The Belton Estate Part 14

"I do not want his generosity, aunt."

"That is nonsense, my dear. If he has told me the truth, what have you to depend on?"

"I don't want to depend on anything. I hate hearing about it."

"Clara, I wonder you can talk in that way. If you were only seventeen it would be very foolish; but at your age it is inexcusable. When I am gone, and your father is gone, who is to provide for you? Will your cousin do it--Mr. Belton, who is to have the property?"

"Yes, he would--if I would let him;--of course I would not let him.

But, aunt, pray do not go on. I would sooner have to starve than talk about it at all."

There was another pause; but Clara again knew that the conversation was not over; and she knew also that it would be vain for her to endeavour to begin another subject. Nor could she think of anything else to say, so much was she agitated.

"What makes you suppose that Mr. Belton would be so liberal?" asked Mrs. Winterfield.

"I don't know. I can't say. He is the nearest relation I shall have; and of all the people I ever knew he is the best, and the most generous, and the least selfish. When he came to us papa was quite hostile to him--disliking his very name; but when the time came, papa could not bear to think of his going, because he had been so good."

"Clara!"

"Well, aunt."

"I hope you know my affection for you."

"Of course I do, aunt; and I hope you trust mine for you also."

"Is there anything between you and Mr. Belton besides cousinship?"

"Nothing."

"Because if I thought that, my trouble would of course be at an end."

"There is nothing;--but pray do not let me be a trouble to you."

Clara, for a moment, almost resolved to tell her aunt the whole truth; but she remembered that she would be treating her cousin badly if she told the story of his rejection.

There was another short period of silence, and then Mrs. Winterfield went on. "Frederic thinks that I should make some provision for you by will. That, of course, is the same as though he offered to do it himself. I told him that it would be so, and I read him my will last night. He said that that made no difference, and recommended me to add a codicil. I asked him how much I ought to give you, and he said fifteen hundred pounds. There will be as much as that after burying me without burden to the estate. You must acknowledge that he has been very generous."

But Clara, in her heart, did not at all thank Captain Aylmer for his generosity. She would have had everything from him, or nothing.

It was grievous to her to think that she should owe to him a bare pittance to keep her out of the workhouse,--to him who had twice seemed to be on the point of asking her to share everything with him.

She did not love her cousin Will as she loved him; but her cousin Will's a.s.surance to her that he would treat her with a brother's care was sweeter to her by far than Frederic Aylmer's well-balanced counsel to his aunt on her behalf. In her present mood, too, she wanted no one to have forethought for her; she desired no provision; for her, in the discomfiture of heart, there was consolation in the feeling that when she should find herself alone in the world, she would have been ill-treated by her friends all round her. There was a charm in the prospect of her desolation of which she did not wish to be robbed by the a.s.surance of some seventy pounds a year, to be given to her by Captain Frederic Aylmer. To be robbed of one's grievance is the last and foulest wrong,--a wrong under which the most enduring temper will at last yield and become soured,--by which the strongest back will be broken. "Well, my dear," continued Mrs. Winterfield, when Clara made no response to this appeal for praise.

"It is so hard for me to say anything about it, aunt. What can I say but that I don't want to be a burden to any one?"

"That is a position which very few women can attain,--that is, very few single women."

"I think it would be well if all single women were strangled by the time they are thirty," said Clara with a fierce energy which absolutely frightened her aunt.

"Clara! how can you say anything so wicked,--so abominably wicked!"

"Anything would be better than being twitted in this way. How can I help it that I am not a man and able to work for my bread? But I am not above being a housemaid, and so Captain Aylmer shall find. I'd sooner be a housemaid, with nothing but my wages, than take the money which you say he is to give me. It will be of no use, aunt, for I shall not take it."

"It is I that am to leave it to you. It is not to be a present from Frederic."

"It is the same thing, aunt. He says you are to do it; and you told me just now that it was to come out of his pocket."

"I should have done it myself long ago, had you told me all the truth about your father's affairs."

"How was I to tell you? I would sooner have bitten my tongue out. But I will tell you the truth now. If I had known that all this was to be said to me about money, and that our poverty was to be talked over between you and Captain Aylmer, I would not have come to Perivale. I would rather that you should be angry with me and think that I had forgotten you."

"You would not say that, Clara, if you remembered that this will probably be your last visit to me."

"No, no; it will not be the last. But do not talk about these things.

And it will be so much better that I should be here when he is not here."

"I had hoped that when I died you might both be with me together,--as husband and wife."

