CHAPTER XXXI.
TAKING POSSESSION.
"I want her to have it all," said William Belton to Mr. Green, thelawyer, when they came to discuss the necessary arrangements for theproperty.
"But that would be absurd."
"Never mind. It is what I wish. I suppose a man may do what he likeswith his own."
"She won't take it," said the lawyer.
"She must take it, if you manage the matter properly," said Will.
"I don't suppose it will make much difference," said thelawyer,--"now that Captain Aylmer is out of the running."
"I know nothing about that. Of course I am very glad that he shouldbe out of the running, as you call it. He is a bad sort of fellow,and I didn't want him to have the property. But all that has hadnothing to do with it. I'm not doing it because I think she is everto be my wife."
From this the reader will understand that Belton was still fidgetinghimself and the lawyer about the estate when he passed throughLondon. The matter in dispute, however, was so important that hewas induced to seek the advice of others besides Mr. Green, and atlast was brought to the conclusion that it was his paramount dutyto become Belton of Belton. There seemed in the minds of all thesecouncillors to be some imperative and almost imperious requirementthat the acres should go back to a man of his name. Now, as therewas no one else of the family who could stand in his way, he hadno alternative but to become Belton of Belton. He would, however,sell his estate in Norfolk, and raise money for endowing Clara withcommensurate riches. Such was his own plan;--but having fallen amongcounsellors he would not exactly follow his own plan, and at lastsubmitted to an arrangement in accordance with which an annuity ofeight hundred pounds a year was to be settled upon Clara, and thiswas to lie as a charge upon the estate in Norfolk.
"It seems to me to be very shabby," said William Belton.
"It seems to me to be very extravagant," said the leader among thecounsellors. "She is not entitled to sixpence."
But at last the arrangement as above described was the one to whichthey all assented.
When Belton reached the house which was now his own he found no onethere but his sister. Clara was at the cottage. As he had been toldthat she was to return there, he had no reason to be annoyed. But,nevertheless, he was annoyed, or rather discontented, and had notbeen a quarter of an hour about the place before he declared hisintention to go and seek her.
"Do no such thing, Will; pray do not," said his sister.
"And why not?"
"Because it will be better that you should wait. You will only injureyourself and her by being impetuous."
"But it is absolutely necessary that she should know her ownposition. It would be cruelty to keep her in ignorance;--though forthe matter of that I shall be ashamed to tell her. Yes;--I shall beashamed to look her in the face. What will she think of it after Ihad assured her that she should have the whole?"
"But she would not have taken it, Will. And had she done so, shewould have been very wrong. Now she will be comfortable."
"I wish I could be comfortable," said he.
"If you will only wait--"
"I hate waiting. I do not see what good it will do. Besides, I don'tmean to say anything about that,--not to-day, at least. I don'tindeed. As for being here and not seeing her, that is out of thequestion. Of course she would think that I had quarrelled with her,and that I meant to take everything to myself, now that I have thepower."
"She won't suspect you of wishing to quarrel with her, Will."
"I should in her place. It is out of the question that I should behere, and not go to her. It would be monstrous. I will wait till theyhave done lunch, and then I will go up."
It was at last decided that he should walk up to the cottage,call upon Colonel Askerton, and ask to see Clara in the Colonel'spresence. It was thought that he could make his statement about themoney better before a third person who could be regarded as Clara'sfriend, than could possibly be done between themselves. He did,therefore, walk across to the cottage, and was shown into ColonelAskerton's study.
"There he is," Mrs. Askerton said, as soon as she heard the sound ofthe bell. "I knew that he would come at once."
During the whole morning Mrs. Askerton had been insisting that Beltonwould make his appearance on that very day,--the day of his arrivalat Belton, and Clara had been asserting that he would not do so.
"Why should he come?" Clara had said.
"Simply to take you to his own house, like any other of his goods andchattels."
"I am not his goods or his chattels."
"But you soon will be; and why shouldn't you accept your lot quietly?He is Belton of Belton, and everything here belongs to him."
"I do not belong to him."
"What nonsense! When a man has the command of the situation, as hehas, he can do just what he pleases. If he were to come and carry youoff by violence, I have no doubt the Beltonians would assist him, andsay that he was right. And you of course would forgive him. Belton ofBelton may do anything."
"That is nonsense, if you please."
"Indeed if you had any of that decent feeling of feminine inferioritywhich ought to belong to all women, he would have found you sittingon the door-step of his house waiting for him."
That had been said early in the morning, when they first knew that hehad arrived; but they had been talking about him ever since,--talkingabout him under pressure from Mrs. Askerton, till Clara had beendriven to long that she might be spared. "If he chooses to come, hewill come," she said. "Of course he will come," Mrs. Askerton hadanswered, and then they heard the ring of the bell. "There he is.I could swear to the sound of his foot. Doesn't he step as thoughhe were Belton of Belton, and conscious that everything belongedto him?" Then there was a pause. "He has been shown in to ColonelAskerton. What on earth could he want with him?"
"He has called to tell him something about the cottage," said Clara,endeavouring to speak as though she were calm through it all.
"Cottage! Fiddlestick! The idea of a man coming to look after histrumpery cottage on the first day of his showing himself as lord ofhis own property! Perhaps he is demanding that you shall be deliveredup to him. If he does I shall vote for obeying."
