NOT SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING.
"Why don't you call him Will?" Clara said to her father. This
question was asked on the evening of that Monday on which Mr. Amedroz
had given his consent as to the marriage proposal.
"Call him Will! Why should I?"
"You used to do so, when he was a boy."
"Of course I did; but that is years ago. He would think it
impertinent now."
"Indeed he would not; he would like it. He has told me so. It sounds
so cold to him to be called Mr. Belton by his relations."
The father looked at his daughter as though for a moment he almost
suspected that matters had really been arranged between her and her
future lover without his concurrence, and before his sanction had
been obtained. But if for a moment such a thought did cross his mind,
it did not dwell there. He trusted Belton; but as to his daughter, he
knew that he might be sure of her. It would be impossible with her to
keep such a secret from him, even for half a day. And yet, how odd
it was! Here was a man who in three days had fallen in love with his
daughter; and here was his daughter apparently quite as ready to be
in love with the man. How could she, who was ordinarily circumspect,
and almost cold in her demeanour towards strangers--who was from
circumstances and from her own disposition altogether hostile to
flirting intimacies--how could his Clara have changed her nature
so speedily? The squire did not understand it, but was prepared to
believe that it was all for the best. "I'll call him Will, if you
like it," said he.
"Do, papa, and then I can do so also. He is such a good fellow, and
I am so fond of him."
On the next morning Mr. Amedroz did, with much awkwardness, call
his guest by his Christian name. Clara caught her cousin's eye and
smiled, and he also smiled. At that moment he was more in love than
ever. Could anything be more charming than this? Immediately after
breakfast he was going over to Redicote, to see a builder in a small
way who lived there, and whom he proposed to employ in putting up the
shed for the cattle; but he almost begrudged the time, so anxious was
he to begin his suit. But his plan had been laid out and he would
follow it. "I think I shall be back by three o'clock," he said to
Clara, "and then we'll have our walk."
"I'll be ready; and you can call for me at Mrs. Askerton's. I must go
down there, and it will save you something in your walk to pick me up
at the cottage." And so the arrangements for the day were made.
Clara had promised that she would soon call at the cottage, and was,
indeed, rather anxious to see Mrs. Askerton on her own account. What
she had heard from her cousin as to a certain Miss Vigo of old days
had interested her, and also what she had heard of a certain Mr.
Berdmore. It had been evident to her that her cousin had thought
little about it. The likeness of the lady he then saw to the lady he
had before known, had at first struck him; but when he found that the
two ladies were not represented by one and the same person, he was
satisfied, and there was an end of the matter for him. But it was
not so with Clara. Her feminine mind dwelt on the matter with more
earnestness than he had cared to entertain, and her clearer intellect
saw possibilities which did not occur to him. But it was not till
she found herself walking across the park to the cottage that
she remembered that any inquiries as to her past life might be
disagreeable to Mrs. Askerton. She had thought of asking her friend
plainly whether the names of Vigo and Berdmore had ever been familiar
to her; but she reminded herself that there had been rumours afloat,
and that there might be a mystery. Mrs. Askerton would sometimes talk
of her early life; but she would do this with dreamy, indistinct
language, speaking of the sorrows of her girlhood, but not specifying
their exact nature, seldom mentioning any names, and never referring
with clear personality to those who had been nearest to her when
she had been a child. Clara had seen her friend's maiden name, Mary
Oliphant, written in a book, and seeing it had alluded to it. On
that occasion Mrs. Askerton had spoken of herself as having been an
Oliphant, and thus Clara had come to know the fact. But now, as she
made her way to the cottage, she remembered that she had learned
nothing more than this as to Mrs. Askerton's early life. Such being
the case, she hardly knew how to ask any question about the two names
that had been mentioned. And yet, why should she not ask such a
question? Why should she doubt Mrs. Askerton? And if she did doubt,
why should not her doubts be solved?
