SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING ONCE AGAIN.
For a considerable time Belton stood under the porch of the house,
thinking of what had happened to him, and endeavouring to steady
himself under the blow which he had received. I do not know that he
had been sanguine of success. Probably he had made to himself no
assurances on the subject. But he was a man to whom failure, of
itself, was intolerable. In any other event of life he would have
told himself that he would not fail--that he would persevere and
conquer. He could imagine no other position as to which he could at
once have been assured of failure, in any project on which he had set
his heart. But as to this project it was so. He had been told that
she could not love him--that she could never love him;--and he had
believed her. He had made his attempt and had failed; and, as he
thought of this, standing under the porch, he became convinced that
life for him was altogether changed, and that he who had been so
happy must now be a wretched man.
He was still standing there when Mr. Amedroz came down into the
hall, dressed for dinner, and saw his figure through the open doors.
"Will," he said, coming up to him, "it only wants five minutes to
dinner." Belton started and shook himself, as though he were shaking
off a lethargy, and declared that he was quite ready. Then he
remembered that he would be expected to dress, and rushed up-stairs,
three steps at a time, to his own room. When he came down, Clara and
her father were already in the dining-room, and he joined them there.
Mr. Amedroz, though he was not very quick in reading facts from the
manners of those with whom he lived, had felt assured that things had
gone wrong between Belton and his daughter. He had not as yet had a
minute in which to speak to Clara, but he was certain that it was so.
Indeed, it was impossible not to read terrible disappointment and
deep grief in the young man's manner. He made no attempt to conceal
it, though he did not speak of it. Through the whole evening, though
he was alone for a while with the squire, and alone also for a time
with Clara, he never mentioned or alluded to the subject of his
rejection. But he bore himself as though he knew and they knew--as
though all the world knew that he had been rejected. And yet he did
not remain silent. He talked of his property and of his plans, and
explained how things were to be done in his absence. Once only was
there something like an allusion made to his sorrow. "But you will be
here at Christmas?" said Mr. Amedroz, in answer to something which
Belton had said as to work to be done in his absence. "I do not know
how that may be now," said Belton. And then they had all been silent.
It was a terrible evening to Clara. She endeavoured to talk, but
found it to be impossible. All the brightness of the last few days
had disappeared, and the world seemed to her to be more sad and
solemn than ever. She had no idea when she was refusing him that he
would have taken it to heart as he had done. The question had come
before her for decision so suddenly, that she had not, in fact, had
time to think of this as she was making her answer. All she had done
was to feel that she could not be to him what he wished her to be.
And even as yet she had hardly asked herself why she must be so
steadfast in her refusal. But she had refused him steadfastly, and
she did not for a moment think of reducing the earnestness of her
resolution. It seemed to be manifest to her, from his present manner,
that he would never ask the question again; but she was sure, let it
be asked ever so often, that it could not be answered in any other
way.
Mr. Amedroz, not knowing why it was so, became cross and querulous,
and scolded his daughter. To Belton, also, he was captious, making
little difficulties, and answering him with petulance. This the
rejected lover took with most extreme patience, as though such a
trifling annoyance had no effect in adding anything to his misery. He
still held his purpose of going on the Saturday, and was still intent
on work which was to be done before he went; but it seemed that he
was satisfied to do everything now as a duty, and that the enjoyment
of the thing, which had heretofore been so conspicuous, was over.
At last they separated, and Clara, as was her wont, went up to her
father's room. "Papa," she said, "what is all this about Mr. Belton?"
"All what, my dear? what do you mean?"
"He has asked me to be,--to be his wife; and has told me that he came
with your consent."
"And why shouldn't he have my consent? What is there amiss with him?
Why shouldn't you marry him if he likes you? You seemed, I thought,
to be very fond of him."
This surprised Clara more than anything. She could hardly have told
herself why, but she would have thought that such a proposition
from her cousin would have made her father angry,--unreasonably
angry;--angry with him for presuming to have such an idea; but now it
seemed that he was going to be angry with her for not accepting her
cousin out of hand.
"Yes, papa; I am fond of him; but not like that. I did not expect
that he would think of me in that way."
