him. Then the pippin was at the end ofthe dangerous bough. Now it had fallen to his feet, and he did notscruple to tell himself that it was his, and always might have beenhis as a matter of course. Well, the apple had come of a good kind,and, though there might be specks upon it, though it might not be fitfor any special glory of show or pride of place among the dessertservice, still it should be garnered and used, and no doubt would bea very good apple for eating. Having so concluded, Captain Aylmerreturned to the house, washed his hands, changed his boots, and wentdown to the drawing-room just as dinner was ready. She came up to himalmost radiant with joy, and put her hand upon his arm. "Martha didnot know but what you were here," she said, "and told them to putdinner on the table."

  "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

  "Oh, dear, no. And what if you did? Ladies never care about thingsgetting cold. It is gentlemen only who have feelings in such mattersas that."

  "I don't know that there is much difference; but, however--" Thenthey were in the dining-room, and as the servant remained thereduring dinner, there was nothing in their conversation worthrepeating. After dinner they still remained down stairs, seatingthemselves on the two sides of the fire, Clara having fully resolvedthat she would not on such an evening as this leave Captain Aylmer todrink his glass of port wine by himself.

  "I suppose I may stay with you, mayn't I?" she said.

  "Oh, dear, yes; I'm sure I'm very much obliged. I'm not at all weddedto solitude." Then there was a slight pause.

  "That's lucky," she said, "as you have made up your mind to be weddedin another sort of way." Her voice as she spoke was very low, butthere was a gentle ring of restrained joyousness in it which ought tohave gone at once to his heart and made him supremely blessed for thetime.

  "Well,--yes," he answered. "We are in for it now, both of us;--are wenot? I hope you have no misgivings about it, Clara."

  "Who? I? I have misgivings! No, indeed. I have no misgivings,Frederic; no doubts, no scruples, no alloy in my happiness. With meit is all as I would have it be. Ah; you haven't understood why ithas been that I have seemed to be harsh to you when we have met."

  "No, I have not," said he. This was true; but it is true also that itwould have been well that he should be kept in his ignorance. She wasminded, however, to tell him everything, and therefore she went on.

  "I don't know how to tell you; and yet, circumstanced as we are now,it seems that I ought to tell you everything."

  "Yes, certainly; I think that," said Aylmer. He was one of those menwho consider themselves entitled to see, hear, and know every littledetail of a woman's conduct, as a consequence of the circumstances ofhis engagement, and who consider themselves shorn of their privilegeif anything be kept back. If any gentleman had said a soft word toClara eight years ago, that soft word ought to be repeated to himnow. I am afraid that these particular gentlemen sometimes hearsome fibs; and I often wonder that their own early passages in thetournays of love do not warn them that it must be so. When James hassat deliciously through all the moonlit night with his arm roundMary's waist, and afterwards sees Mary led to the altar by John, doesit not occur to him that some John may have also sat with his armround Anna's waist,--that Anna whom he is leading to the altar? Thesethings should not be inquired into too curiously; but the curiosityof some men on such matters has no end. For the most part, women liketelling,--only they do not choose to be pressed beyond their ownmodes of utterance. "I should like to know that I have your fullconfidence," said he.

  "You have got my full confidence," she replied.

  "I mean that you should tell me anything that there is to be told."

  "It was only this, that I had learned to love you before I thoughtthat my love would be returned."

  "Oh;--was that it?" said Captain Aylmer, in a tone which seemed toimply something like disappointment.

  "Yes, Fred; that was it. And how could I, under such circum
stances,trust myself to be gentle with you, or to look to you for assistance?How could I guess then all that I know now?"

  "Of course you couldn't."

  "And therefore I was driven to be harsh. My aunt used to speak to meabout it."

  "I don't wonder at that, for she was very anxious that we should bemarried."

  Clara for a moment felt herself to be uncomfortable as she heardthese words, half perceiving that they implied some instigation onthe part of Mrs. Winterfield. Could it be that Captain Aylmer's offerhad been made in obedience to a promise? "Did you know of heranxiety?" she asked.

  "Well;--yes; that is to say, I guessed it. It was natural enough thatthe same idea should come to her and to me too. Of course, seeing usso much thrown together, she could not but think of our being marriedas a chance upon the cards."

  "She used to tell me that I was harsh to you;--abrupt, she called it.But what could I do? I'll tell you, Fred, how I first found out thatI really cared for you. What I tell you now is of course a secret;and I should speak of it to no one under any circumstances but thosewhich unite us two together. My cousin Will, when he was at Belton,made me an offer."

  "He did, did he? You did not tell me that when you were saying allthose fine things in his praise in the railway carriage."

  "Of course I did not. Why should I? I wasn't bound to tell you mysecrets then, sir."

  "But he did absolutely offer to you?"

  "Is there anything so wonderful in that? But, wonderful or not, hedid."

  "And you refused him?"

  "I refused him certainly."

  "It wouldn't have been a bad match, if all that you say about hisproperty is true."

  "If you come to that, it would have been a very good match; andperhaps you think I was silly to decline it?"

  "I don't say that."

  "Papa thought so;--but, then, I couldn't tell papa the whole truth,as I can tell it to you now, Captain Aylmer. I couldn't tell dearpapa that my heart was not my own to give to my cousin Will; norcould I give Will any such reason. Poor Will! I could only say to himbluntly that I wouldn't have him."

  "And you would, if it hadn't been,--hadn't been--for me."

