CHAPTER XXI.
MRS. ASKERTON'S GENEROSITY.
The death of the old man at Belton Castle had been very sudden. Atthree o'clock in the morning Clara had been called into his room, andat five o'clock she was alone in the world,--having neither father,mother, nor brother; without a home, without a shilling that shecould call her own;--with no hope as to her future life, if,--as shehad so much reason to suppose,--Captain Aylmer should have chosen toaccept her last letter as a ground for permanent separation. But atthis moment, on this saddest morning, she did not care much for thatchance. It seemed to be almost indifferent to her, that question ofLady Aylmer and her anger. The more that she was absolutely in needof external friendship, the more disposed was she to reject it, andto declare to herself that she was prepared to stand alone in theworld.
For the last week she had understood from the doctor that her fatherwas in truth sinking, and that she might hardly hope ever to see himagain convalescent. She had therefore in some sort prepared herselffor her loneliness, and anticipated the misery of her position. Assoon as it was known to the women in the room that life had left theold man, one of them had taken her by the hand and led her back toher own chamber. "Now, Miss Clara, you had better lie down on the bedagain;--you had indeed; you can do nothing sitting up." She took theold woman's advice, and allowed them to do with her as they would. Itwas true that there was no longer any work by which she could makeherself useful in that house,--in that house, or, as far as she couldsee, in any other. Yes; she would go to bed, and lying there wouldfeel how convenient it would be for many persons if she also couldbe taken away to her long rest, as her father, and aunt, and brotherhad been taken before her. Her name and family had been unfortunate,and it would be well that there should be no Amedroz left to troublethose more fortunate persons who were to come after them. In hersorrow and bitterness she included both her cousin Will and CaptainAylmer among those more fortunate ones for whose sake it might bewell that she should be made to vanish from off the earth. Shehad read Captain Aylmer's letter over and over again since shehad answered it, and had read nearly as often the copy of her ownreply,--and had told herself, as she read them, that of course hewould not forgive her. He might perhaps pardon her, if she wouldsubmit to him in everything; but that she would not submit to hiscommands respecting Mrs. Askerton she was fully resolved,--and,therefore, there could be no hope. Then, when she remembered howlately her dear father's spirit had fled, she hated herself forhaving allowed her mind to dwell on anything beyond her loss of him.
She was still in her bedroom, having fallen into that half-wakingslumber which the numbness of sorrow so often produces, when wordwas brought to her that Mrs. Askerton was in the house. It wasthe first time that Mrs. Askerton had ever crossed the door, andthe remembrance that it was so came upon her at once. During herfather's lifetime it had seemed to be understood that their neighbourshould have no admittance there;--but now,--now that her father wasgone,--the barrier was to be overthrown. And why not? Why should notMrs. Askerton come to her? Why, if Mrs. Askerton chose to be kind toher, should she not altogether throw herself into her friend's arms?Of course her doing so would give mortal offence to everybody atAylmer Park; but why need she stop to think of that? She had alreadymade up her mind that she would not obey orders from Aylmer Park onthis subject.
She had not seen Mrs. Askerton since that interview between themwhich was described some few chapters back. Then everything had beentold between them, so that there was no longer any mystery either onthe one side or on the other. Then Clara had assured her friend ofher loving friendship in spite of any edicts to the contrary whichmight come from Aylmer Park; and after that what could be morenatural than that Mrs. Askerton should come to her in her sorrow."She says she'll come up to you if you'll let her," said the servant.But Clara declined this proposition, and in a few minutes went downto the small parlour in which she had lately lived, and where shefound her visitor.
"My poor dear, this has been very sudden," said Mrs. Askerton.
"Very sudden;--very sudden. And yet, now that he has gone, I knowthat I expected it."
"Of course I came to you as soon as I heard of it, because I knewyou were all alone. If there had been any one else I should not havecome."
"It is very good of you."
"Colonel Askerton thought that perhaps he had better come. I told himof all that which we said to each other the other day. He thought atfirst that it would be better that I should not see you."
"It was very good of you to come," said Clara again, and as she spokeshe put out her hand and took Mrs. Askerton's,--continuing to hold itfor awhile; "very good indeed."
"I told him that I could not but go down to you,--that I thought youwould not understand it if I stayed away."
"At any rate it was good of you to come to me."