She found Colonel Askerton and his wife together, and she certainly
would ask no such question in his presence. He was a slight built,
wiry man, about fifty, with iron-grey hair and beard,--who seemed to
have no trouble in life, and to desire but few pleasures. Nothing
could be more regular than the course of his days, and nothing more
idle. He breakfasted at eleven, smoked and read till the afternoon,
when he rode for an hour or two; then he dined, read again, smoked
again, and went to bed. In September and October he shot, and twice
in the year, as has been before stated, went away to seek a little
excitement elsewhere. He seemed to be quite contented with his lot,
and was never heard to speak an angry word to any one. Nobody cared
for him much; but then he troubled himself with no one's affairs. He
never went to church, and had not eaten or drank in any house but his
own since he had come to Belton.
"Oh, Clara, you naughty girl," said Mrs. Askerton, "why didn't you
come yesterday? I was expecting you all day."
"I was busy. Really, we've grown to be quite industrious people since
my cousin came."
"They tell me he's taking the land into his own hands," said the
Colonel.
"Yes, indeed; and he is going to build sheds, and buy cattle; and
I don't know what he doesn't mean to do; so that we shall be alive
again."
"I hope he won't want my shooting."
"He has shooting of his own in Norfolk," said Clara.
"Then he'll hardly care to come here for that purpose. When I heard
of his proceedings I began to be afraid."
"I don't think he would do anything to annoy you for the world," said
Clara, enthusiastically. "He's the most unselfish person I ever met."
"He'd have a perfect right to take the shooting if he liked it,--that
is always supposing that he and your father agreed about it."
"They agree about everything now. He has altogether disarmed papa's
prejudices, and it seems to be recognised that he is to have his own
way about the place. But I don't think he'll interfere about the
shooting."
"He won't, my dear, if you ask him not," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I'll ask him in a moment if Colonel Askerton wishes it."
"Oh dear no," said he. "It would be teaching the ostler to grease the
horse's teeth. Perhaps he hasn't thought of it."
"He thinks of everything," said Clara.
"I wonder whether he's thinking of--" So far Mrs. Askerton spoke,
and then she paused. Colonel Askerton looked up at Clara with an
ill-natured smile, and Clara felt that she blushed. Was it not cruel
that she could not say a word in favour of a friend and a cousin,--a
cousin who had promised to be a brother to her, without being treated
with such words and such looks as these? But she was determined not
to be put down. "I'm quite sure of this," she said, "that my cousin
would do nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike."
"There would be nothing unfair or ungentlemanlike in it. I shouldn't
take it amiss at all;--but I should simply take up my bed and walk.
Pray tell him that I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing him
before he goes. I did call yesterday, but he was out."
"He'll be here soon. He's to come here for me." But Colonel
Askerton's horse was brought to the door, and he could not therefore
wait to make Mr. Belton's acquaintance on that occasion.
"What a phoenix this cousin of yours is," said Mrs. Askerton, as
soon as her husband was gone.
"He is a splendid fellow;--he is indeed. There's so much life about
him! He's always doing something. He says that doing good will always
pay in the long run. Isn't that a fine doctrine?"
"Quite a practical phoenix!"
"It has done papa so much good! At this moment he's out somewhere,
thinking of what is going on, instead of moping in the house. He
couldn't bear the idea of Will's coming, and now he is already
beginning to complain because he's going away."
"Will, indeed!"
"And why not Will? He's my cousin."
"Yes;--ten times removed. But so much the better if he's to be
anything more than a cousin."
"He is to be nothing more, Mrs. Askerton."
"You're quite sure of that?"
"I am quite sure of it. And I cannot understand why there should be
such a suspicion because he and I are thrown closely together, and
are fond of each other. Whether he is a sixth, eighth, or tenth
cousin makes no difference. He is the nearest I have on that side;
and since my poor brother's death he is papa's heir. It is so natural
that he should be my friend;--and such a comfort that he should be
such a friend as he is! I own it seems cruel to me that under such
circumstances there should be any suspicion."
"Suspicion, my dear;--suspicion of what?"
"Not that I care for it. I am prepared to love him as if he
were my brother. I think him one of the finest creatures I ever
knew,--perhaps the finest I ever did know. His energy and good-nature
together are just the qualities to make the best kind of man. I am
proud of him as my friend and my cousin, and now you may suspect what
you please."
