The Belton Estate Part 24

"Yes, I do."

"Really?"

"Yes; really."

"And did she take your coming well?"

"Very well. I think she is much obliged to me for going."

"And Mr. Amedroz?"

"He liked my coming too,--very much."

"What;--after that cold letter?"

"Yes, indeed. I shall explain it all by degrees. I have taken a lease of all the land, and I'm to go back at Christmas; and as to the old gentleman,--he'd have me live there altogether if I would."

"Why, Will?"

"Is it not odd? I'm so glad I didn't make up my mind not to go when I got that letter. And yet I don't know." These last words he added slowly, and in a low voice, and Mary at once knew that everything was not quite as it ought to be.

"Is there anything wrong, Will?"

"No, nothing wrong; that is to say, there is nothing to make me regret that I went. I think I did some good to them."

"It was to do good to them that you went there."

"They wanted to have some one near them who could be to them as one of their own family. He is too old,--too much worn out to be capable of managing things; and the people there were, of course, robbing him. I think I have put a stop to that."

"And you are to go again at Christmas?"

"Yes; they can do without me at my uncle's, and you will be there. I have taken the land, and already bought some of the stock for it, and am going to buy more."

"I hope you won't lose money, Will."

"No;--not ultimately, that is. I shall get the place in good condition, and I shall have paid myself when he goes, in that way, if in no other. Besides, what's a little money? I owe it to them for robbing her of her inheritance."

"You do not rob her, Will."

"It is hard upon her, though."

"Does she feel it hard?"

"Whatever may be her feelings on such a matter, she is a woman much too proud to show them."

"I wish I knew whether you liked her or not."

"I do like her,--I love her better than any one in the world; better even than you, Mary; for I have asked her to be my wife."

"Oh, Will!"

"And she has refused me. Now you know the whole of it,--the whole history of what I have done while I have been away." And he stood up before her, with his thumbs thrust into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, with something serious and almost solemn in his gait, in spite of a smile which played about his mouth.

"Oh, Will!"

"I meant to have told you, of course, Mary,--to have told you everything; but I did not mean to tell it to-night; only it has somehow fallen from me. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, they say."

"I never can like her if she refuses your love."

"Why not? That is unlike you, Mary. Why should she be bound to love me because I love her?"

"Is there any one else, Will?"

"How can I tell? I did not ask her. I would not have asked her for the world, though I would have given the world to know."

"And she is so very beautiful?"

"Beautiful! It isn't that so much;--though she is beautiful.

But,--but,--I can't tell you why,--but she is the only girl that I ever saw who would suit me for a wife. Oh, dear!"

"My own Will!"

"But I'm not going to keep you up all night, Mary. And I'll tell you something else; I'm not going to break my heart for love. And I'll tell you something else again; I'm not going to give it up yet. I believe I've been a fool. Indeed, I know I've been a fool. I went about it just as if I were buying a horse, and had told the seller that that was my price,--he might take it or leave it. What right had I to suppose that any girl was to be had in that way; much less such a girl as Clara Amedroz?"

"It would have been a great match for her."

"I'm not so sure of that, Mary. Her education has been different from mine, and it may well be that she should marry above me. But I swear I will not speak another word to you to-night. To-morrow, if you're well enough, I'll talk to you all day." Soon after that he did get her to go up to her room, though, of course, he broke that oath of his as to not speaking another word. After that he walked out by moonlight round the house, wandering about the garden and farmyard, and down through the avenue, having in his own mind some pretence of the watchfulness of ownership, but thinking little of his property and much of his love. Here was a thing that he desired with all his heart, but it seemed to be out of his reach,--absolutely out of his reach. He was sick and weary with a feeling of longing,--sick with that covetousness wherewith Ahab coveted the vineyard of Naboth. What was the world to him if he could not have this thing on which he had set his heart? He had told his sister that he would not break his heart; and so much, he did not doubt, would be true. A man or woman with a broken heart was in his estimation a man or woman who should die of love; and he did not look for such a fate as that. But he experienced the palpable misery of a craving emptiness within his breast, and did believe of himself that he never could again be in comfort unless he could succeed with Clara Amedroz. He stood leaning against one of the trees, striking his hands together, and angry with himself at the weakness which had reduced him to such a state. What could any man be worth who was so little master of himself as he had now become?

After awhile he made his way back through the farmyard, and in at the kitchen door, which he locked and bolted; and then, throwing himself down into a wooden arm-chair which always stood there, in the corner of the huge hearth, he took a short pipe from the mantelpiece, filled it with tobacco, and lighting it almost unconsciously, began to smoke with vehemence. Plaistow Hall was already odious to him, and he longed to be back at Belton, which he had left only that morning.

Yes, on that very morning she had brought to him his coffee, looking sweetly into his face,--so sweetly as she ministered to him. And he might then well have said one word more in pleading his suit, if he had not been too awkward to know what that word should be. And was it not his own awkwardness that had brought him to this state of misery?

What right had he to suppose that any girl should fall in love with such a one as he at first sight,--without a moment's notice to her own heart? And then, when he had her there, almost in his arms, why had he let her go without kissing her? It seemed to him now that if he might have once kissed her, even that would have been a comfort to him in his present affliction. "D----tion!" he said at last, as he jumped to his feet and kicked the chair on one side, and threw the pipe among the ashes. I trust it will be understood that he addressed himself, and not his lady-love in this uncivil way,--"D----tion!"

Then when the chair had been well kicked out of his way, he took himself up to bed. I wonder whether Clara's heart would have been hardened or softened towards him had she heard the oath, and understood all the thoughts and motives which had produced it.

On the next morning poor Mary Belton was too ill to come down-stairs; and as her brother spent his whole day out upon the farm, remaining among reapers and wheat stacks till nine o'clock in the evening, nothing was said about Clara on that day. Then there came a Sunday, and it was a matter of course that the subject of which they both were thinking should be discussed. Will went to church, and, as was their custom on Sundays, they dined immediately on his return. Then, as the afternoon was very warm, he took her out to a favourite seat she had in the garden, and it became impossible that they could longer abstain.

"And you really mean to go again at Christmas?" she asked.

"Certainly I shall;--I promised."

"Then I am sure you will."

"And I must go from time to time because of the land I have taken.

Indeed there seems to be an understanding that I am to manage the property for Mr. Amedroz."

"And does she wish you to go?"

"Yes,--she says so."