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. Nobody 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.
Wright and his gossip should have no effect upon her intimacy with
Mrs. Askerton. But not the less did she continue to remember what her
cousin had said about Miss Vigo.
And she had been ruffled a second time by certain observations which
Mrs. Askerton made to her respecting her cousin--or rather by little
words which were dropped on various occasions. It was very clear
that Mrs. Askerton did not like Mr. Belton, and that she wished to
prejudice Clara against him. "It's a pity he shouldn't be a lover
of yours," the lady said, "because it would be such a fine instance
of Beauty and the Beast." It will of course be understood that Mrs.
Askerton had never been told of the offer that had been made.
"You don't mean to say that he's not a handsome man," said Clara.
"I never observe whether a man is handsome or not; but I can see very
well whether he knows what to do with his arms and legs, or whether
he has the proper use of his voice before ladies." Clara remembered a
word or two spoken by her cousin to herself, in speaking which he had
seemed to have a very proper use of his voice. "I know when a man is
at ease like a gentleman, and when he is awkward like a--"
"Like a what?" said Clara. "Finish what you've got to say."
"Like a ploughboy, I was going to say," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I declare I think you have a spite against him, because he said you
were like some Miss Vigo," replied Clara, sharply. Mrs. Askerton was
on that occasion silenced, and she said nothing more about Mr. Belton
till after Clara had returned from Perivale.
The journey itself from Belton to Perivale was always a nuisance, and
was more so now than usual, as it was made in the disagreeable month
of November. There was kept at the little inn at Redicote an old
fly--so called--which habitually made the journey to the Taunton
railway-station, under the conduct of an old grey horse and an
older and greyer driver, whenever any of the old ladies of the
neighbourhood were minded to leave their homes. This vehicle usually
travelled at the rate of five miles an hour; but the old grey driver
was never content to have time allowed to him for the transit
calculated upon such a rate of speed. Accidents might happen, and why
should he be made, as he would plaintively ask, to drive the poor
beast out of its skin? He was consequently always at Belton a full
hour before the time, and though Clara was well aware of all this,
she could not help herself. Her father was fussy and impatient, the
man was fussy and impatient; and there was nothing for her but to go.
On the present occasion she was taken off in this way the full sixty
minutes too soon, and after four dreary hours spent upon the road,
found herself landed at the Taunton station, with a terrible gulf of
time to be passed before she could again proceed on her journey.
One little accident had occurred to her. The old horse, while
trotting leisurely along the level high road, had contrived to tumble
down. Clara did not think very much of this, as the same thing had
happened with her before; but, even with an hour or more to spare,
there arises a question whether under such circumstances the train
can be saved. But the grey old man reassured her. "Now, miss," said
he, coming to the window, while he left his horse recumbent and
apparently comfortable on the road, "where'd you have been now, zure,
if I hadn't a few minutes in hand for you?" Then he walked off to
some neighbouring cottage, and having obtained assistance, succeeded
in putting his beast again upon his legs. After that he looked once
more in at the window. "Who's right now, I wonder?" he said, with an
air of triumph. And when he came to her for his guerdon at Taunton,
he was evidently cross in not having it increased because of the
accident.
That hour at the Taunton station was terrible to her. I know of no
hours more terrible than those so passed. The minutes will not go
away, and utterly fail in making good their claim to be called
winged. A man walks up and down the platform, and in that way obtains
something of the advantage of exercise; but a woman finds herself
bound to sit still within the dreary dulness of the waiting-room.
There are, perhaps, people who under such circumstances can read, but
they are few in number. The mind altogether declines to be active,
whereas the body is seized by a spirit of restlessness to which delay
and tranquillity are loathsome. The advertisements on the walls are
examined, the map of some new Eden is studied--some Eden in which
an irregular pond and a church are surrounded by a multiplicity
of regular villas and shrubs--till the student feels that no
consideration of health or economy would induce him to live there.
Then the porters come in and out, till each porter has made himself
odious to the sight. Everything is hideous, dirty, and disagreeable;
and the mind wanders away, to consider why station-masters do not
more frequently commit suicide. Clara Amedroz had already got beyond
this stage, and was beginning to think of herself rather than of the
station-master, when at last there sounded, close to her ears, the
bell of promise, and she knew that the train was at hand.