"But, my dear, why should not he fall in love with you? It would be
the most proper, and also the most convenient thing in the world."
"I hate talking of falling in love;--as though a woman has nothing
else to think of whenever she sees a man."
"A woman has nothing else to think of."
"I have,--a great deal else. And so has he."
"It's quite out of the question on his part, then?"
"Quite out of the question. I'm sure he likes me. I can see it in his
face, and hear it in his voice, and am so happy that it is so. But it
isn't in the way that you mean. Heaven knows that I may want a friend
some of these days, and I feel that I may trust to him. His feelings
to me will be always those of a brother."
"Perhaps so. I have seen that fraternal love before under similar
circumstances, and it has always ended in the same way."
"I hope it won't end in any way between us."
"But the joke is that this suspicion, as you call it,--which makes
you so indignant,--is simply a suggestion that a thing should happen
which, of all things in the world, would be the best for both of
you."
"But the thing won't happen, and therefore let there be an end of it.
I hate the twaddle talk of love, whether it's about myself or about
any one else. It makes me feel ashamed of my sex, when I find that
I cannot talk of myself to another woman without being supposed to
be either in love or thinking of love,--either looking for it or
avoiding it. When it comes, if it comes prosperously, it's a very
good thing. But I for one can do without it, and I feel myself
injured when such a state of things is presumed to be impossible."
"It is worth any one's while to irritate you, because your
indignation is so beautiful."
"It is not beautiful to me; for I always feel ashamed afterwards of
my own energy. And now, if you please, we won't say anything more
about Mr. Will Belton."
"May I not talk about him, even as the enterprising cousin?"
"Certainly; and in any other light you please. Do you know he seemed
to think that he had known you ever so many years ago." Clara, as
she said this, did not look direct at her friend's face; but still
she could perceive that Mrs. Askerton was disconcerted. There came a
shade of paleness over her face, and a look of trouble on her brow,
and for a moment or two she made no reply.
"Did he?" she then said. "And when was that?"
"I suppose it was in London. But, after all, I believe it was not
you, but somebody whom he remembers to have been like you. He says
that the lady was a Miss Vigo." As she pronounced the name, Clara
turned her face away, feeling instinctively that it would be kind to
do so.
"Miss Vigo!" said Mrs. Askerton at once; and there was that in the
tone of her voice which made Clara feel that all was not right with
her. "I remember that there were Miss Vigos; two of them, I think.
I didn't know that they were like me especially."
"And he says that the one he remembers married a Mr. Berdmore."
"Married a Mr. Berdmore!" The tone of voice was still the same, and
there was an evident struggle, as though the woman was making a
vehement effort to speak in her natural voice. Then Clara looked at
her, feeling that if she abstained from doing so, the very fact of
her so abstaining would be remarkable. There was the look of pain on
Mrs. Askerton's brow, and her cheeks were still pale, but she smiled
as she went on speaking. "I'm sure I'm flattered, for I remember that
they were both considered beauties. Did he know anything more of
her?"
"No; nothing more."
"There must have been some casual likeness I suppose." Mrs. Askerton
was a clever woman, and had by this time almost recovered her
self-possession. Then there came a ring at the front door, and in
another minute Mr. Belton was in the room. Mrs. Askerton felt that it
was imperative on her to make some allusion to the conversation which
had just taken place, and dashed at the subject at once. "Clara tells
me that I am exactly like some old friend of yours, Mr. Belton."
Then he looked at her closely as he answered her. "I have no right to
say that she was my friend, Mrs. Askerton," he said; "indeed there
was hardly what might be called an acquaintance between us; but you
certainly are extremely like a certain Miss Vigo that I remember."
"I often wonder that one person isn't more often found to be like
another," said Mrs. Askerton.
"People often are like," said he; "but not like in such a way as to
give rise to mistakes as to identity. Now, I should have stopped you
in the street and called you Mrs. Berdmore."
"Didn't I once see or hear the name of Berdmore in this house?" asked
Clara.