"And I for disobeying,--and shall vote very strongly too."
Their suspense was yet prolonged for another ten minutes, and at theend of that time the servant came in and asked if Miss Amedroz wouldbe good enough to go into the master's room. "Mr. Belton is there,Fanny?" asked Mrs. Askerton. The girl confessed that Mr. Belton wasthere, and then Clara, without another word, got up and left theroom. She had much to do in assuming a look of composure before sheopened the door; but she made the effort, and was not unsuccessful.In another second she found her hand in her cousin's, and his brighteye was fixed upon her with that eager friendly glance which made hisface so pleasant to those whom he loved.
"Your cousin has been telling me of the arrangements he has beenmaking for you with the lawyers," said Colonel Askerton. "I can onlysay that I wish all the ladies had cousins so liberal, and so able tobe liberal."
"I thought I would see Colonel Askerton first, as you are staying athis house. And as for liberality,--there is nothing of the kind. Youmust understand, Clara, that a fellow can't do what he likes withhis own in this country. I have found myself so bullied by lawyersand that sort of people, that I have been obliged to yield to them.I wanted that you should have the old place, to do just what youpleased with it."
"That was out of the question, Will."
"Of course it was," said Colonel Askerton. Then, as Belton himselfdid not proceed to the telling of his own story, the Colonel toldit for him, and explained what was the income which Clara was toreceive.
"But that is as much out of the question," said she, "as the other. Icannot rob you in that way. I cannot and I shall not. And why shouldI? What do I want with an income? Something I ought to have, if onlyfor the credit of the family, and that I am willing to take from yourkindness; but--"
; "It's all settled now, Clara."
"I don't think that you can lessen the weight of your obligation,Miss Amedroz, after what has been done up in London," said theColonel.
"If you had said a hundred a year--"
"I have been allowed to say nothing," said Belton; "those people havesaid eight,--and so it is settled. When are you coming over to seeMary?"
To this question he got no definite answer, and as he went awayimmediately afterwards he hardly seemed to expect one. He did noteven ask for Mrs. Askerton, and as that lady remarked, behavedaltogether like a bear. "But what a munificent bear!" she said."Fancy;--eight hundred a year of your own. One begins to doubtwhether it is worth one's while to marry at all with such an incomeas that to do what one likes with! However, it all means nothing. Itwill all be his own again before you have even touched it."
"You must not say anything more about that," said Clara gravely.
"And why must I not?"
"Because I shall hear nothing more of it. There is an end of allthat,--as there ought to be."
"Why an end? I don't see an end. There will be no end till Beltonof Belton has got you and your eight hundred a year as well aseverything else."
"You will find that--he--does not mean--anything--more," said Clara.
"You think not?"
"I am--sure of it." Then there was a little sound in her throatas though she were in some danger of being choked; but she soonrecovered herself, and was able to express herself clearly. "I haveonly one favour to ask you now, Mrs. Askerton, and that is that youwill never say anything more about him. He has changed his mind. Ofcourse he has, or he would not come here like that and have gone awaywithout saying a word."
"Not a word! A man gives you eight hundred a year, and that is notsaying a word!"
"Not a word except about money! But of course he is right. I knowthat he is right. After what has passed he would be very wrongto--to--think about it any more. You joke about his being Belton ofBelton. But it does make a difference."
"It does;--does it?"
"It has made a difference. I see and feel it now. I shall never--hearhim--ask me--that question--any more."
"And if you did hear him, what answer would you make him?"
"I don't know."
"That is just it. Women are so cross-grained that it is a wonder tome that men should ever have anything to do with them. They haveabout them some madness of a phantasy which they dignify with thename of feminine pride, and under the cloak of this they believethemselves to be justified in tormenting their lovers' lives out.The only consolation is that they torment themselves as much. Cananything be more cross-grained than you are at this moment? You wereresolved just now that it would be the most unbecoming thing in theworld if he spoke a word more about his love for the next twelvemonths--"
"Mrs. Askerton, I said nothing about twelve months."
"And now you are broken-hearted because he did not blurt it all outbefore Colonel Askerton in a business interview, which was veryproperly had at once, and in which he has had the exceeding goodtaste to confine himself altogether to the one subject."
"I am not complaining."
"It was good taste; though if he had not been a bear he might haveasked after me, who am fighting his battles for him night and day."
"But what will he do next?"
"Eat his dinner, I should think, as it is now nearly five o'clock.Your father used always to dine at five."
"I can't go to see Mary," she said, "till he comes here again."
"He will be here fast enough. I shouldn't wonder if he was to comehere to-night." And he did come again that night.