"I don't believe," said Mrs. Askerton, "that what people callconsolation is ever of any use. It is a terrible thing to lose afather."
"Very terrible. Ah, dear, I have hardly yet found out how sad it is.As yet I have only been thinking of myself, and wishing that I couldbe with him."
"Nay, Clara."
"How can I help it? What am I to do, or where am I to go? Of what useis life to such a one as me? And for him,--who would dare to wish himback again? When people have fallen and gone down in the world it isbad for them to go on living. Everything is a trouble, and there isnothing but vexation."
"Think what I have suffered, dear."
"But you have had somebody to care for you,--somebody whom you couldtrust."
"And have not you?"
"No; no one."
"What do you mean, Clara?"
"I mean what I say. I have no one. It is no use askingquestions,--not now, at such a time as this. And I did not mean tocomplain. Complaining is weak and foolish. I have often told myselfthat I could bear anything, and so I will. When I can bring myself tothink of what I have lost in my father I shall be better, even thoughI shall be more sorrowful. As it is, I hate myself for being soselfish."
"You will let me come and stay with you to-day, will you not?"
"No, dear; not to-day."
"Why not to-day, Clara?"
"I shall be better alone. I have so many things to think of."
"I know well that it would be better that you should not bealone,--much better. But I will not press it. I cannot insist withyou as another woman would."
"You are wrong there; quite wrong. I would be led by you sooner thanby any woman living. What other woman is there to whom I would listenfor a moment?" As she said this, even in the depth of her sorrow shethought of Lady Aylmer, and strengthened herself in her resolution torebel against her lover's mother. Then she continued, "I wish I knewmy cousin Mary,--Mary Belton; but I have never seen her."
"Is she nice?"
"So Will tells me; and I know that what he says must be true,--evenabout his sister."
"Will, Will! You are always thinking of your cousin Will. If he bereally so good he will show it now."
"How can he show it? What can he do?"
"Does he not inherit all the property?"
"Of course he does. And what of that? When I say that I have nofriend I am not thinking of my poverty."
"If he has that regard for you which he pretends, he can do much toassist you. Why should he not come here at once?"
"God forbid."
"Why? Why do you say so? He is your nearest relative."
"If you do not understand I cannot explain."
"Has he been told what has happened?" Mrs. Askerton asked.
"Colonel Askerton sent a message to him, I believe."
"And to Captain Aylmer also?"
"Yes; and to Captain Aylmer. It was Colonel Askerton who sent it."
"Then he will come, of course."
"I think not. Why should he come? He did not even know poor papa."
"But, my dear Clara, has he not known you?"
"You will see that he will not come. And I tell you beforehand th
athe will be right to stay away. Indeed, I do not know how he couldcome;--and I do not want him here."
"I cannot understand you, Clara."
"I suppose not. I cannot very well understand myself."
"I should not be at all surprised if Lady Aylmer were to comeherself."
"Oh, heavens! How little you can know of Lady Aylmer's position andcharacter!"
"But if she is to be your mother-in-law?"
"And even if she were! The idea of Lady Aylmer coming away fromAylmer Park,--all the way from Yorkshire, to such a house as this! Ifthey told me that the Queen was coming it would hardly disconcert memore. But, dear, there is no danger of that at least."
"I do not know what may have passed between you and him; but unlessthere has been some quarrel he will come. That is, he will do so ifhe is at all like any men whom I have known."
"He will not come."
Then Mrs. Askerton made some half-whispered offers of services tobe rendered by Colonel Askerton, and soon afterwards took her leave,having first asked permission to come again in the afternoon, andwhen that was declined, having promised to return on the followingmorning. As she walked back to the cottage she could not but thinkmore of Clara's engagement to Captain Aylmer than she did of thesquire's death. As regarded herself, of course she could not grievefor Mr. Amedroz; and as regarded Clara, Clara's father had for sometime past been apparently so insignificant, even in his own house,that it was difficult to acknowledge the fact that the death of sucha one as he might leave a great blank in the world. But what hadClara meant by declaring so emphatically that Captain Aylmer wouldnot visit Belton, and by speaking of herself as one who had neitherposition nor friends in the world? If there had been a quarrel,indeed, then it was sufficiently intelligible;--and if there was anysuch quarrel, from what source must it have arisen? Mrs. Askertonfelt the blood rise to her cheeks as she thought of this, and toldherself that there could be but one such source. Mrs. Askerton knewthat Clara had received orders from Aylmer Castle to discontinue allacquaintance with herself, and, therefore, there could be no doubtas to the cause of the quarrel. It had come to this then, that Clarawas to lose her husband because she was true to her friend; or ratherbecause she would not consent to cast an additional stone at one whofor some years past had become a mark for many stones.