Then that look of pain returned. Mrs. Askerton had succeeded in
recovering the usual tone of her countenance, but now she was once
more disturbed. "I think I know the name," said she.
"I fancy that I have seen it in this house," said Clara.
"You may more likely have heard it, my dear. My memory is very poor,
but if I remember rightly, Colonel Askerton did know a Captain
Berdmore,--a long while ago, before he was married; and you may
probably have heard him mention the name." This did not quite satisfy
Clara, but she said nothing more about it then. If there was a
mystery which Mrs. Askerton did not wish to have explored, why should
she explore it?
Soon after this Clara got up to go, and Mrs. Askerton, making another
attempt to be cheerful, was almost successful. "So you're going back
into Norfolk on Saturday, Clara tells me. You are making a very short
visit now that you're come among us."
"It is a long time for me to be away from home. Farmers can hardly
ever dare to leave their work. But in spite of my farm, I am talking
of coming here again about Christmas."
"But you are going to have a farming establishment here too?"
"That will be nothing. Clara will look after that for me; will you
not?" Then they went, and Belton had to consider how he would begin
the work before him. He had some idea that too much precipitancy
might do him an injury, but he hardly knew how to commence without
coming to the point at once. When they were out together in the park,
he went back at first to the subject of Mrs. Askerton.
"I would almost have sworn they were one and the same woman," he
said.
"But you see that they are not."
"It's not only the likeness, but the voice. It so chanced that I once
saw that Miss Vigo in some trouble. I happened to meet her in company
with a man who was,--who was tipsy, in fact, and I had to relieve
her."
"Dear me,--how disagreeable!"
"It's a long time ago, and there can't be any harm in mentioning it
now. It was the man she was going to marry, and whom she did marry."
"What;--the Mr. Berdmore?"
"Yes; he was often in that way. And there was a look about Mrs.
Askerton just now so like the look of that Miss Vigo then, that I
cannot get rid of the idea."
"They can't be the same, as she was certainly a Miss Oliphant. And
you hear, too, what she says."
"Yes;--I heard what she said. You have known her long?"
"These two years."
"And intimately?"
"Very intimately. She is our only neighbour; and her being here has
certainly been a great comfort to me. It is sad not having some woman
near one that one can speak to;--and then, I really do like her very
much."
"No doubt it's all right."
"Yes; it's all right," said Clara. After that there was nothing more
said about Mrs. Askerton, and Belton began his work. They had gone
from the cottage, across the park, away from the house, up to a high
rock which stood boldly out of the ground, from whence could be seen
the sea on one side, and on the other a far tract of country almost
away to the moors. And when they reached this spot they seated
themselves. "There," said Clara, "I consider this to be the prettiest
spot in England."
"I haven't seen all England," said Belton.
"Don't be so matter-of-fact, Will. I say it's the prettiest in
England, and you can't contradict me."
"And I say you're the prettiest girl in England, and you can't
contradict me."
This annoyed Clara, and almost made her feel that her paragon of a
cousin was not quite so perfect as she had represented him to be. "I
see," she said, "that if I talk nonsense I'm to be punished."
"Is it a punishment to you to know that I think you very handsome?"
he said, turning round and looking full into her face.
"It is disagreeable to me--very, to have any such subject talked
about at all. What would you think if I began to pay you foolish
personal compliments?"
"What I say isn't foolish; and there's a great difference. Clara,
I love you better than all the world put together."
She now looked at him; but still she did not believe it. It could
not be that after all her boastings she should have made so gross a
blunder. "I hope you do love me," she said; "indeed, you are bound to
do so, for you promised that you would be my brother."
"But that will not satisfy me now, Clara. Clara, I want to be your
husband."
"Will!" she exclaimed.
"Now you know it all; and if I have been too sudden, I must beg your
pardon."
"Oh, Will, forget that you have said this. Do not go on until
everything must be over between us."
"Why should anything be over between us? Why should it be wrong in me
to love you?"
"What will papa say?"
"Mr. Amedroz knows all about it already, and has given me his
consent. I asked him directly I had made up my own mind, and he told
me that I might go to you."
"You have asked papa? Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?"