When Belton's interview was over in the Colonel's study, he left thehouse,--without even asking after the mistress, as that mistress hadtaken care to find out,--and went off, rambling about the estatewhich was now his own. It was a beautiful place, and he was notinsensible to the gratification of being its owner. There is muchin the glory of ownership,--of the ownership of land and houses, ofbeeves and woolly flocks, of wide fields and thick-growing woods,even when that ownership is of late date, when it conveys to theowner nothing but the realisation of a property on the soil; butthere is much more in it when it contains the memories of old years;when the glory is the glory of race as well as the glory of powerand property. There had been Beltons of Belton living there formany centuries, and now he was the Belton of the day, standing onhis own ground,--the descendant and representative of the Beltonsof old,--Belton of Belton without a flaw in his pedigree! He felthimself to be proud of his position,--prouder than he could have beenof any other that might have been vouchsafed to him. And yet amidstit all he was somewhat ashamed of his pride. "The man who can do itfor himself is the real man after all," he said. "But I have gotit by a fluke,--and by such a sad chance too!" Then he wandered on,thinking of the circumstances under which the property had falleninto his hands, and remembering how and when and where the first ideahad occurred to him of making Clara Amedroz his wife. He had thenfelt that if he could only do that he could reconcile himself to theheirship. And the idea had grown upon him instantly, and had become apassion by the eagerness with which he had welcomed it. From that dayto this he had continued to tell himself that he could not enjoy hisgood fortune unless he could enjoy it with her. There had come to bea horrid impediment in his way,--a barrier which had seemed to havebeen placed there by his evil fortune, to compensate the gifts givento him by his good fortune, and that barrier had been Captain Aylmer.He had not, in fact, seen much of his rival, but he had seen enoughto make it matter of wonder to him that Clara could be attached tosuch a man. He had thoroughly despised Captain Aylmer, and had longedto show his contempt of the man by kicking him out of the hotel atthe London railway station. At that moment all the world had seemedto him to be wrong and wretched.
But now it seemed that all the world might so easily be made rightagain! The impediment had got itself removed. Belton did not even yetaltogether comprehend by what means Clara had escaped from the meshesof the Aylmer Park people, but he did know that she had escaped.Her eyes had been opened before it was too late, and she was a freewoman,--to be compassed if only a man might compass her. Whileshe had been engaged to Captain Aylmer, Will had felt that shewas not assailable. Though he had not been quite able to restrainhimself,--as on that fatal occasion when he had taken her in his armsand kissed her,--still he had known that as she was an engaged woman,he could not, without insulting her, press his own suit upon her. Butnow all that was over. Let him say what he liked on that head, shewould have no proper plea for anger. She was assailable;--and, asthis was so, why the mischief should he not set about the work atonce? His sister bade him to wait. Why should he wait when onefortunate word might do it? Wait! He could not wait. How are you tobid a starving man to wait when you put him down at a well-coveredboard? Here was he, walking about Belton Park,--just where she usedto walk with him;--and there was she at Belton Cottage, within halfan hour of him at this moment, if he were to go quickly; and yet Marywas telling him to wait! No; he would not wait. There could be noreason for waiting. Wait, indeed, till some other Captain Aylmershould come in the way and give him more trouble!
So he wandered on, resolving that he would see his cousin againthat very day. Such an interview as that which had just taken placebetween two such dear friends was not natural,--was not to beendured. What might not Clara think of it! To meet her for the firsttime after her escape from Aylmer Park, and to speak to her onlyon matters concerning money! He would certainly go to her again onthat afternoon. In his walking he came to the bottom of the risingground on the top of which stood the rock on which he and Clara hadtwice sat. But he turned away, and would not go up to it. He hopedthat he might go up to it very soon,--but, except under certaincircumstances, he would never go up to it again.
"I am going across to the cottage immediately after dinner," he saidto his sister.
"Have you an appointment?"
"No; I have no appointment. I suppose a man doesn't want anappoin
tment to go and see his own cousin down in the country."
"I don't know what their habits are."
"I shan't ask to go in; but I want to see her."
Mary looked at him with loving, sorrowing eyes, but she said no more.She loved him so well that she would have given her right hand to getfor him what he wanted;--but she sorrowed to think that he shouldwant such a thing so sorely. Immediately after his dinner, he tookhis hat and went out without saying a word further, and made his wayonce more across to the gate of the cottage. It was a lovely summerevening, at that period of the year in which our summer evenings justbegin, when the air is sweeter and the flowers more fragrant, and theforms of the foliage more lovely than at any other time. It was noweight o'clock, but it was hardly as yet evening; none at least of thegloom of evening had come, though the sun was low in the heavens. Atthe cottage they were all sitting out on the lawn; and as Belton camenear he was seen by them, and he saw them.
"I told you so," said Mrs. Askerton, to Clara, in a whisper.
"He is not coming in," Clara answered. "He is going on."
But when he had come nearer, Colonel Askerton called to him over thegarden paling, and asked him to join them. He was now standing withinten or fifteen yards of them, though the fence divided them. "I havecome to ask my cousin Clara to take a walk with me," he said. "Shecan be back by your tea time." He made his request very placidly, anddid not in any way look like a lover.
"I am sure she will be glad to go," said Mrs. Askerton. But Clarasaid nothing.
"Do take a turn with me, if you are not tired," said he.
"She has not been out all day, and cannot be tired," said Mrs.Askerton, who had now walked up to the paling. "Clara, get your hat.But, Mr. Belton, what have I done that I am to be treated in thisway? Perhaps you don't remember that you have not spoken to me sinceyour arrival."
"Upon my word, I beg your pardon," said he, endeavouring to stretchhis hand across the bushes. "I forgot I didn't see you this morning."
"I suppose I mustn't be angry, as this is your day of takingpossession; but it is exactly on such days as this that one likes tobe remembered."