I am not prepared to say that Mrs. Askerton was a high-minded woman.Misfortunes had come upon her in life of a sort which are too apt toquench high nobility of mind in woman. There are calamities which,by their natural tendencies, elevate the character of women andadd strength to the growth of feminine virtues;--but then, again,there are other calamities which few women can bear without somedegradation, without some injury to that delicacy and tendernesswhich is essentially necessary to make a woman charming,--as a woman.In this, I think, the world is harder to women than to men; that awoman often loses much by the chance of adverse circumstances whicha man only loses by his own misconduct. That there are women whom nocalamity can degrade is true enough;--and so it is true that thereare some men who are heroes; but such are exceptions both among menand women. Not such a one had Mrs. Askerton been. Calamity had comeupon her;--partly, indeed, by her own fault, though that might havebeen pardoned;--but the weight of her misfortunes had been too greatfor her strength, and she had become in some degree hardened by whatshe had endured; if not unfeminine, still she was feminine in aninferior degree, with womanly feelings of a lower order. And she hadlearned to intrigue, not being desirous of gaining aught by dishonestintriguing, but believing that she could only hold her own bycarrying on her battle after that fashion. In all this I am speakingof the general character of the woman, and am not alluding to theone sin which she had committed. Thus, when she had first becomeacquainted with Miss Amedroz, her conscience had not rebuked herin that she was deceiving her new friend. When asked casually inconversation as to her maiden name, she had not blushed as sheanswered the question with a falsehood. When, unfortunately, thename of her first husband had in some way made itself known to Clarashe had been ready again with some prepared fib. And when she hadrecognised William Belton, she had thought that the danger to herselfof having any one near her who might know her, quite justified herin endeavouring to create ill-will between Clara and her cousin."Self-preservation is the first law of nature," she would havesaid; and would have failed to remember, as she did always fail toremember,--that nature does not require by any of its laws thatself-preservation should be aided by falsehood.
But though she was not high-minded, so also was she not ungenerous;and now, as she began to understand that Clara was sacrificingherself because of that promise which had been given when they twohad stood together at the window in the cottage drawing-room, shewas capable of feeling more for her friend than for herself. She wascapable even of telling herself that it was cruel on her part evento wish for any continuance of Clara's acquaintance. "I have mademy bed, and I must lie upon it," she said to herself; and then sheresolved that, instead of going up to the house on the followingday, she would write to Clara, and put an end to the intimacy whichexisted between them. "The world is hard, and harsh, and unjust," shesaid, still speaking to herself. "But that is not her fault; I willnot injure her because I have been injured myself."
Colonel Askerton was up at the house on the same day, but he didnot ask for Miss Amedroz, nor did she see him. Nobody else came tothe house then, or on the following morning, or on that afternoon,though Clara did not fail to tell herself that Captain Aylmer mighthave been there if he had chosen to take the journey and to leavehome as soon as he had received the message; and she made the samecalculation as to her cousin Will,--though in that calculation, as weknow, she was wrong. These two days had been very desolate with her,and she had begun to look forward to Mrs. Askerton's coming,--wheninstead of that there came a messenger with a letter from thecottage.
"You can do as you like, my dear," Colonel Askerton had said on theprevious evening to his wife. He had listened to all she had beensaying without taking his eyes from off his newspaper, though she hadspoken with much eagerness.
"But that is not enough. You should say more to me than that."
"Now I think you are unreasonable. For myself, I do not care how thismatter goes; nor do I care one straw what any tongues may say. Theycannot reach me, excepting so far as they may reach me through you."
"But you should advise me."
"I always do,--copiously, when I think that I know better than you;but in this matter I feel so sure that you know better than I, that Idon't wish to suggest anything." Then he went on with his newspaper,and she sat for a while looking at him, as though she expected thatsomething more would be said. But nothing more was said, and she wasleft entirely to her own guidance.