At Taunton there branched away from the main line that line which
was to take her to Perivale, and therefore she was able to take her
own place quietly in the carriage when she found that the down-train
from London was at hand. This she did, and could then watch with
equanimity, while the travellers from the other train went through
the penance of changing their seats. But she had not been so watching
for many seconds when she saw Captain Frederic Aylmer appear upon the
platform. Immediately she sank back into her corner and watched no
more. Of course he was going to Perivale; but why had not her aunt
told her that she was to meet him? Of course she would be staying in
the same house with him, and her present small attempt to avoid him
would thus be futile. The attempt was made; but nevertheless she was
probably pleased when she found that it was made in vain. He came at
once to the carriage in which she was sitting, and had packed his
coats, and dressing-bag, and desk about the carriage before he had
discovered who was his fellow-traveller. "How do you do, Captain
Aylmer?" she said, as he was about to take his seat.
"Miss Amedroz! Dear me; how very odd! I had not the slightest
expectation of meeting you here. The pleasure is of course the
greater."
"Nor I of seeing you. Mrs. Winterfield has not mentioned to me that
you were coming to Perivale."
"I didn't know it myself till the day before yesterday. I'm going to
give an account of my stewardship to the good-natured Perivalians who
send me to Parliament. I'm to dine with the mayor to-morrow, and as
some big-wig has come in his way who is going to dine with him also,
the thing has been got up in a hurry. But I'm delighted to find that
you are to be with us."
"I generally go to my aunt about this time of the year."
"It is very good-natured of you." Then he asked after her father,
and she told him of Mr. Belton's visit, telling him nothing--as the
reader will hardly require to be told--of Mr. Belton's offer. And so,
by degrees, they fell into close and intimate conversation.
"I am so glad, for your father's sake!" said the captain, with
sympathetic voice, speaking still of Mr. Belton's visit.
"That's what I feel, of course."
"It is just as it should be, as he stands in that position to the
property. And so he is a nice sort of fellow, is he?"
"Nice is no word for him. He is perfect!"
"Dear me! This is terrible! You remember that they hated some old
Greek patriot when they could find no fault in him?"
"I'll defy you to hate my cousin Will."
"What sort of looking man is he?"
"Extremely handsome;--at least I should say so."
"Then I certainly must hate him. And clever?"
"Well;--not what you would call clever. He is very clever about
fields and cattle."
"Come, there is some relief in that."
"But you must not mistake me. He is clever; and then there's a
way about him of doing everything just as he likes it, which is
wonderful. You feel quite sure that he'll become master of
everything."
"But I do not feel at all sure that I should like him the better for
that!"
"But he doesn't meddle in things that he doesn't understand. And then
he is so generous! His spending all that money down there is only
done because he thinks it will make the place pleasanter to papa."
"Has he got plenty of money?"
"Oh, plenty! At least, I think so. He says that he has."
"The idea of any man owning that he had got plenty of money! What
a happy mortal! And then to be handsome, and omnipotent, and to
understand cattle and fields! One would strive to emulate him rather
than envy him, had not one learned to acknowledge that it is not
given to every one to get to Corinth."
"You may laugh at him, but you'd like him if you knew him."
"One never can be sure of that from a lady's account of a man. When
a man talks to me about another man, I can generally tell whether I
should like him or not--particularly if I know the man well who is
giving the description; but it is quite different when a woman is the
describer."
"You mean that you won't take my word?"
"We see with different eyes in such matters. I have no doubt your
cousin is a worthy man--and as prosperous a gentleman as the Thane
of Cawdor in his prosperous days;--but probably if he and I came
together we shouldn't have a word to say to each other."
Clara almost hated Captain Aylmer for speaking as he did, and yet she
knew that it was true. Will Belton was not an educated man, and were
they two to meet in her presence,--the captain and the farmer,--she
felt that she might have to blush for her cousin. But yet he was the
better man of the two. She knew that he was the better man of the
two, though she knew also that she could not love him as she loved
the other.
Then they changed the subject of their conversation, and discussed
Mrs. Winterfield, as they had often done before. Captain Aylmer had
said that he should return to London on the Saturday, the present day
being Tuesday, and Clara accused him of escaping always from the real
hard work of his position. "I observe that you never stay a Sunday at
Perivale," she said.
"Well;--not often. Why should I? Sunday is just the day that people
like to be at home."
"I should have thought it would not have made much difference to a
bachelor in that way."
"But Sunday is a day that one specially likes to pass after one's own
fashion."
"Exactly;--and therefore you don't stay with my aunt. I understand it
all completely."
"Now you mean to be ill-natured!"
"I mean to say that I don't like Sundays at Perivale at all, and that
I should do just as you do if I had the power. But women,--women,
that is, of my age,--are such slaves! We are forced to give an
obedience for which we can see no cause, and for which we can
understand no necessity. I couldn't tell my aunt that I meant to go
away on Saturday."