"I didn't mean to forget you, Mrs. Askerton; I didn't, indeed. Andas for the special day, that's all bosh, you know. I haven't takenparticular possession of anything that I know of."
"I hope you will, Mr. Belton, before the day is over," said she.Clara had at length arisen, and had gone into the house to fetch herhat. She had not spoken a word, and even yet her cousin did not knowwhether she was coming. "I hope you will take possession of a greatdeal that is very valuable. Clara has gone to get her hat."
"Do you think she means to walk?"
"I think she does, Mr. Belton. And there she is at the door. Mind youbring her back to tea."
Clara, as she came forth, felt herself quite unable to speak, orwalk, or look after her usual manner. She knew herself to be avictim,--to be so far a victim that she could no longer control herown fate. To Captain Aylmer, at any rate, she had never succumbed.In all her dealings with him she had fought upon an equal footing.She had never been compelled to own herself mastered. But now shewas being led out that she might confess her own submission, andacknowledge that hitherto she had not known what was good for her.She knew that she would have to yield. She must have known how happyshe was to have an opportunity of yielding; but yet,--yet, had therebeen any room for choice, she thought she would have refrained fromwalking with her cousin that evening. She had wept that afternoonbecause she had thought that he would not come again; and now thathe had come at the first moment that was possible for him, she wasalmost tempted to wish him once more away.
"I suppose you understand that when I came up this morning I camemerely to talk about business," said Belton, as soon as they were offtogether.
"It was very good of you to come at all so soon after your arrival."
"I told those people in London that I would have it all settled atonce, and so I wanted to have it off my mind."
"I don't know what I ought to say to you. Of course I shall not wantso much money as that."
"We won't talk about the money any more to-day. I hate talking aboutmoney."
"It is not the pleasantest subject in the world."
"No," said he; "no indeed. I hate it,--particularly between friends.So you have come to grief with your friends, the Aylmers?"
"I hope I haven't come to grief,--and the Aylmers, as a family, neverwere my friends. I'm obliged to contradict you, point by point,--yousee."
"I don't like Captain Aylmer at all," said Will, after a pause.
"So I saw Will; and I dare say he was not very fond of you."
"Fond of me! I didn't want him to be fond of me. I don't suppose heever thought much about me. I could not help thinking of him."--Shehad nothing to say to this, and therefore walked on silently by hisside. "I suppose he has not any idea of coming back here again?"
"What; to Belton? No, I do not think he will come to Belton anymore."
"Nor will you go to Aylmer Park?"
"No; certainly not. Of all the places on earth, Will, to which youcould send me, Aylmer Park is the one to which I should go mostunwillingly."
"I don't want to send you there."
"You never could be made to understand what a woman she is; howdisagreeable, how cruel, how imperious, how insolent."
"Was she so bad as all that?"
"Indeed she was, Will. I can't but tell the truth to you."
"And he was nearly as bad as she."
"No, Will; no; do not say that of him."
"He was such a quarrelsome fellow. He flew at me just because I saidwe had good hunting down in Norfolk."
"We need not talk about all that, Will."
"No;--of course not. It's all passed and gone, I suppose."
"Yes;--it is all passed and gone. You did not know my AuntWinterfield, or you would understand my first reason for liking him."
"No," said Will; "I never saw her."
Then they walked on together for a while without speaking, and Clarawas beginning to feel some relief,--some relief at first; but asthe relief came, there came back to her the dead, dull, feeling ofheaviness at her heart which had oppressed her after his visit in themorning. She had been right, and Mrs. Askerton had been wrong. He hadreturned to her simply as her cousin, and now he was walking with herand talking to her in this strain, to teach her that it was so. Butof a sudden they came to a place where two paths diverged, and heturned upon her and asked her quickly which path they should take."Look, Clara," he said, "will you go up there with me?" It did notneed that she should look, as she knew that the way indicated by himled up among the rocks.
"I don't much care which way," she said, faintly.
"Do you not? But I do. I care very much. Don't you remember wherethat path goes?" She had no answer to give to this. She rememberedwell, and remembered how he had protested that he would never go tothe place again unless he could go there as her accepted lover. Andshe had asked herself sundry questions as to that protestation. Couldit be that for her sake he would abstain from visiting the prettiestspot on his estate,--that he would continue to regard the ground ashallowed because of his memories of her? "Which way shall we go?" heasked.
"I suppose it does not much signify," said she, trembling.
"But it does signify. It signifies very much to me. Will you go up tothe rocks?"
"I am afraid we shall be late, if we stay out long."
"What matters how late? Will you come?"
"I suppose so,--if you wish it, Will."
She had anticipated that the high rock was to be the altar at whichthe victim was to be sacrificed; but now he would not wait till hehad taken her to the sacred spot. He had of course intended that hewould there renew his offer; but he had perceived that his offer hadbeen renewed, and had, in fact, been accepted, during this littleparley as to the pathway. There was hardly any necessity for furtherwords. So he must have thought; for, as quick as lightning, he flunghis arms around her, and
kissed her again, as he had kissed her onthat other terrible occasion,--that occasion on which he had feltthat he might hardly hope for pardon.
