CAPTAIN AYLMER MEETS HIS CONSTITUENTS.
On the first evening of their visit Captain Aylmer was very attentive
to his aunt. He was quite alive to the propriety of such attentions,
and to their expediency; and Clara was amused as she watched him
while he sat by her side, by the hour together, answering little
questions and making little remarks suited to the temperament of the
old lady's mind. She, herself, was hardly called upon to join in the
conversation on that evening, and as she sat and listened, she could
not but think that Will Belton would have been less adroit, but that
he would also have been more straightforward. And yet why should
not Captain Aylmer talk to his aunt? Will Belton would also have
talked to his aunt if he had one, but then he would have talked his
own talk, and not his aunt's talk. Clara could hardly make up her
mind whether Captain Aylmer was or was not a sincere man. On the
following day Aylmer was out all the morning, paying visits among his
constituents, and at three o'clock he was to make his speech in the
Town-hall. Special places in the gallery were to be kept for Mrs.
Winterfield and her niece, and the old woman was quite resolved that
she would be there. As the day advanced she became very fidgety, and
at length she was quite alive to the perils of having to climb up the
Town-hall stairs; but she persevered, and at ten minutes before three
she was seated in her place.
"I suppose they will begin with prayer," she said to Clara. Clara,
who knew nothing of the manner in which things were done at such
meetings, said that she supposed so. A town councillor's wife who
sat on the other side of Mrs. Winterfield, here took the liberty of
explaining that as the Captain was going to talk politics there would
be no prayers. "But they have prayers in the Houses of Parliament,"
said Mrs. Winterfield, with much anger. To this the town councillor's
wife, who was almost silenced by the great lady's wrath, said that
indeed she did not know. After this Mrs. Winterfield continued to
hope for the best, till the platform was filled and the proceedings
had commenced. Then she declared the present men of Perivale to be
a godless set, and expressed herself very sorry that her nephew had
ever had anything to do with them. "No good can come of it, my dear,"
she said. Clara from the beginning had feared that no good would come
of her aunt's visit to the Town-hall.
The business was put on foot at once, and with some little
flourishing at the commencement, Captain Aylmer made his speech;--the
same speech which we have all heard and read so often, specially
adapted to the meridian of Perivale. He was a Conservative, and of
course he told his hearers that a good time was coming; that he and
his family were really about to buckle themselves to the work, and
that Perivale would hear things that would surprise it. The malt tax
was to go, and the farmers were to have free trade in beer,--the
arguments from the other side having come beautifully round in their
appointed circle,--and old England was to be old England once again.
He did the thing tolerably well, as such gentlemen usually do, and
Perivale was contented with its member, with the exception of one
Perivalian. To Mrs. Winterfield, sitting up there and listening with
all her ears, it seemed that he had hitherto omitted all allusion to
any subject that was worthy of mention. At last he said some word
about the marriage and divorce court, condemning the iniquity of
the present law, to which Perivale had opposed itself violently by
petition and general meetings; and upon hearing this Mrs. Winterfield
had thumped with her umbrella, and faintly cheered him with her weak
old voice. But the surrounding Perivalians had heard the cheer, and
it was repeated backwards and forwards through the room, till the
member's aunt thought that it might be her nephew's mission to annul
that godless Act of Parliament, and restore the matrimonial bonds of
England to their old rigidity. When Captain Aylmer came out to hand
her up to her little carriage, she patted him, and thanked him, and
encouraged him; and on her way home she congratulated herself to
Clara that she should have such a nephew to leave behind her in her
place.
Captain Aylmer was dining with the mayor on that evening, and Mrs.
Winterfield was therefore able to indulge herself in talking about
him. "I don't see much of young men, of course," she said; "but I do
not even hear of any that are like him." Again Clara thought of her
cousin Will. Will was not at all like Frederic Aylmer; but was he not
better? And yet, as she thought thus, she remembered that she had
refused her cousin Will because she loved that very Frederic Aylmer
whom her mind was thus condemning.
"I'm sure he does his duty as a member of Parliament very well," said
Clara.
"That alone would not be much; but when that is joined to so much
that is better, it is a great deal. I am told that very few of the
men in the House now are believers at all."
"Oh, aunt!"
"It is terrible to think of, my dear."
"But, aunt; they have to take some oath, or something of that sort,
to show that they are Christians."
"Not now, my dear. They've done away with all that since we had Jew
members. An atheist can go into Parliament now; and I'm told that
most of them are that, or nearly as bad. I can remember when no
Papist could sit in Parliament. But they seem to me to be doing away
with everything. It's a great comfort to me that Frederic is what he
is."
"I'm sure it must be, aunt."
Then there was a pause, during which, however, Mrs. Winterfield gave
no sign that the conversation was to be considered as being over.
Clara knew her aunt's ways so well, that she was sure something more
was coming, and therefore waited patiently, without any thought of
taking up her book. "I was speaking to him about you yesterday," Mrs.
Winterfield said at last.
"That would not interest him very much."
"Why not? Do you suppose he is not interested in those I love?
Indeed, it did interest him; and he told me what I did not know
before, and what you ought to have told me."
Clara now blushed, she knew not why, and became agitated. "I don't
know that I have kept anything from you that I ought to have told,"
she said.
"He says that the provision made for you by your father has all been
squandered."
"If he used that word he has been very unkind," said Clara, angrily.
"I don't know what word he used, but he was not unkind at all; he
never is. I think he was very generous."
"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 assurance 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 assurance 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 circumstances 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 glasses of
her best port wine to support him. "But Mr. Possitt has nothing but
his curacy."
"There is no danger, aunt, I can assure 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 gratitude. 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
gratitude 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.