"You have no business which makes imperative calls upon your time."
"That means that I can't plead pretended excuses. But the true reason
is that we are dependent."
"There is something in that, I suppose."
"Not that I am dependent on her. But my position generally is
dependent, and I cannot assist myself."
Captain Aylmer found it difficult to make any answer to this, feeling
the subject to be one which could hardly be discussed between him and
Miss Amedroz. He not unnaturally looked to be the heir of his aunt's
property, and any provision made out of that property for Clara,
would so far lessen that which would come to him. For anything that
he knew, Mrs. Winterfield might leave everything she possessed to
her niece. The old lady had not been open and candid to him whom she
meant to favour in her will, as she had been to her to whom no such
favour was to be shown. But Captain Aylmer did know, with tolerable
accuracy, what was the state of affairs at Belton, and was aware
that Miss Amedroz had no prospect of maintenance on which to depend,
unless she could depend on her aunt. She was now pleading that she
was not dependent on that lady, and Captain Aylmer felt that she was
wrong. He was a man of the world, and was by no means inclined to
abandon any right that was his own; but it seemed to him that he
was almost bound to say some word to show that in his opinion Clara
should hold herself bound to comply with her aunt's requirements.
"Dependence is a disagreeable word," he said; "and one never quite
knows what it means."
"If you were a woman you'd know. It means that I must stay at
Perivale on Sundays, while you can go up to London or down to
Yorkshire. That's what it means."
"What you do mean, I think, is this;--that you owe a duty to
your aunt, the performance of which is not altogether agreeable.
Nevertheless it would be foolish in you to omit it."
"It isn't that;--not that at all. It would not be foolish, not in
your sense of the word, but it would be wrong. My aunt has been kind
to me, and therefore I am bound to her for this service. But she is
kind to you also, and yet you are not bound. That's why I complain.
You sail away under false pretences, and yet you think you do your
duty. You have to see your lawyer,--which means going to your club;
or to attend to your tenants,--which means hunting and shooting."
"I haven't got any tenants."
"You know very well that you could remain over Sunday without doing
any harm to anybody;--only you don't like going to church three
times, and you don't like hearing my aunt read a sermon afterwards.
Why shouldn't you stay, and I go to the club?"
"With all my heart, if you can manage it."
"But I can't; we ain't allowed to have clubs, or shooting, or to
have our own way in anything, putting forward little pretences about
lawyers."
"Come, I'll stay if you'll ask me."
"I'm sure I won't do that. In the first place you'd go to sleep, and
then she would be offended; and I don't know that your sufferings
would make mine any lighter. I'm not prepared to alter the ways of
the world, but I feel myself entitled to grumble at them sometimes."
Mrs. Winterfield inhabited a large brick house in the centre of the
town. It had a long frontage to the street; for there was not only
the house itself, with its three square windows on each side of the
door, and its seven windows over that, and again its seven windows in
the upper story,--but the end of the coach-house also abutted on the
street, on which was the family clock, quite as much respected in
Perivale as was the town-clock; and between the coach-house and the
mansion there was the broad entrance into the yard, and the entrance
also to the back door. No Perivalian ever presumed to doubt that Mrs.
Winterfield's house was the most important house in the town. Nor
did any stranger doubt it on looking at the frontage. But then it
was in all respects a town house to the eye,--that is, an English
town house, being as ugly and as respectable as unlimited bricks and
mortar could make it. Immediately opposite to Mrs. Winterfield lived
the leading doctor and a retired builder, so that the lady's eye was
not hurt by any sign of a shop. The shops, indeed, came within a very
few yards of her on either side; but as the neighbouring shops on
each side were her own property, this was not unbearable. To me, had
I lived there, the incipient growth of grass through some of the
stones which formed the margin of the road would have been altogether
unendurable. There is no sign of coming decay which is so melancholy
to the eye as any which tells of a decrease in the throng of men. Of
men or horses there was never any throng now in that end of Perivale.
That street had formed part of the main line of road from Salisbury
to Taunton, and coaches, waggons, and posting-carriages had been
frequent on it; but now, alas! it was deserted. Even the omnibuses
from the railway-station never came there unless they were ordered to
call at Mrs. Winterfield's door. For Mrs. Winterfield herself, this
desolation had, I think, a certain melancholy attraction. It suited
her tone of mind and her religious views that she should be thus
daily reminded that things of this world were passing away and going
to destruction. She liked to have ocular proof that grass was growing
in the highways under mortal feet, and that it was no longer worth
man's while to renew human flags in human streets. She was drawing
near to the pavements which would ever be trodden by myriads of
bright sandals, and which yet would never be worn, and would be
carried to those jewelled causeways on which no weed could find a
spot for its useless growth.