"William, William," she said; "how can you serve me like that?" Buthe had a full understanding as to his own privileges, and was wellaware that he was in the right now, as he had been before that he wastrespassing egregiously. "Why are you so rough with me?" she said.
"Clara, say that you love me."
"I will say nothing to you because you are so rough."
They were now walking up slowly towards the rocks. And as he had hisarm round her waist, he was contented for awhile to allow her to walkwithout speaking. But when they were on the summit it was necessaryfor him that he should have a word from her of positive assurance."Clara, say that you love me."
"Have I not always loved you, Will, since almost the first momentthat I saw you?"
"But that won't do. You know that is not fair. Come, Clara; I've hada deal of trouble,--and grief too; haven't I? You should say a wordto make up for it;--that is, if you can say it."
"What can a word like that signify to you to-day? You have goteverything."
"Have I got you?" Still she paused. "I will have an answer. Have Igot you? Are you now my own?"
"I suppose so, Will. Don't now. I will not have it again. Does notthat satisfy you?"
"Tell me that you love me."
"You know that I love you."
"Better than anybody in the world?"
"Yes;--better than anybody in the world."
"And after all you will be--my wife?"
"Oh, Will,--how you question one!"
"You shall say it, and then it will all be fair and honest."
"Say what? I'm sure I thought I had said everything."
"Say that you mean to be my wife."
"I suppose so,--if you wish it."
"Wish it!" said he, getting up from his seat, and throwing his hatinto the bushes on one side; "wish it! I don't think you have everunderstood how I have wished it. Look here, Clara; I found when I gotdown to Norfolk that I couldn't live without you. Upon my word it istrue. I don't suppose you'll believe me."
"I didn't think it could be so bad with you as that."
"No;--I don't suppose women ever do believe. And I wouldn't havebelieved it of myself. I hated myself for it. By George, I did. Thatis when I began to think it was all up with me."
"All up with you! Oh, Will!"
"I had quite made up my mind to go to New Zealand. I had, indeed. Icouldn't have kept my hands off that man if we had been living in thesame country. I should have wrung his neck."
"Will, how can you talk so wickedly?"
"There's no understanding it till you have felt it. But never mind.It's all right now; isn't it, Clara?"
"If you think so."
"Think so! Oh, Clara, I am such a happy fellow. Do give me a kiss.You have never given me one kiss yet."
"What nonsense! I didn't think you were such a baby."
"By George, but you shall;--or you shall never get home to teato-night. My own, own, own darling. Upon my word, Clara, when I beginto think about it I shall be half mad."
"I think you are quite that already."
"No, I'm not;--but I shall be when I'm alone. What can I say to you,Clara, to make you understand how much I love you? You remember thesong, 'For Bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me down and dee.' Of courseit is all nonsense talking of dying for a woman. What a man has todo is to live for her. But that is my feeling. I'm ready to give youmy life. If there was anything to do for you, I'd do it if I could,whatever it was. Do you understand me?"
"Dear Will! Dearest Will!"
"Am I dearest?"
"Are you not sure of it?"
"But I like you to tell me so. I like to feel that you are notashamed to own it. You ought to say it a few times to me, as I havesaid it so very often to you."
"You'll hear enough of it before you've done with me."
"I shall never have heard enough of it. Oh, Heavens, only think, whenI was coming down in the train last night I was in such a bad way."
"And are you in a good way now?"
"Yes; in a very good way. I shall crow over Mary so when I get home."
"And what has poor Mary done?"
"Never mind."
"I dare say she knows what is good for you better than you knowyourself. I suppose she has told you that you might do a great dealbetter than trouble yourself with a wife?"
"Never mind what she has told me. It is settled now;--is it not?"
"I hope so, Will."
"But not quite settled as yet. When shall it be? That is the nextquestion."
But to that question Clara positively refused to make any reply thather lover would consider to be satisfactory. He continued to pressher till she was at last driven to remind him how very short a timeit was since her father had been among them; and then he was veryangry with himself, and declared himself to be a brute. "Anything butthat," she said. "You are the kindest and the best of men;--but atthe same time the most impatient."
"That's what Mary says; but what's the good of waiting? She wanted meto wait to-day."
"And as you would not, you have fallen into a trap out of which youcan never escape. But pray let us go. What will they think of us?"
"I shouldn't wonder if they didn't think something near the truth."
"Whatever they think, we will go back. It is ever so much past nine."
"Before you stir, Clara, tell me one thing. Are you really happy?"
"Very happy."
"And are you glad that this has been done?"
"Very glad. Will that satisfy you?"
"And you do love me?"
"I do--I do--I do. Can I say more than that?"
"More than anybody else in the world?"
"Better than all the world put together."
"Then," said he, holding her tight in his arms, "show me that youlove me." And as he made his request he was quick to explain to herwhat, according to his ideas, was the becoming mode by which loversmight show their love. I wonder whether it ever occurred to Clara, asshe thought of it all before she went to bed that night, that CaptainAylmer and William Belton were very different in their manners. Andif so, I must wonder further whether she most approved the manners ofthe patient man or the man who was impatient.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CONCLUSION.
About two months after the scene described in the last chapter, whenthe full summer had arrived, Clara received two letters from the twolovers, the history of whose loves have just been told, and theseshall be submitted to the reader, as they will serve to explain themanner in which the two men proposed to arrange their affairs. Wewill first have Captain Aylmer's letter, which was the first read;Clara kept the latter for the last, as children always keep theirsweetest morsels.
