CAPTAIN AYLMER'S PROMISE TO HIS AUNT.
What had Captain Aylmer meant by telling her that they might be the
dearest friends--by saying so much as that, and then saying no more?
Of course Clara asked herself that question as soon as she was alone
in her bedroom, after leaving Captain Aylmer below. And she made
two answers to herself--two answers which were altogether distinct
and contradictory one of the other. At first she decided that he
had said so much and no more because he was deceitful--because
it suited his vanity to raise hopes which he had no intention of
fulfilling--because he was fond of saying soft things which were
intended to have no meaning. This was her first answer to herself.
But in her second she accused herself as much as she had before
accused him. She had been cold to him, unfriendly, and harsh. As her
aunt had told her, she spoke sharp words to him, and repulsed the
kindness which he offered her. What right had she to expect from him
a declaration of love when she was studious to stop him at every
avenue by which he might approach it? A little management on her
side would, she almost knew, make things right. But then the idea of
any such management distressed her;--nay, more, disgusted her. The
management, if any were necessary, must come from him. And it was
manifest enough that if he had any strong wishes in this matter he
was not a good manager. Her cousin, Will Belton, knew how to manage
much better.
On the next morning, however, all her thoughts respecting Captain
Aylmer were dissipated by tidings which Martha brought to her
bedside. Her aunt was ill. Martha was afraid that her mistress was
very ill. She did not dare to send specially for the doctor on her
own responsibility, as Mrs. Winterfield had strong and peculiar
feelings about doctors' visits, and had on this very morning declined
to be so visited. On the next day the doctor would come in the usual
course of things, for she had submitted for some years back to such
periodical visitings; but she had desired that nothing might be done
out of the common way. Martha, however, declared that if she were
alone with her mistress the doctor would be sent for; and she now
petitioned for aid from Clara. Clara was, of course, by her aunt's
bedside in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more the doctor from
the other side of the way was there also.
It was ten o'clock before Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz met
at breakfast, and they had before that been together in Mrs.
Winterfield's room. The doctor had told Captain Aylmer that his aunt
was very ill--very ill, dangerously ill. She had been wrong to go
into such a place as the cold, unaired Town-hall, and that, too,
in the month of November; and the fatigue had also been too much
for her. Mrs. Winterfield, too, had admitted to Clara that she knew
herself to be very ill. "I felt it coming on me last night," she
said, "when I was talking to you; and I felt it still more strongly
when I left you after tea. I have lived long enough. God's will be
done." At that moment, when she said she had lived long enough, she
forgot her intention with reference to her will. But she remembered
it before Clara had left the room. "Tell Frederic," she said, "to
send at once for Mr. Palmer." Now Clara knew that Mr. Palmer was the
attorney, and resolved that she would give no such message to Captain
Aylmer. But Mrs. Winterfield sent for her nephew, who had just left
her, and herself gave her orders to him. In the course of the morning
there came tidings from the attorney's office that Mr. Palmer was
away from Perivale, that he would be back on the morrow, and that he
would of course wait on Mrs. Winterfield immediately on his return.
Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz discussed nothing but their aunt's
state of health that morning over the breakfast-table. Of course,
under such circumstances in the house, there was no further immediate
reference made to that offer of dearest friendship. It was clear to
them both that the doctor did not expect that Mrs. Winterfield would
again leave her bed; and it was clear to Clara also that her aunt was
of the same opinion.
"I shall hardly be able to go home now," she said.
"It will be kind of you if you can remain."
"And you?"
"I shall remain over the Sunday. If by that time she is at all
better, I will run up to town and come down again before the end of
the week. I know you don't believe it, but a man really has some
things which he must do."
"I don't disbelieve you, Captain Aylmer."
"But you must write to me daily if I do go."
To this Clara made no objection;--and she must write also to some one
else. She must let her cousin know how little chance there was that
she would be at home at Christmas, explaining to him at the same time
that his visit to her father would on that account be all the more
welcome.
"Are you going to her now?" he asked, as Clara got up immediately
after breakfast. "I shall be in the house all the morning, and if you
want me you will of course send for me."
"She may perhaps like to see you."
"I will come up every now and again. I would remain there altogether,
only I should be in the way." Then he got a newspaper and made
himself comfortable over the fire, while she went up to her weary
task in her aunt's room.
Neither on that day nor on the next did the lawyer come, and on
the following morning all earthly troubles were over with Mrs.
Winterfield. It was early on the Sunday morning that she died, and
late on the Saturday evening Mr. Palmer had sent up to say that
he had been detained at Taunton, but that he would wait on Mrs.