  "Nay, Fred; there you tax me too far. What might have come of myheart if you hadn't fallen in my way, who can say? I love Will Beltondearly, and hope that you may do so--"

  "I must see him first."

  "Of course;--but, as I was saying, I doubt whether, under anycircumstances, he would have been the man I should have chosen for ahusband. But as it was,--it was impossible. Now you know it all, andI think that I have been very frank with you."

  "Oh! very frank." He would not take her little jokes, nor understandher little prettinesses. That he was a man not prone to joking sheknew well, but still it went against the grain with her to find thathe was so very hard in his replies to her attempts.

  It was not easy for Clara to carry on the conversation after this,so she proposed that they should go up-stairs into the drawing-room.Such a change even as that would throw them into a different way oftalking, and prevent the necessity of any further immediate allusionto Will Belton. For Clara was aware, though she hardly knew why, thather frankness to her future husband had hardly been successful, andshe regretted that she had on this occasion mentioned her cousin'sname. They went up-stairs and again sat themselves in chairs overthe fire; but for a while conversation did not seem to come to themfreely. Clara felt that it was now Captain Aylmer's turn to begin,and Captain Aylmer felt--that he wished he could read the newspaper.He had nothing in particular that he desired to say to his lady-love.That morning, as he was shaving himself, he had something to say thatwas very particular,--as to which he was at that moment so nervous,that he had cut himself slightly through the trembling of his hand.But that had now been said, and he was nervous no longer. That hadnow been said, and the thing settled so easily, that he wondered athis own nervousness. He did not know that there was anything thatrequired much further immediate speech. Clara had thought somewhatof the time which might be proposed for their marriage, making somelittle resolves, with which the reader is already acquainted; but noideas of this kind presented themselves to Captain Aylmer. He hadasked his cousin to be his wife, thereby making good his promise tohis aunt. There could be no further necessity for pressing haste.Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

  It is not to be supposed that the thriving lover actually spoke tohimself in such language as that,--or that he confessed to himselfthat Clara Amedroz was an evil to him rather than a blessing. Buthis feelings were already so far tending in that direction, that hewas by no means disposed to make any further promise, or to engagehimself in closer connection with matrimony by the mention of anyspecial day. Clara, finding that her companion would not talk withoutencouragement from her, had to begin again, and asked all thosenatural questions about his family, his brother, his sister, his homehabits, and the old house in Yorkshire, the answers to which mustbe so full of interest to her. But even on these subjects he wasdry, and indisposed to answer with the full copiousness of freecommunication which she desired. And at last there came a questionand an answer,--a word or two on one side, and then a word or two onthe other, from which Clara got a wound which was very sore to her.

  "I have always pictured to myself," she said, "your mother as a womanwho has been very handsome."

  "She is still a handsome woman, though she is over sixty."

  "Tall, I suppose?"

  "Yes, tall, and with something of--of--what shall I say--dignity,about her."

  "She is not grand, I hope?"

  "I don't know what you call grand."

  "Not grand in a bad sense;--I'm sure she is not that. But there aresome ladies who seem to stand so high above the level of ordinaryfemales as to make us who are ordinary quite afraid of them."

  "My mother is certainly not ordinary," said Captain Aylmer.

  "And I am," said Clara, laughing. "I wonder what she'll say tome,--or, rather, what she will think of me." Then there was amoment's silence, after which Clara, still laughing, went on. "I see,Fred, that you have not a word of encouragement to give me about yourmother."

  "She is rather particular," said Captain Aylmer.

  Then Clara drew herself up, and ceased to laugh. She had calledherself ordinary with that half-insincere depreciation of self whichis common to all of us when we speak of our own attributes, but whichwe by no means intend that they who hear us shall accept as strictlytrue, or shall re-echo as their own approved opinions. But in thisinstance Captain Aylmer, though he had not quite done that, had donealmost as bad.

  "Then I suppose I had better keep out of her way," said Clara, by nomeans laughing as she spoke.

  "Of course when we are married you must go and see her."

  "You do not, at any rate, promise me a very agreeable visit, Fred.But I dare say I shall survive it. After all, it is you that I am tomarry, and not your mother; and as long as you are not majestic tome, I need not care for her majesty."

  "I don't know what you mean by majesty."

  "You must confess that you speak of her as of something veryterrible."

  "I say that she is particular;--and so she is. And as my respect forher opinion is equal to my affection for her person, I hope that youwill make a great effort to gain her esteem."

  "I never make any efforts of that kind. If esteem doesn't comewithout efforts it isn't worth having."

  "There I disagree with you altogether;--but I especially disagreewith you as you are speaking about my mother, and about a lady whois to become your own mother-in-law. I trust that you will make suchefforts, and that you will make them successfully. Lady Aylmer is nota woman who will give you her heart at once, simply because you havebecome her son's wife. She will judge you by your own qualities, andwill not scruple to condemn you should she see cause."

  Then there was a longer silence, and Clara's heart was almost inrebellion even on this, the first day of her engagement. But shequelled her high spirit, and said no further word a
bout Lady Aylmer.Nor did she speak again till she had enabled herself to smile as shespoke.

  "Well, Fred," she said, putting her hand upon his arm, "I'll do mybest, and woman can do no more. And now I'll say good night, for Imust pack for to-morrow's journey before I go to bed." Then he kissedher,--with a cold, chilling kiss,--and she left him for the night.