Aylmer Park, August, 186--.
MY DEAR MISS AMEDROZ,
I heard before leaving London that you are engaged to marry your cousin Mr. William Belton, and I think that perhaps you may be satisfied to have a line from me to let you know that I quite approve of the marriage.
"I do not care very much for his approval or disapproval," said Claraas she read this.
No doubt it will be the best thing you can do, especially as it will heal all the sores arising from the entail.
"There never was any sore," said Clara.
Pray give my compliments to Mr. Belton, and offer him my congratulations, and tell him that I wish him all happiness in the married state.
"Married fiddlestick!" said Clara. In this she was unreasonable;but the euphonious platitudes of Captain Aylmer were so unlike thevehement protestations of Mr. Belton that she must be excused if bythis time she had come to entertain something of an unreasonableaversion for the former.
I hope you will not receive my news with perfect indifference when I tell you that I also am going to be married. The lady is one whom I have known for a long time, and have always esteemed v
ery highly. She is Lady Emily Tagmaggert, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Mull.
Why Clara should immediately have conceived a feeling of supremecontempt for Lady Emily Tagmaggert, and assured herself thather ladyship was a thin, dry, cross old maid with a red nose, Icannot explain; but I do know that such were her thoughts, almostinstantaneously, in reference to Captain Aylmer's future bride.
Lady Emily is a very intimate friend of my sister's; and you, who know how our family cling together, will feel how thankful I must be when I tell you that my mother quite approves of the engagement. I suppose we shall be married early in the spring. We shall probably spend some months every year at Perivale, and I hope that we may look forward to the pleasure of seeing you sometimes as a guest beneath our roof.
On reading this Clara shuddered, and made some inward protestationwhich seemed to imply that she had no wish whatever to revisit thedull streets of the little town with which she had been so wellacquainted. "I hope she'll be good to poor Mr. Possit," said Clara,"and give him port wine on Sundays."
I have one more thing that I ought to say. You will remember that I intended to pay my aunt's legacy immediately after her death, but that I was prevented by circumstances which I could not control. I have paid it now into Mr. Green's hands on your account, together with the sum of L59 18_s._ 3_d._, which is due upon it as interest at the rate of five per cent. I hope that this may be satisfactory.
"It is not satisfactory at all," said Clara, putting down the letter,and resolving that Will Belton should be instructed to repay themoney instantly. It may, however, be explained here that in thismatter Clara was doomed to be disappointed; and that she was forced,by Mr. Green's arguments, to receive the money. "Then it shall go tothe hospital at Perivale," she declared when those arguments wereused. As to that, Mr. Green was quite indifferent, but I do not thinkthat the legacy which troubled poor Aunt Winterfield so much on herdying bed was ultimately applied to so worthy a purpose.
"And now, my dear Miss Amedroz," continued the letter,
I will say farewell, with many assurances of my unaltered esteem, and with heartfelt wishes for your future happiness. Believe me to be always,
Most faithfully and sincerely yours,
FREDERIC F. AYLMER.
"Esteem!" said Clara, as she finished the letter. "I wonder whichhe esteems the most, me or Lady Emily Tagmaggert. He will never getbeyond esteem with any one."
The letter which was last read was as follows:--
Plaistow, August, 186--.
DEAREST CLARA,
I don't think I shall ever get done, and I am coming to hate farming. It is awful lonely here, too, and I pass all my evenings by myself, wondering why I should be doomed to this kind of thing, while you and Mary are comfortable together at Belton. We have begun with the wheat, and as soon as that is safe I shall cut and run. I shall leave the barley to Bunce. Bunce knows as much about it as I do,--and as for remaining here all the summer, it's out of the question.
My own dear, darling love, of course I don't intend to urge you to do anything that you don't like; but upon my honour I don't see the force of what you say. You know I have as much respect for your father's memory as anybody, but what harm can it do to him that we should be married at once? Don't you think he would have wished it himself? It can be ever so quiet. So long as it's done, I don't care a straw how it's done. Indeed, for the matter of that, I always think it would be best just to walk to church and to walk home again without saying anything to anybody. I hate fuss and nonsense, and really I don't think anybody would have a right to say anything if we were to do it at once in that sort of way. I have had a bad time of it for the last twelvemonth. You must allow that, and I think that I ought to be rewarded.
As for living, you shall have your choice. Indeed you shall live anywhere you please;--at Timbuctoo if you like it. I don't want to give up Plaistow, because my father and grandfather farmed the land themselves; but I am quite prepared not to live here. I don't think it would suit you, because it has so much of the farm-house about it. Only I should like you sometimes to come and look at the old place. What I should like would be to pull down the house at Belton and build another. But you mustn't propose to put it off till that's done, as I should never have the heart to do it. If you think that would suit you, I'll make up my mind to live at Belton for a constancy; and then I'd go in for a lot of cattle, and don't doubt I'd make a fortune. I'm almost sick of looking at the straight ridges in the big square fields every day of my life.
Give my love to Mary. I hope she fights my battle for me. Pray think of all this, and relent if you can. I do so long to have an end of this purgatory. If there was any use, I wouldn't say a word; but there's no good in being tortured, when there is no use. God bless you, dearest love. I do love you so well!