"But why shouldn't he think of you? It would be a very good marriage
for you, as far as money is concerned."
"You would not have me marry any one for that reason;--would you,
papa?"
"But you seemed to like him. Well; of course I can't make you like
him. I meant to do for the best; and when he came to me as he did,
I thought he was behaving very handsomely, and very much like a
gentleman."
"I am sure he would do that."
"And if I could have thought that this place would be your home when
I am gone, it would have made me very happy;--very happy."
She now came and stood close to him and took his hand. "I hope, papa,
you do not make yourself uneasy about me. I shall do very well. I'm
sure you can't want me to go away and leave you."
"How will you do very well? I'm sure I don't know. And if your aunt
Winterfield means to provide for you, it would only be kind in her
to let me know it, so that I might not have the anxiety always on my
mind."
Clara knew well enough what was to be the disposition of her aunt's
property, but she could not tell her father of that now. She almost
felt that it was her duty to do so, but she could not bring herself
to do it. She could only beg him not to be anxious on her behalf,
making vague assurances that she would do very well. "And you are
determined not to change your mind about Will?" he said at last.
"I shall not change my mind about that, papa, certainly," she
answered. Then he turned away from her, and she saw that he was
displeased.
When alone, she was forced to ask herself why it was that she was so
certain. Alas! there could in truth be no doubt on that subject in
her own mind. When she sat down, resolved to give herself an answer,
there was no doubt. She could not love her cousin, Will Belton,
because her heart belonged to Captain Aylmer.
But she knew that she had received nothing in exchange for her heart.
He had been kind to her on that journey to Taunton, when the agony
arising from her brother's death had almost crushed her. He had
often been kind to her on days before that,--so kind, so soft in
his manners, approaching so nearly to the little tendernesses of
incipient love-making, that the idea of regarding him as her lover
had of necessity forced itself upon her. But in nothing had he gone
beyond those tendernesses, which need not imperatively be made
to mean anything, though they do often mean so much. It was now
two years since she had first thought that Captain Aylmer was
the most perfect gentleman she knew, and nearly two years since
Mrs. Winterfield had expressed to her a hope that Captain Aylmer
might become her husband. She had replied that such a thing was
impossible,--as any girl would have replied; and had in consequence
treated Captain Aylmer with all the coolness which she had been
able to assume whenever she was in company with him in her aunt's
presence. Nor was it natural to her to be specially gracious to a man
under such trying circumstances, even when no Mrs. Winterfield was
there to behold. And so things had gone on. Captain Aylmer had now
and again made himself very pleasant to her,--at certain trying
periods of joy or trouble almost more than pleasant. But nothing had
come of it, and Clara had told herself that Captain Aylmer had no
special feeling in her favour. She had told herself this, ever since
that journey together from Perivale to Taunton; but never till now
had she also confessed to herself what was her own case.
She made a comparison between the two men. Her cousin Will was, she
thought, the more generous, the more energetic,--perhaps, by nature,
the man of the higher gifts. In person he was undoubtedly the
superior. He was full of noble qualities;--forgetful of self,
industrious, full of resources, a very man of men, able to command,
eager in doing work for others' good and his own,--a man altogether
uncontaminated by the coldness and selfishness of the outer world.
But he was rough, awkward, but indifferently educated, and with few
of those tastes which to Clara Amedroz were delightful. He could
not read poetry to her, he could not tell her of what the world of
literature was doing now or of what it had done in times past. He
knew nothing of the inner world of worlds which governs the world.
She doubted whether he could have told her who composed the existing
cabinet, or have given the name of a single bishop beyond the see in
which his own parish was situated. But Captain Aylmer knew everybody,
and had read everything, and understood, as though by instinct, all
the movements of the world in which he lived.
But what mattered any such comparison? Even though she should be able
to prove to herself beyond the shadow of a doubt that her cousin Will
was of the two the fitter to be loved,--the one more worthy of her
heart,--no such proof could alter her position. Love does not go by
worth. She did not love her cousin as she must love any man to whom
she could give her hand,--and, alas! she did love that other man.