Winterfield early on the Monday morning. On the Friday the poor lady
had said much on the subject, but had been comforted by an assurance
from her nephew that the arrangement should be carried out exactly
as she wished it, whether the codicil was or was not added to the
will. To Clara she said nothing more on the subject, nor at such a
time did Captain Aylmer feel that he could offer her any assurance
on the matter. But Clara knew that the will was not altered; and
though at the time she was not thinking much about money, she had,
nevertheless, very clearly made up her own mind as to her own
conduct. Nothing should induce her to take a present of fifteen
hundred pounds,--or, indeed, of as many pence from Captain Aylmer.
During those hours of sickness in the house they had been much thrown
together, and no one could have been kinder or more gentle to her
than he had been. He had come to call her Clara, as people will do
when joined together in such duties, and had been very pleasant as
well as affectionate in his manner with her. It had seemed to her
that he also wished to take upon himself the cares and love of an
adopted brother. But as an adopted brother she would have nothing
to do with him. The two men whom she liked best in the world would
assume each the wrong place; and between them both she felt that she
would be left friendless.
On the Saturday afternoon they had both surmised how it was going to
be with Mrs. Winterfield, and Captain Aylmer had told Mr. Palmer that
he feared his coming on the Monday would be useless. He explained
also what was required, and declared that he would be at once ready
to make good the deficiency in the will. Mr. Palmer seemed to think
that this would be better even than the making of a codicil in the
last moments of the lady's life; and, therefore, he and Captain
Aylmer were at rest on that subject.
During the greater part of the Saturday night both Clara and Captain
Aylmer remained with their aunt; and once when the morning was almost
there, and the last hour was near at hand, she had said a word or two
which both of them had understood, in which she implored her darling
Frederic to take a brother's care of Clara Amedroz. Even in that
moment Clara had repudiated the legacy, feeling sure in her heart
that Frederic Aylmer was aware what was the nature of the care which
he ought to owe, if he would consent to owe any care to her. He
promised his aunt that he would do as she desired him, and it was
impossible that Clara should then, aloud, repudiate the compact. But
she said nothing, merely allowing her hand to rest with his beneath
the thin, dry hand of the dying woman. To her aunt, however, when for
a moment they were alone together, she showed all possible affection,
with thanks and tears, and warm kisses, and prayers for forgiveness
as to all those matters in which she had offended. "My pretty
one;--my dear," said the old woman, raising her hand on to the head
of the crouching girl, who was hiding her moist eyes on the bed.
Never during her life had her aunt appeared to her in so loving
a mood as now, when she was leaving it. Then, with some eager
impassioned words, in which she pronounced her ideas of what should
be the religious duties of a woman, Mrs. Winterfield bade farewell
to her niece. After that, she had a longer interview with her nephew,
and then it seemed that all worldly cares were over with her.
The Sunday was passed in all that blankness of funeral grief which is
absolutely necessary on such occasions. It cannot be said that either
Clara or Captain Aylmer were stricken with any of that agony of woe
which is produced on us by the death of those whom we have loved so
well that we cannot bring ourselves to submit to part with them. They
were both truly sorry for their aunt, in the common parlance of the
world; but their sorrow was of that modified sort which does not numb
the heart, and make the surviving sufferer feel that there never can
be a remedy. Nevertheless, it demanded sad countenances, few words,
and those spoken hardly above a whisper; an absence of all amusement
and almost of all employment, and a full surrender to the trappings
of woe. They two were living together without other companion in the
big house,--sitting down together to dinner and to tea; but on this
day hardly a dozen words were spoken between them, and those dozen
were spoken with no purport. On the Monday Captain Aylmer gave orders
for the funeral, and then went away to London, undertaking to be back
on the day before the last ceremony. Clara was rather glad that he
should be gone, though she feared the solitude of the big house. She
was glad that he should be gone, as she found it impossible to talk
to him with ease to herself. She knew that he was about to assume
some position as protector or quasi guardian over her, in conformity
with her aunt's express wish, and she was quite resolved that she
would submit to no such guardianship from his hands. That being so,
the shorter period there might be for any such discussion the better.
The funeral was to take place on the Saturday, and during the four
days that intervened she received two visits from Mr. Possitt. Mr.
Possitt was very discreet in what he said, and Clara was angry with
herself for not allowing his words to have any avail with her. She
told herself that they were commonplace; but she told herself, also,
after his first visit, that she had no right to expect anything else
but commonplace words. How often are men found who can speak words
on such occasions that are not commonplaces,--that really stir the
soul, and bring true comfort to the listener? The humble listener
may receive comfort even from commonplace words; but Clara was not
humble, and rebuked herself for her own pride. On the second occasion
of his coming she did endeavour to receive him with a meek heart,
and to accept what he said with an obedient spirit. But the struggle
within her bosom was hard, and when he bade her to kneel and pray
with him, she doubted for a moment between rebellion and hypocrisy.
But she had determined to be meek, and so hypocrisy carried the hour.