"Such hopes never come to anything."

"I still think that he would wish it."

"That is nonsense, aunt. It is indeed, for neither of us wish it." A lie on such a subject from a woman under such circ.u.mstances is hardly to be considered a lie at all. It is spoken with no mean object, and is the only bulwark which the woman has ready at her need to cover her own weakness.

"From what he said yesterday," continued Mrs. Winterfield, "I think it is your own fault."

"Pray,--pray do not talk in that way. It cannot be matter of any fault that two people do not want to marry each other."

"Of course I asked him no positive question. It would be indelicate even in me to have done that. But he spoke as though he thought very highly of you."

"No doubt he does. And so do I of Mr. Possitt."

"Mr. Possitt is a very excellent young man," said Mrs. Winterfield, gravely. Mr. Possitt was, indeed, her favourite curate at Perivale, and always dined at the house on Sundays between services, when Mrs.

Winterfield was very particular in seeing that he took two gla.s.ses of her best port wine to support him. "But Mr. Possitt has nothing but his curacy."

"There is no danger, aunt, I can a.s.sure you."

"I don't know what you call danger; but Frederic seemed to think that you are always sharp with him. You don't want to quarrel with him, I hope, because I love him better than any one in the world?"

"Oh, aunt, what cruel things you say to me without thinking of them!"

"I do not mean to be cruel, but I will say nothing more about him. As I told you before, that I had not thought it expedient to leave away any portion of my little property from Frederic,--believing as I did then, that the money intended for you by your father was still remaining,--it is best that you should now know that I have at last learnt the truth, and that I will at once see my lawyer about making this change."

"Dear aunt, of course I thank you."

"I want no thanks, Clara. I humbly strive to do what I believe to be my duty. I have never felt myself to be more than a steward of my money. That I have often failed in my stewardship I know well;--for in what duties do we not all fail?" Then she gently laid herself back in her arm-chair, closing her eyes, while she kept fast clasped in her hands the little book of daily devotion which she had been striving to read when the conversation had been commenced. Clara knew then that nothing more was to be said, and that she was not at present to interrupt her aunt. From her posture, and the closing of her eyelids, Mrs. Winterfield might have been judged to be asleep; but Clara could see the gentle motion of her lips, and was aware that her aunt was solacing herself with prayer.

Clara was angry with herself, and angry with all the world. She knew that the old lady who was sitting then before her was very good; and that all this that had now been said had come from pure goodness, and a desire that strict duty might be done; and Clara was angry with herself in that she had not been more ready with her thanks, and more demonstrative with her love and grat.i.tude. Mrs. Winterfield was affectionate as well as good, and her niece's coldness, as the niece well knew, had hurt her sorely. But still what could Clara have done or said? She told herself that it was beyond her power to burst out into loud praises of Captain Aylmer; and of such nature was the grat.i.tude which Mrs. Winterfield had desired. She was not grateful to Captain Aylmer, and wanted nothing that was to come from his generosity. And then her mind went away to that other portion of her aunt's discourse. Could it be possible that this man was in truth attached to her, and was repelled simply by her own manner? She was aware that she had fallen into a habit of fighting with him, of sparring against him with words about indifferent things, and calling his conduct in question in a manner half playful and half serious.

Could it be the truth that she was thus robbing herself of that which would be to her,--as to herself she had frankly declared,--the one treasure which she would desire? Twice, as has been said before, words had seemed to tremble on his lips which might have settled the question for her for ever; and on both occasions, as she knew, she herself had helped to laugh off the precious word that had been coming. But had he been thoroughly in earnest,--in earnest as she would have him to be,--no laugh would have deterred him from his purpose. Could she have laughed Will Belton out of his declaration?

At last the lips ceased to move, and she knew that her aunt was in truth asleep. The poor old lady hardly ever slept at night; but nature, claiming something of its due, would give her rest such as this in her arm-chair by the fire-side. They were sitting in a large double drawing-room upstairs, in which there were, as was customary with Mrs. Winterfield in winter, two fires; and the candles were in the back-room, while the two ladies sat in that looking out into the street. This Mrs. Winterfield did to save her eyes from the candles, and yet to be within reach of light if it were wanted. And Clara also sat motionless in the dark, careful not to disturb her aunt, and desirous of being with her when she should awake. Captain Aylmer had declared his purpose of being home early from the Mayor's dinner, and the ladies were to wait for his arrival before tea was brought to them. Clara was herself almost asleep when the door was opened, and Captain Aylmer entered the room.