On this night I doubt whether Belton did slumber with that solidity
of repose which was usual to him. At any rate, before he came down in
the morning he had found time for sufficient thought, and had brought
himself to a resolution. He would not give up the battle as lost. To
his thinking there was something weak and almost mean in abandoning
any project which he had set before himself. He had been awkward, and
he exaggerated to himself his own awkwardness. He had been hasty, and
had gone about his task with inconsiderate precipitancy. It might be
that he had thus destroyed all his chance of success. But, as he said
to himself, "he would never say die, as long as there was a puff of
breath left to him." He would not mope, and hang down his head, and
wear the willow. Such a state of things would ill suit either the
roughness or the readiness of his life. No! He would bear like a man
the disappointment which had on this occasion befallen him, and would
return at Christmas and once more try his fortune.
At breakfast, therefore, the cloud had passed from his brow. When he
came in he found Clara alone in the room, and he simply shook hands
with her after his ordinary fashion. He said nothing of yesterday,
and almost succeeded in looking as though yesterday had been in
no wise memorable. She was not so much at her ease, but she also
received some comfort from his demeanour. Mr. Amedroz came down
almost immediately, and Belton soon took an opportunity of saying
that he would be back at Christmas if Mr. Amedroz would receive him.
"Certainly," said the squire. "I thought it had been all settled."
"So it was;--till I said a word yesterday which foolishly seemed to
unsettle it. But I have thought it over again, and I find that I can
manage it."
"We shall be so glad to have you!" said Clara.
"And I shall be equally glad to come. They are already at work, sir,
about the sheds."
"Yes; I saw the carts full of bricks go by," said the squire,
querulously. "I didn't know there was to be any brickwork. You said
you would have it made of deal slabs with oak posts."
"You must have a foundation, sir. I propose to carry the brickwork a
foot and a half above the ground."
"I suppose you know best. Only that kind of thing is so very ugly."
"If you find it to be ugly after it is done, it shall be pulled down
again."
"No;--it can never come down again."
"It can;--and it shall, if you don't like it. I never think anything
of changes like that."
"I think they'll be very pretty!" said Clara.
"I dare say," said the squire; "but at any rate it won't make much
difference to me. I shan't be here long to see them."
This was rather melancholy; but Belton bore up even against this,
speaking cheery words and expressing bright hopes,--so that it
seemed, both to Clara and to her father, that he had in a great
measure overcome the disappointment of the preceding day. It was
probable that he was a man not prone to be deeply sensitive in such
matters for any long period. The period now had certainly not been
long, and yet Will Belton was alive again.
Immediately after breakfast there occurred a little incident which
was not without its effect upon them all. There came up on the drive,
immediately before the front door, under the custody of a boy, a cow.
It was an Alderney cow, and any man or woman at all understanding
cows, would at once have perceived that this cow was perfect in her
kind. Her eyes were mild, and soft, and bright. Her legs were like
the legs of a deer; and in her whole gait and demeanour she almost
gave the lie to her own name, asserting herself to have sprung from
some more noble origin among the woods, than may be supposed to
be the origin of the ordinary domestic cow,--a useful animal, but
heavy in its appearance, and seen with more pleasure at some little
distance than at close quarters. But this cow was graceful in its
movements, and almost tempted one to regard her as the far-off
descendant of the elk or the antelope.
"What's that?" said Mr. Amedroz, who, having no cows of his own, was
not pleased to see one brought up in that way before his hall door.
"There's somebody's cow come here."
Clara understood it in a moment; but she was pained, and said
nothing. Had the cow come without any such scene as that of
yesterday, she would have welcomed the animal with all cordiality,
and would have sworn to her cousin that the cow should be cherished
for his sake. But after what had passed it was different. How was she
to take any present from him now?
But Belton faced the difficulty without any bashfulness or apparent
regret. "I told you I would give you a cow," said he, "and here she
is."
"What can she want with a cow?" said Mr. Amedroz.
"I am sure she wants one very much. At any rate she won't refuse the
present from me; will you, Clara?"
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
grass for it!"
"There's plenty of grass," 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 passed 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 passed over without anything to brighten it or to make
it memorable. Mr. Amedroz, in his passive, 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
pass 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 Godspeed 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 God 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 passion 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 gratitude 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 passion 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.