What would a clergyman say on such an occasion if the object of his
solicitude were to decline the offer, remarking that prayer at that
moment did not seem to be opportune; and that, moreover, he, the
person thus invited, would like, first of all, to know what was to
be the special object of the proposed prayer, if he found that he
could, at the spur of the moment, bring himself at all into a fitting
mood for the task? Of him who would decline, without argument, the
clergyman would opine that he was simply a reprobate. Of him who
would propose to accompany an hypothetical acceptance with certain
stipulations, he would say to himself that he was a stiff-necked
wrestler against grace, whose condition was worse than that of the
reprobate. Men and women, conscious that they will be thus judged,
submit to the hypocrisy, and go down upon their knees unprepared,
making no effort, doing nothing while they are there, allowing their
consciences to be eased if they can only feel themselves numbed into
some ceremonial awe by the occasion. So it was with Clara, when Mr.
Possitt, with easy piety, went through the formula of his devotion,
hardly ever having realised to himself the fact that, of all works in
which man can engage himself, that of prayer is the most difficult.
"It is a sad loss to me," said Mr. Possitt, as he sat for half an
hour with Clara, after she had thus submitted herself. Mr. Possitt
was a weakly, pale-faced little man, who worked so hard in the parish
that on every day, Sundays included, he went to bed as tired in all
his bones as a day labourer from the fields;--"a very great loss.
There are not many now who understand what a clergyman has to go
through, as our dear friend did." If he was mindful of his two
glasses of port wine on Sundays, who could blame him?
"She was a very kind woman, Mr. Possitt."
"Yes, indeed;--and so thoughtful! That she will have an exceeding
great reward, who can doubt? Since I knew her she always lived as a
saint upon earth. I suppose there's nothing known as to who will live
in this house, Miss Amedroz?"
"Nothing;--I should think."
"Captain Aylmer won't keep it in his own hands?"
"I cannot tell in the least; but as he is obliged to live in London
because of Parliament, and goes to Yorkshire always in the autumn, he
can hardly want it."
"I suppose not. But it will be a sad loss,--a sad loss to have this
house empty. Ah!--I shall never forget her kindness to me. Do you
know, Miss Amedroz,"--and as he told his little secret he became
beautifully confidential;--"do you know, she always used to send me
ten guineas at Christmas to help me along. She understood, as well as
any one, how hard it is for a gentleman to live on seventy pounds a
year. You will not wonder that I should feel that I've had a loss."
It is hard for a gentleman to live upon seventy pounds a year; and it
is very hard, too, for a lady to live upon nothing a year, which lot
in life fate seemed to have in store for Miss Amedroz.
On the Friday evening Captain Aylmer came back, and Clara was in
truth glad to see him. Her aunt's death had been now far enough back
to admit of her telling Martha that she would not dine till Captain
Aylmer had come, and to allow her to think somewhat of his comfort.
People must eat and drink even when the grim monarch is in the house;
and it is a relief when they first dare to do so with some attention
to the comforts which are ordinarily so important to them. For
themselves alone women seldom care to exercise much trouble in this
direction; but the presence of a man at once excuses and renders
necessary the ceremony of a dinner. So Clara prepared for the
arrival, and greeted the comer with some returning pleasantness of
manner. And he, too, was pleasant with her, telling her of his plans,
and speaking to her as though she were one of those whom it was
natural that he should endeavour to interest in his future welfare.
"When I come back to-morrow," he said, "the will must be opened and
read. It had better be done here." They were sitting over the fire in
the dining-room, after dinner, and Clara knew that the coming back
to which he alluded was his return from the funeral. But she made no
answer to this, as she wished to say nothing about her aunt's will.
"And after that," he continued, "you had better let me take you out."
"I am very well," she said. "I do not want any special taking out."
"But you have been confined to the house the whole week."
"Women are accustomed to that, and do not feel it as you would.
However, I will walk with you if you'll take me."
"Of course I'll take you. And then we must settle our future plans.
Have you fixed upon any day yet for returning? Of course, the longer
you stay, the kinder you will be."
"I can do no good to any one by staying."
"You do good to me;--but I suppose I'm nobody. I wish I could tell
what to do about this house. Dear, good old woman! I know she would
have wished that I should keep it in my own hands, with some idea of
living here at some future time;--but of course I never shall live
here."
"Why not?"
"Would you like it yourself?"
"I am not Member of Parliament for Perivale, and should not be the
leading person in the town. You would be a sort of king here; and
then, some day, you will have your mother's property as well as your
aunt's; and you would be near to your own tenants."
"But that does not answer my question. Could you bring yourself to
live here,--even if it were your own?"
"Why not?"
"Because it is so deadly dull;--because it has no attraction
whatever;--because of all lives it is the one you would like the
least. No one should live in a provincial town but they who make
their money by doing so."
