The Belton Estate Part 11

What could she say? "Not if papa will allow me to keep it."

"But we've no place to put it!" said the squire. "We haven't got gra.s.s for it!"

"There's plenty of gra.s.s," said Belton. "Come, Mr. Amedroz; I've made a point of getting this little creature for Clara, and you mustn't stand in the way of my gratification." Of course he was successful, and of course Clara thanked him with tears in her eyes.

The next two days pa.s.sed by without anything special to mark them, and then the cousin was to go. During the period of his visit he did not see Colonel Askerton, nor did he again see Mrs. Askerton. He went to the cottage once, with the special object of returning the Colonel's call; but the master was out, and he was not specially invited in to see the mistress. He said nothing more to Clara about her friends, but he thought of the matter more than once, as he was going about the place, and became aware that he would like to ascertain whether there was a mystery, and if so, what was its nature. He knew that he did not like Mrs. Askerton, and he felt also that Mrs. Askerton did not like him. This was, as he thought, unfortunate; for might it not be the case, that in the one matter which was to him of so much importance, Mrs. Askerton might have considerable influence over Clara?

During these days nothing special was said between him and Clara. The last evening pa.s.sed over without anything to brighten it or to make it memorable. Mr. Amedroz, in his pa.s.sive, but gently querulous way, was sorry that Belton was going to leave him, as his cousin had been the creation of some new excitement for him, but he said nothing on the subject; and when the time for going to bed had come, he bade his guest farewell with some languid allusion to the pleasure which he would have in seeing him again at Christmas. Belton was to start very early in the morning,--before six, and of course he was prepared to take leave also of Clara. But she told him very gently, so gently that her father did not hear it, that she would be up to give him a cup of coffee before he went.

"Oh no," he said.

"But I shall. I won't have you go without seeing you out of the door."

And on the following morning she was up before him. She hardly understood, herself, why she was doing this. She knew that it should be her object to avoid any further special conversation on that subject which they had discussed up among the rocks. She knew that she could give him no comfort, and that he could give none to her. It would seem that he was willing to let the remembrance of the scene pa.s.s away, so that it should be as though it had never been; and surely it was not for her to disturb so salutary an arrangement!

But yet she was up to bid him G.o.dspeed as he went. She could not bear,--so she excused the matter to herself,--she could not bear to think that he should regard her as ungrateful. She knew all that he had done for them. She had perceived that the taking of the land, the building of the sheds, the life which he had contrived in so short a time to throw into the old place, had all come from a desire on his part to do good to those in whose way he stood by family arrangements made almost before his birth; and she longed to say to him one word of thanks. And had he not told her,--once in the heat of his disappointment; for then at that moment, as Clara said to herself, she supposed that he must have been in some measure disappointed,--had he not even then told her that when she wanted a brother's care, a brother's care should be given to her by him?

Was she not therefore bound to do for him what she would do for a brother?

She, with her own hands, brought the coffee into the little breakfast parlour, and handed the cup into his hands. The gig, which had come overnight from Taunton, was not yet at the door, and there was a minute or two during which they must speak to each other. Who has not seen some such girl when she has come down early, without the full completeness of her morning toilet, and yet nicer, fresher, prettier to the eye of him who is so favoured, than she has ever been in more formal attire? And what man who has been so favoured has not loved her who has so favoured him, even though he may not previously have been enamoured as deeply as poor Will Belton?

"This is so good of you," he said.

"I wish I knew how to be good to you," she answered,--not meaning to trench upon dangerous ground, but feeling, as the words came from her, that she had done so. "You have been so good to us, so very good to papa, that we owe you everything. I am so grateful to you for saying that you will come back at Christmas."

He had resolved that he would refrain from further love-making till the winter; but he found it very hard to refrain when so addressed.

To take her in his arms, and kiss her twenty times, and swear that he would never let her go,--to claim her at once savagely as his own, that was the line of conduct to which temptation prompted him. How could she look at him so sweetly, how could she stand before him, ministering to him with all her pretty maidenly charms brought so close to him, without intending that he should love her? But he did refrain. "Blood is thicker than water," said he. "That's the real reason why I first came."

"I understand that quite, and it is that feeling that makes you so good. But I'm afraid you are spending a great deal of money here--and all for our sakes."

"Not at all. I shall get my money back again. And if I didn't, what then? I've plenty of money. It is not money that I want."

She could not ask him what it was that he did want, and she was obliged therefore to begin again. "Papa will look forward so to the winter now."

"And so shall I."

"But you must come for longer then;--you won't go away at the end of a week? Say that you won't."

"I'll see about it. I can't tell quite yet. You'll write me a line to say when the shed is finished, won't you?"

"That I will, and I'll tell you how Bessy goes on." Bessy was the cow. "I will be so very fond of her. She'll come to me for apples already."

Belton thought that he would go to her, wherever she might be, even if he were to get no apples. "It's all cupboard love with them," he said. "I'll tell you what I'll do;--when I come, I'll bring you a dog that will follow you without thinking of apples." Then the gig was heard on the gravel before the door, and Belton was forced to go. For a moment he reflected whether, as her cousin, it was not his duty to kiss her. It was a matter as to which he had doubt,--as is the case with many male cousins; but ultimately he resolved that if he kissed her at all he would not kiss her in that light, and so he again refrained. "Good-bye," he said, putting out his great hand to her.