Since the days in which her troubles had come upon Mrs. Askerton,Clara Amedroz was the first female friend who had come near herto comfort her, and she was very loth to abandon such comfort.There had, too, been something more than comfort, something almostapproaching to triumph, when she found that Clara had clung to herwith affection after hearing the whole story of her life. Thoughher conscience had not pricked her while she was exercising all herlittle planned deceits, she had not taken much pleasure in them. Howshould any one take pleasure in such work? Many of us daily deceiveour friends, and are so far gone in deceit that the deceit alone ishardly painful to us. But the need of deceiving a friend is alwayspainful. The treachery is easy; but to be treacherous to thosewe love is never easy,--never easy, even though it be so common.There had been a double delight to this poor woman in the nearneighbourhood of Clara Amedroz since there had ceased to be anynecessity for falsehood on her part. But now, almost before her joyhad commenced, almost before she had realised the sweetness of hertriumph, had come upon her this task of doing that herself whichClara in her generosity had refused to do. "I have made my bed and Imust lie upon it," she said. And then, instead of going down to thehouse as she had promised, she wrote the following letter to MissAmedroz:--
The Cottag
e, Monday.
DEAREST CLARA,--I need not tell you that I write as I do now with a bleeding heart. A few days since I should have laughed at any woman who used such a phrase of herself, and declared her to be an affected fool; but now I know how true such a word may be. My heart is bleeding, and I feel myself to be overcome by my disgrace. You told me that I did not understand you yesterday. Of course I understood you. Of course I know how it all is, and why you spoke as you did of Captain Aylmer. He has chosen to think that you could not know me without pollution, and has determined that you must give up either me or him. Though he has judged me I am not going to judge him. The world is on his side; and, perhaps, he is right. He knows nothing of my trials and difficulties,--and why should he? I do not blame him for demanding that his future wife shall not be intimate with a woman who is supposed to have lost her fitness for the society of women.
At any rate, dearest, you must obey him,--and we will see each other no more. I am quite sure that I should be very wicked were I to allow you to injure your position in life on my account. You at any rate love him, and would be happy with him, and as you are engaged to him, you have no just ground for resenting his interference.
You will understand me now as well as though I were to fill sheets and sheets of paper with what I could say on the subject. The simple fact is, that you and I must forget each other, or simply remember one another as past friends. You will know in a day or two what your plans are. If you remain here, we will go away. If you go away, we will remain here;--that is, if your cousin will keep us as tenants. I do not of course know what you may have written to Captain Aylmer since our interview up here, but I beg that you will write to him now, and make him understand that he need have no fears in respect of me. You may send him this letter if you will. Oh, dear! if you could know what I suffer as I write this.
I feel that I owe you an apology for harassing you on such a subject at such a time; but I know that I ought not to lose a day in telling you that you are to see nothing more of the friend who has loved you.
MARY ASKERTON.
Clara's first impulse on receiving this letter was to go off at onceto the cottage, and insist on her privilege of choosing her ownfriends. If she preferred Mrs. Askerton to Captain Aylmer, that wasno one's business but her own. And she would have done so had she notbeen afraid of meeting with Colonel Askerton. To him she would nothave known how to speak on such a subject;--nor would she have knownhow to conduct herself at the cottage without speaking of it. Andthen, after a while, she felt that were she to do so,--should shenow deliberately determine to throw herself into Mrs. Askerton'sarms,--she must at the same time give up all idea of becoming CaptainAylmer's wife. As she thought of this she asked herself variousquestions concerning him, which she did not find it easy to answer.Did she wish to be his wife? Could she assure herself that if theywere married they would make each other happy? Did she love him? Shewas still able to declare to herself that the answer to the lastquestion should be an affirmative; but, nevertheless, she thoughtthat she could give him up without great unhappiness. And when shebegan to think of Lady Aylmer, and to remember that Frederic Aylmer'simperative demands upon her obedience had, in all probability, beendictated by his mother, she was again anxious to go at once to thecottage, and declare that she would not submit to any interferencewith her own judgment.
On the next morning the postman brought to her a letter which was ofmuch moment to her,--but he brought to her also tidings which movedher more even than the letter. The letter was from the lawyer,and enclosed a cheque for seventy-five pounds, which he had beeninstructed to pay to her, as the interest of the money left to herby her aunt. What should be her answer to that letter she knew verywell,--and she instantly wrote it, sending back the cheque to Mr.Green. The postman's news, more important than the letter, told herthat William Belton was at the inn at Redicote.
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