"And what are the wives and daughters of such people to do,--and
especially their widows? I have no doubt I could live here very
happily if I had anybody near me that I liked. I should not wish to
have to depend altogether on Mr. Possitt for society."
"And you would find him about the best."
"Mr. Possitt has been with me twice whilst you were away, and he,
too, asked what you meant to do about the house."
"And what did you say?"
"What could I say? Of course I said I did not know. I suppose he
was meditating whether you would live here and ask him to dinner on
Sundays!"
"Mr. Possitt is a very good sort of man," said the Captain,
gravely;--for Captain Aylmer, in the carrying out of his principles,
always spoke seriously of everything connected with the Church in
Perivale.
"And quite worthy to be asked to dinner on Sundays," said Clara. "But
I did not give him any hope. How could I? Of course I knew that you
would not live here, though I did not tell him so."
"No; I don't suppose I shall. But I see very plainly that you think
I ought to do so."
"I've the old-fashioned idea as to a man's living near to his own
property; that is all. No doubt it was good for other people in
Perivale, besides Mr. Possitt, that my dear aunt lived here; and if
the house is shut up, or let to some stranger, they will feel her
loss the more. But I don't know that you are bound to sacrifice
yourself to them."
"If I were to marry," said Captain Aylmer, very slowly and in a low
voice, "of course I should have to think of my wife's wishes."
"But if your wife, when she accepted you, knew that you were living
here, she would hardly take upon herself to demand that you should
give up your residence."
"She might find it very dull."
"She would make her own calculations as to that before she accepted
you."
"No doubt;--but I can't fancy any woman taking a man who was tied by
his leg to Perivale. What do the people do who live in Perivale?"
"Earn their bread."
"Yes;--that's just what I said. But I shouldn't earn mine here."
"I have the feeling I spoke of very strongly about papa's place,"
said Clara, changing the conversation suddenly. "I very often think
of the future fate of Belton Castle when papa shall have gone. My
cousin has got his house at Plaistow, and I don't suppose he'd live
there."
"And where will you go?" he asked.
As soon as she had spoken, Clara regretted her own imprudence in
having ventured to speak upon her own affairs. She had been well
pleased to hear him talk of his plans, and had been quite resolved
not to talk of her own. But now, by her own speech, she had set him
to make inquiries as to her future life. She did not at first answer
the question; but he repeated it. "And where will you live yourself?"
"I hope I may not have to think of that for some time to come yet."
"It is impossible to help thinking of such things."
"I can assure you that I haven't thought about it; but I suppose I
shall endeavour to--to--; I don't know what I shall endeavour to do."
"Will you come and live at Perivale?"
"Why here more than anywhere else?"
"In this house I mean."
"That would suit me admirably;--would it not? I'm afraid Mr. Possitt
would not find me a good neighbour. To tell the truth, I think that
any lady who lives here alone ought to be older than I am. The
Perivalians would not show to a young woman that sort of respect
which they have always felt for this house."
"I didn't mean alone," said Captain Aylmer.
Then Clara got up and made some excuse for leaving him, and there was
nothing more said between them,--nothing, at least, of moment, on
that evening. She had become uneasy when he asked her whether she
would like to live in his house at Perivale. But afterwards, when he
suggested that she was to have some companion with her there, she
felt herself compelled to put an end to the conversation. And yet she
knew that this was always the way, both with him and with herself. He
would say things which would seem to promise that in another minute
he would be at her feet, and then he would go no further. And she,
when she heard those words,--though in truth she would have had him
at her feet if she could,--would draw away, and recede, and forbid
him as it were to go on. But Clara continued to make her comparisons,
and knew well that her cousin Will would have gone on in spite of any
such forbiddings.
On that night, however, when she was alone, she could console herself
with thinking how right she had been. In that front bedroom, the
door of which was opposite to her own, with closed shutters, in the
terrible solemnity of lifeless humanity, was still lying the body of
her aunt! What would she have thought of herself if at such a moment
she could have listened to words of love, and promised herself as a
wife while such an inmate was in the house? She little knew that he,
within that same room, had pledged himself, to her who was now lying
there waiting for her last removal--had pledged himself, just seven
days since, to make the offer which, when he was talking to her, she
was always half hoping and half fearing!
He could have meant nothing else when he told her that he had not
intended to suggest that she should live there alone in that great
house at Perivale. She could not hinder herself from thinking of
this, unfit as was the present moment for any such thoughts. How was
it possible that she should not speculate on the subject, let her
resolutions against any such speculation be ever so strong? She had
confessed to herself that she loved the man, and what else could she
wish but that he also should love her? But there came upon her some
faint suspicion--some glimpse of what was almost a dream--that he
might possibly in this matter be guided rather by duty than by love.
It might be that he would feel himself constrained to offer his hand
to her--constrained by the peculiarity of his position towards her.
If so--should she discover that such were his motives--there would be
no doubt as to the nature of her answer.