"Am I so odious to you then?" As he said this he got up from his seat
and stood before her. He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and he
could assume a look and mien that were almost noble when he was moved
as he was moved now.
"Odious! Do you not know that I have loved you as my cousin--that
I have already learned to trust you as though you were really my
brother? But this breaks it all."
"You cannot love me then as my wife?"
"No." She pronounced the monosyllable alone, and then he walked away
from her as though that one little word settled the question for him,
now and for ever. He walked away from her, perhaps a distance of two
hundred yards, as though the interview was over, and he were leaving
her. She, as she saw him go, wished that he would return that she
might say some word of comfort to him. Not that she could have said
the only word that would have comforted him. At the first blush of
the thing, at the first sound of the address which he had made to
her, she had been angry with him. He had disappointed her, and she
was indignant. But her anger had already melted and turned itself to
ruth. She could not but love him better, in that he had loved her so
well; but yet she could not love him with the love which he desired.
But he did not leave her. When he had gone from her down the hill
the distance that has been named, he turned back, and came up to her
slowly. He had a trick of standing and walking with his thumbs fixed
into the armholes of his waistcoat, while his large hands rested on
his breast. He would always assume this attitude when he was assured
that he was right in his views, and was eager to carry some point
at issue. Clara already understood that this attitude signified his
intention to be autocratic. He now came close up to her, and again
stood over her, before he spoke. "My dear," he said, "I have been
rough and hasty in what I have said to you, and I have to ask you to
pardon my want of manners."
"No, no, no," she exclaimed.
"But in a matter of so much interest to us both you will not let an
awkward manner prejudice me."
"It is not that; indeed, it is not."
"Listen to me, dearest. It is true that I promised to be your
brother, and I will not break my word unless I break it by your own
sanction. I did promise to be your brother, but I did not know then
how fondly I should come to love you. Your father, when I told him of
this, bade me not to be hasty; but I am hasty, and I haven't known
how to wait. Tell me that I may come at Christmas for my answer,
and I will not say a word to trouble you till then. I will be your
brother, at any rate till Christmas."
"Be my brother always."
A black cloud crossed his brow as this request reached his ears.
She was looking anxiously into his face, watching every turn in
the expression of his countenance. "Will you not let it wait till
Christmas?" he asked.
She thought it would be cruel to refuse this request, and yet she
knew that no such waiting could be of service to him. He had been
awkward in his love-making, and was aware of it. He should have
contrived this period of waiting for himself; giving her no option
but to wait and think of it. He should have made no proposal, but
have left her certain that such proposal was coming. In such case she
must have waited--and if good could have come to him from that, he
might have received it. But, as the question was now presented to
her, it was impossible that she should consent to wait. To have given
such consent would have been tantamount to receiving him as her
lover. She was therefore forced to be cruel.
"It will be of no avail to postpone my answer when I know what it
must be. Why should there be suspense?"
"You mean that it is impossible that you should love me?"
"Not in that way, Will."
"And why not?" Then there was a pause. "But I am a fool to ask such a
question as that, and I should be worse than a fool were I to press
it. It must then be considered as settled?"
She got up and clung to his arm. "Oh, Will, do not look at me like
that!"
"It must then be considered as settled?" he repeated.
"Yes, Will, yes. Pray consider it as settled." He then sat down on
the rock again, and she came and sat by him,--near to him, but not
close as she had been before. She turned her eyes upon him, gazing on
him, but did not speak to him; and he sat also without speaking for a
while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "I suppose we may go back
to the house?" he said at last.
"Give me your hand, Will, and tell me that you will still love me--as
your sister."
He gave her his hand. "If you ever want a brother's care you shall
have it from me," he said.
"But not a brother's love?"
"No. How can the two go together? I shan't cease to love you because
my love is in vain. Instead of making me happy it will make me
wretched. That will be the only difference."
"I would give my life to make you happy, if that were possible."
"You will not give me your life in the way that I would have it."
After that they walked in silence back to the house, and when he had
opened the front door for her, he parted from her and stood alone
under the porch, thinking of his misfortune.