"H--sh!" she said, rising gently from her chair, and putting up her
finger. He saw her by the dull light of the fire, and closed the door
without a sound. Clara then crept into the back-room, and he followed
her with noiseless step. "She did not sleep at all last night," said
Clara; "and now the unusual excitement of the day has fatigued her,
and I think it is better not to wake her." The rooms were large,
and they were able to place themselves at such a distance from the
sleeper that their low words could hardly disturb her.
"Was she very tired when she got home?" he asked.
"Not very. She has been talking much since that."
"Has she spoken about her will to you?"
"Yes;--she has."
"I thought she would." Then he was silent, as though he expected that
she would speak again on that matter. But she had no wish to discuss
her aunt's will with him, and therefore, to break the silence, asked
him some trifling question. "Are you not home earlier than you
expected?"
"It was very dull, and there was nothing more to be said. I did come
away early, and perhaps have given affront. I hope you will accept
the compliment implied."
"Your aunt will, when she wakes. She will be delighted to find you
here."
"I am awake," said Mrs. Winterfield. "I heard Frederic come in. It is
very good of him to come so soon. Clara, my dear, we will have tea."
During tea, Captain Aylmer was called upon to give an account of
the Mayor's feast,--how the rector had said grace before dinner,
and Mr. Possitt had done so after dinner, and how the soup had been
uneatable. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Winterfield. "And yet his wife was
housekeeper formerly in a family that lived very well!" The Mrs.
Winterfields of this world allow themselves little spiteful pleasures
of this kind, repenting of them, no doubt, in those frequent moments
in which they talk to their friends of their own terrible vilenesses.
Captain Aylmer then explained that his own health had been drunk,
and his aunt desired to know whether, in returning thanks, he had
been able to say anything further against that wicked Divorce Act
of Parliament. This her nephew was constrained to answer with a
negative, and so the conversation was carried on till tea was over.
She was very anxious to hear every word that he could be made to
utter as to his own doings in Parliament, and as to his doings in
Perivale, and hung upon him with that wondrous affection which old
people with warm hearts feel for those whom they have selected as
their favourites. Clara saw it all, and knew that her aunt was almost
doting.
"I think I'll go up to bed now, my dears," said Mrs. Winterfield,
when she had taken her cup of tea. "I am tired with those weary
stairs in the Town-hall, and I shall be better in my own room." Clara
offered to go with her, but this attendance her aunt declined,--as
she did always. So the bell was rung, and the old maid-servant walked
off with her mistress, and Miss Amedroz and Captain Aylmer were left
together.
"I don't think she will last long," said Captain Aylmer, soon after
the door was closed.
"I should be sorry to believe that; but she is certainly much
altered."
"She has great courage to keep her up,--and a feeling that she should
not give way, but do her duty to the last. In spite of all that,
however, I can see how changed she is since the summer. Have you
ever thought how sad it will be if she should be alone when the day
comes?"
"She has Martha, who is more to her now than any one else,--unless it
is you."
"You could not remain with her over Christmas, I suppose?"
"Who, I? What would my father do? Papa is as old, or nearly as old,
as my aunt."
"But he is strong."
"He is very lonely. He would be more lonely than she is, for he has
no such servant as Martha to be with him. Women can do better than
men, I think, when they come to my aunt's age."
From this they got into a conversation as to the character of the
lady with whom they were both so nearly connected, and, in spite of
all that Clara could do to prevent it, continual references were
made by Captain Aylmer to her money and her will, and the need of an
addition to that will on Clara's behalf. At last she was driven to
speak out. "Captain Aylmer," she said, "the subject is so distasteful
to me, that I must ask you not to speak about it."
"In my position I am driven to think about it."
"I cannot, of course, help your thoughts; but I can assure you that
they are unnecessary."
"It seems to me so hard that there should be such a gulf between you
and me." This he said after he had been silent for a while; and as he
spoke he looked away from her at the fire.
"I don't know that there is any particular gulf," she replied.
"Yes, there is. And it is you that make it. Whenever I attempt to
speak to you as a friend you draw yourself off from me, and shut
yourself up. I know that it is not jealousy."
"Jealousy, Captain Aylmer!"
"Jealousy with my aunt, I mean."
"No, indeed."
"You are infinitely too proud for that; but I am sure that a stranger
seeing it all would think that it was so."
"I don't know what it is that I do or that I ought not to do. But
all my life everything that I have done at Perivale has always been
wrong."
"It would have been so natural that you and I should be friends."
"If we are enemies, Captain Aylmer, I don't know it."
"But if ever I venture to speak of your future life you always repel
me;--as though you were determined to let me know that it should not
be a matter of care to me."
"That is exactly what I am determined to let you know. You are, or
will be, a rich man, and you have everything the world can give you.
I am, or shall be, a very poor woman."
"Is that a reason why I should not be interested in your welfare?"
"Yes;--the best reason in the world. We are not related to each
other, though we have a common connection in dear Mrs. Winterfield.
And nothing, to my idea, can be more objectionable than any sort of
dependence from a woman of my age on a man of yours,--there being no
real tie of blood between them. I have spoken very plainly, Captain
Aylmer, for you have made me do it."
"Very plainly," he said.
"If I have said anything to offend you, I beg your pardon; but I was
driven to explain myself." Then she got up and took her bed-candle in
her hand.
"You have not offended me," he said, as he also rose.
"Good-night, Captain Aylmer."
He took her hand and kept it. "Say that we are friends."
"Why should we not be friends?"
"There is no reason on my part why we should not be the dearest
friends," he said. "Were it not that I am so utterly without
encouragement, I should say the very dearest." He still held her
hand, and was looking into her face as he spoke. For a moment she
stood there, bearing his gaze, as though she expected some further
words to be spoken. Then she withdrew her hand, and again saying, in
a clear voice, "Good-night, Captain Aylmer," she left the room.