Yours most affectionately,
W. BELTON.
She kissed the letter twice, pressed it to her bosom, and then satsilent for half an hour thinking of it;--of it, and the man who wroteit, and of the man who had written the other letter. She could notbut remember how that other man had thought to treat her, when it washis intention and her intention that they two should join their lotstogether;--how cold he had been; how full of caution and counsel; howhe had preached to her himself and threatened her with the preachingof his mother; how manifestly he had purposed to make her life asacrifice to his life; how he had premeditated her incarceration atPerivale, while he should be living a bachelor's life in London! WillBelton's ideas of married life were very different. Only come to meat once,--now, immediately, and everything else shall be disposedjust as you please. This was his offer. What he proposed to give,--orrather his willingness to be thus generous, was very sweet to her;but it was not half so sweet as his impatience in demanding hisreward. How she doted on him because he considered his present stateto be a purgatory! How could she refuse anything she could give toone who desired her gifts so strongly?
As for her future residence, it would be a matter of indifference toher where she should live, so long as she might live with him; butfor him,--she felt that but one spot in the world was fit for him.He was Belton of Belton, and it would not be becoming that he shouldlive elsewhere. Of course she would go with him to Plaistow Hall asoften as he might wish it; but Belton Castle should be his permanentresting-place. It would be her duty to be proud for him, andtherefore, for his sake, she would beg that their home might be inSomersetshire.
"Mary," she said to her cousin soon afterwards, "Will sends his loveto you."
"And what else does he say?"
"I couldn't tell you everything. You shouldn't expect it."
"I don't expect it; but perhaps there may be something to be told."
"Nothing that I need tell,--specially. You, who know him so well, canimagine what he would say."
"Dear Will! I am sure he would mean to write what was pleasant."
Then the matter would have dropped had Clara been so minded,--butshe, in truth, was anxious to be forced to talk about the letter.She wished to be urged by Mary to do that which Will urged her todo;--or, at least, to learn whether Mary thought that her brother'swish might be gratified without impropriety. "Don't you think weought to live here?" she said.
"By all means,--if you both like it."
"He is so good,--so unselfish, that he will only ask me to do whatI like best."
"And which would you like best?"
"I think he ought to live here because it is the old family property.I confess that the name goes for something with me. He says that hewould build a new house."
"Does he think he could have it ready by the time you are married?"
"Ah;--that is just the difficulty. Perhaps, after all, you hadbetter read his letter. I don't know why I should not show it toyou. It will only tell you what you know already,--that he is themost generous fellow in all the world."
Then Mary read the letter."What am I to say to him?" Clara asked. "It seems so hard to refuseanything to one who is so true, and good, and generous."
"It is hard."
"But you see my poor, dear father's death has been so recent."
"I hardly know," said Mary, "how the world feels about such things."
"I think we ought to wait at least twelve months," said Clara, verysadly.
"Poor Will! He will be broken-hearted a dozen times before that. Butthen, when his happiness does come, he will be all the happier."Clara, when she heard this, almost hated her cousin Mary,--not forher own sake, but on Will's account. Will trusted so implicitly tohis sister, and yet she could not make a better fight for him thanthis! It almost seemed that Mary was indifferent to her brother'shappiness. Had Will been her brother, Clara thought, and had any girlasked her advice under similar circumstances, she was sure that shewould have answered in a different way. She would have told such girlthat her first duty was owing to the man who was to be her husband,and would not have said a word to her about the feeling of the world.After all, what did the feeling of the world signify to them, whowere going to be all the world to each other?
On that afternoon she went up to Mrs. Askerton's; and succeeded ingetting advice from her also, though she did not show Will's letterto that lady. "Of course, I know what he says," said Mrs. Askerton."Unless I have mistaken the man, he wants to be married to-morrow."
"He is not so bad as that," said Clara.
"Then the next day, or the day after. Of course he is impatient, anddoes not see any earthly reason why his impatience should not begratified."
"He is impatient."
"And I suppose you hesitate because of your father's death."
"It seems but the other day;--does it not?" said Clara.
"Everything seems but the other day to me. It was but the other daythat I myself was married."
"And, of course, though I would do anything I could that he would askme to do--"
"But would you do anything?"
"Anything that was not wrong I would. Why should I not, when he is sogood to me?"
"Then write to him, my dear, and tell him that it shall be ashe wishes it. Believe me, the days of Jacob are over. Men don'tunderstand waiting now, and it's always as well to catch your fishwhen you can."
"You don't suppose I have any thought of that kind?"
"I am sure you have not;--and I'm sure that he deserves no suchthought;--but the higher that are his deserts, the greater should behis reward. If I were you, I should think of nothing but him, and Ishould do exactly as he would have me." Clara kissed her friend asshe parted from her, and again resolved that all that woman's sinsshould be forgiven her. A woman who could give such excellent advicedeserved that every sin should be forgiven her. "They'll be marriedyet before the summer is over," Mrs. Askerton said to her husbandthat afternoon. "I believe a man may have anything he chooses to askfor, if he'll only ask hard enough."