"Good-bye, Will, and G.o.d bless you." I almost think he might have kissed her, asking himself no questions as to the light in which it was done.

As he turned from her he saw the tears in her eyes; and as he sat in the gig, thinking of them, other tears came into his own. By heaven, he would have her yet! He was a man who had not read much of romance.

To him all the imagined mysteries of pa.s.sion had not been made common by the perusal of legions of love stories;--but still he knew enough of the game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were, of their own teeth. He knew that he could not now run away with her, taking her off by force; but still he might conquer her will by his own. As he remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of her voice, and the pressure of her hand, and the grat.i.tude that had become tender in its expression, he could not but think that he would be wise to love her still. Wise or foolish, he did love her still; and it should not be owing to fault of his if she did not become his wife. As he drove along he saw little of the Quantock hills, little of the rich Somersetshire pastures, little of the early beauty of the August morning. He saw nothing but her eyes, moistened with bright tears, and before he reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with many revilings in that he had parted from her and not kissed her.

Clara stood at the door watching the gig till it was out of sight,--watching it as well as her tears would allow. What a grand cousin he was! Had it not been a pity,--a thousand pities,--that that grievous episode should have come to mar the brotherly love, the sisterly confidence, which might otherwise have been so perfect between them? But perhaps it might all be well yet. Clara knew, or thought that she knew, that men and women differed in their appreciation of love. She, having once loved, could not change. Of that she was sure. Her love might be fortunate or unfortunate. It might be returned, or it might simply be her own, to destroy all hope of happiness for her on earth. But whether it were this or that, whether productive of good or evil, the love itself could not be changed. But with men she thought it might be different. Her cousin, doubtless, had been sincere in the full sincerity of his heart when he made his offer. And had she accepted it,--had she been able to accept it,--she believed that he would have loved her truly and constantly. Such was his nature. But she also believed that love with him, unrequited love, would have no enduring effect, and that he had already resolved, with equal courage and wisdom, to tread this short-lived pa.s.sion out beneath his feet. One night had sufficed to him for that treading out. As she thought of this the tears ran plentifully down her cheek; and going again to her room she remained there crying till it was time for her to wipe away the marks of her weeping, that she might go to her father.

But she was very glad that Will bore it so well;--very glad! Her cousin was safe against love-making once again.

CHAPTER VII.

MISS AMEDROZ GOES TO PERIVALE.

It had been settled for some time past that Miss Amedroz was to go to Perivale for a few days in November. Indeed it seemed to be a recognised fact in her life that she was to make the journey from Belton to Perivale and back very often, as there prevailed an idea that she owed a divided duty. This was in some degree hard upon her, as she had very little gratification in these visits to her aunt. Had there been any intention on the part of Mrs. Winterfield to provide for her, the thing would have been intelligible according to the usual arrangements which are made in the world on such matters; but Mrs. Winterfield had scarcely a right to call upon her niece for dutiful attendance after having settled it with her own conscience that her property was all to go to her nephew. But Clara entertained no thought of rebelling, and had agreed to make the accustomed journey in November, travelling then, as she did on all such journeys, at her aunt's expense.

Two things only occurred to disturb her tranquillity before she went, and they were not of much violence. Mr. Wright, the clergyman, called at Belton Castle, and in the course of conversation with Mr. Amedroz renewed one of those ill-natured rumours which had before been spread about Mrs. Askerton. Clara did not see him, but she heard an account of it all from her father.

"Does it mean, papa," she said, speaking almost with anger, "that you want me to give up Mrs. Askerton?"

"How can you be so unkind as to ask me such a question?" he replied.

"You know how I hate to be bothered. I tell you what I hear, and then you can decide for yourself."

"But that isn't quite fair either, papa. That man comes here--"

"That man, as you call him, is the rector of the parish, and I've known him for forty years."

"And have never liked him, papa."

"I don't know much about liking anybody, my dear. n.o.body likes me, and so why should I trouble myself?"

"But, papa, it all amounts to this--that somebody has said that the Askertons are not Askertons at all, but ought to be called something else. Now we know that he served as Captain and Major Askerton for seven years in India--and in fact it all means nothing. If I know anything, I know that he is Colonel Askerton."

"But do you know that she is his wife? That is what Mr. Wright asks.

I don't say anything. I think it's very indelicate talking about such things."

"If I am asked whether I have seen her marriage certificate, certainly I have not; nor probably did you ever do so as to any lady that you ever knew. But I know that she is her husband's wife, as we all of us know things of that sort. I know she was in India with him.

I've seen things of hers marked with her name that she has had at least for ten years."

"I don't know anything about it, my dear," said Mr. Amedroz, angrily.

"But Mr. Wright ought to know something about it before he says such things. And then this that he's saying now isn't the same that he said before."

"I don't know what he said before."

"He said they were both of them using a feigned name."

"It's nothing to me what name they use. I know I wish they hadn't come here, if I'm to be troubled about them in this way--first by Wright and then by you."

"They have been very good tenants, papa."

"You needn't tell me that, Clara, and remind me about the shooting when you know how unhappy it makes me."

After this Clara said nothing more, and simply determined that Mr.