Behind the house there was a square prim garden, arranged in
parallelograms, tree answering to tree at every corner, round which
it was still her delight to creep when the weather permitted. Poor
Clara! how much advice she had received during these creepings, and
how often had she listened to inquiries as to the schooling of the
gardener's children. Mrs. Winterfield was always unhappy about her
gardener. Serious footmen are very plentiful, and even coachmen are
to be found who, at a certain rate of extra payment, will be punctual
at prayer time, and will promise to read good little books; but
gardeners, as a class, are a profane people, who think themselves
entitled to claim liberty of conscience, and who will not submit to
the domestic despotism of a serious Sunday. They live in cottages
by themselves, and choose to have an opinion of their own on church
matters. Mrs. Winterfield was aware that she ought to bid high for
such a gardener as she wanted. A man must be paid well who will
submit to daily inquiries as to the spiritual welfare of himself, his
wife, and family. But even though she did bid high, and though she
paid generously, no gardener would stop with her. One conscientious
man attempted to bargain for freedom from religion during the six
unimportant days of the week, being strong, and willing therefore to
give up his day of rest; but such liberty could not be allowed to
him, and he also went. "He couldn't stop," he said, "in justice to
the greenhouses, when missus was so constant down upon him about his
sprittual backsliding. And, after all, where did he backslide? It was
only a pipe of tobacco with the babby in his arms, instead of that
darned evening lecture."
Poor Mrs. Winterfield! She had been strong in her youth, and had
herself sat through evening lectures with a fortitude which other
people cannot attain. And she was strong too in her age, with the
strength of a martyr, submitting herself with patience to wearinesses
which are insupportable to those who have none of the martyr spirit.
The sermons of Perivale were neither bright, nor eloquent, nor
encouraging. All the old vicar or the young curate could tell she had
heard hundreds of times. She knew it all by heart, and could have
preached their sermons to them better than they could preach them to
her. It was impossible that she could learn anything from them; and
yet she would sit there thrice a day, suffering from cold in winter,
from cough in spring, from heat in summer, and from rheumatism in
autumn; and now that her doctor had forbidden her to go more than
twice, recommending her to go only once, she really thought that she
regarded the prohibition as a grievance. Indeed, to such as her, that
expectation of the jewelled causeway, and of the perfect pavement
that shall never be worn, must be everything. But if she was
right,--right as to herself and others,--then why has the world been
made so pleasant? Why is the fruit of the earth so sweet; and the
trees,--why are they so green; and the mountains so full of glory?
Why are women so lovely? and why is it that the activity of man's
mind is the only sure forerunner of man's progress? In listening
thrice a day to outpourings from the clergymen at Perivale, there
certainly was no activity of mind.
Now, in these days, Mrs. Winterfield was near to her reward. That she
had ensured that I cannot doubt. She had fed the poor, and filled the
young full with religious teachings,--perhaps not wisely, and in her
own way only too well, but yet as her judgment had directed her. She
had cared little for herself,--forgiving injuries done to her, and
not forgiving those only which she thought were done to the Lord. She
had lived her life somewhat as the martyr lived, who stood for years
on his pillar unmoved, while his nails grew through his flesh. So had
she stood, doing, I fear, but little positive good with her large
means,--but thinking nothing of her own comfort here, in comparison
with the comfort of herself and others in the world to which she was
going.
On this occasion her nephew and niece reached her together; the prim
boy, with the white cotton gloves and the low four-wheeled carriage,
having been sent down to meet Clara. For Mrs. Winterfield was a lady
who thought it unbecoming that her niece,--though only an adopted
niece,--should come to her door in an omnibus. Captain Aylmer had
driven the four-wheeled carriage from the station, dispossessing the
boy, and the luggage had been confided to the public conveyance.
"It is very fortunate that you should come together," said Mrs.
Winterfield. "I didn't know when to expect you, Fred. Indeed, you
never say at what hour you'll come."
"I think it safer to allow myself a little margin, aunt, because one
has so many things to do."
"I suppose it is so with a gentleman," said Mrs. Winterfield. After
which Clara looked at Captain Aylmer, but did not betray any of her
suspicions. "But I knew Clara would come by this train," continued
the old lady; "so I sent Tom to meet her. Ladies always can be
punctual; they can do that at any rate." Mrs. Winterfield was one of
those women who have always believed that their own sex is in every
respect inferior to the other.