And they were married in the autumn, if not actually in the summer.With what precise words Clara answered her lover's letter I willnot say; but her answer was of such a nature that he found himselfcompelled to leave Plaistow, even before the wheat was garnered.Great confidence was placed in Bunce on that occasion, and I havereason to believe that it was not misplaced. They were married inSeptember;--yes, in September, although that letter of Will's waswritten in August, and by the beginning of October they had returnedfrom their wedding trip to Plaistow. Clara insisted that she shouldbe taken to Plaistow, and was very anxious when there to learn allthe particulars of the farm. She put down in a little book how manyacres there were in each field, and what was the average produce ofthe land. She made inquiry about four-crop rotation, and endeavoured,with Bunce, to go into the great subject of stall-feeding. But Beltondid not give her as much encouragement as he might have done. "We'llcome here for the shooting next year," he said; "that is, if there isnothing to prevent us."
"I hope there'll be nothing to prevent us."
"There might be, perhaps; but we'll always come if there is not. Forthe rest of it, I'll leave it to Bunce, and just run over once ortwice in the year. It would not be a nice place for you to live atlong."
"I like it of all things. I am quite interested about the farm."
"You'd get very sick of it if you were here in the winter. The truthis that if you farm well, you must farm ugly. The picturesque nooksand corners have all to be turned inside out, and the hedgerows mustbe abolished, because we want the sunshine. Now, down at Belton, justabout the house, we won't mind farming well, but will stick to thepicturesque."
The new house was immediately commenced at Belton, and was madeto proceed with all imaginable alacrity. It was supposed at onetime,--at least Belton himself said that he so supposed,--that thebuilding would be ready for occupation at the end of the firstsummer; but this was not found to be possible. "We must put it offtill May, after all," said Belton, as he was walking round theunfinished building with Colonel Askerton. "It's an awful bore, butthere's no getting people really to pull out in this country."
"I think they've pulled out pretty well. Of course you couldn't havegone into a damp house for the winter."
"Other people can get a house built within twelve months. Look whatthey do in London."
"And other people with their wives and children die in consequence ofcolds and sore throats and other evils of that nature. I wouldn't gointo a new house, I know, till I was quite sure it was dry."
As Will at this time was hardly ten months married, he was not asyet justified in thinking about his own wife and children; but hehad already found it expedient to make arrangements for the autumn,which would prevent that annual visit to Plaistow which Clara hadcontemplated, and which he had regarded with his characteristicprudence as being subject to possible impediments. He was to beabsent himself for the first week in September, but was to returnimmediately after that. This he did; and before the end of thatmonth he was justified in talking of his wife and family. "I supposeit wouldn't have done to have been moving now,--under all thecircumstances," he said to his friend, Mrs. Askerton, as he stillgrumbled about the unfinished house.
"I don't think it would have done at all, under all thecircumstances," said Mrs. Askerton.
But in the following spring or early summer they did get into the newhouse;--and a very nice house it was, as will, I think, be believedby those who have known Mr. William Belton. And when they were wellsettled, at which time little Will Belton was some seven or eightmonths old,--little Will, for whom great bonfires had been lit, asthough his birth in those parts was a matter not to be regardedlightly; for was he not the first Belton of Belton who had been bornthere for more than a century?--when that time came visitors appearedat the new Belton Castle, visitors of importance, who were entitledto, and who received, great consideration. These were no less thanCaptain Aylmer, member for Perivale, and his newly-married bride,Lady Emily Aylmer, _nee_ Tagmaggert. They were then just married,and had come down to Belton Castle immediately after their honeymoontrip. How it had come to pass that such friendship had sprung up,--orrather how it had been revived,--it would be bootless here to say.But old alliances, such as that which had existed between the Aylmerand the Amedroz families, do not allow themselves to die out easily,and it is well for us all that they should be long-lived. So CaptainAylmer brought his bride to Belton Park, and a small fatted calf waskilled, and the Askertons came to dinner,--on which occasion CaptainAylmer behaved very well, though we may imagine that he must have hadsome misgivings on the score of his young wife. The Askertons cameto dinner, and the old rector, and the squire from a neighbouringparish, and everything was very handsome and very dull. CaptainAylmer was much pleased with his visit, and declared to Lady Emilythat marriage had greatly improved Mr. William Belton. Now Will hadbeen very dull the whole evening, and very unlike the fiery, violent,unreasonable man whom Captain Aylmer remembered to have met at thestation hotel of the Great Northern Railway.
"I was as
sure of it as possible," Clara said to her husband thatnight.
"Sure of what, my dear?"
"That she would have a red nose."
"Who has got a red nose?"
"Don't be stupid, Will. Who should have it but Lady Emily?"
"Upon my word I didn't observe it."
"You never observe anything, Will; do you? But don't you think she isvery plain?"
"Upon my word I don't know. She isn't as handsome as some people."
"Don't be a fool, Will. How old do you suppose her to be?"
"How old? Let me see. Thirty, perhaps."
"If she's not over forty, I'll consent to change noses with her."
"No;--we won't do that; not if I know it."
"I cannot conceive why any man should marry such a woman as that. Notbut what she's a very good woman, I dare say; only what can a man getby it? To be sure there's the title, if that's worth anything."
But Will Belton was never good for much conversation at this hour,and was too fast asleep to make any rejoinder to the last remark.
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