SHOWING HOW CAPTAIN AYLMER KEPT HIS PROMISE.
The next day was necessarily very sad. Clara had declared her
determination to follow her aunt to the churchyard, and did so,
together with Martha, the old servant. There were three or four
mourning coaches, as family friends came over from Taunton, one
or two of whom were to be present at the reading of the will. How
melancholy was the occasion, and how well the work was done; how
substantial and yet how solemn was the luncheon, spread after the
funeral for the gentlemen; and how the will was read, without a
word of remark, by Mr. Palmer, need hardly be told here. The will
contained certain substantial legacies to servants--the amount to
that old handmaid Martha being so great as to produce a fit of
fainting, after which the old handmaid declared that if ever there
was, by any chance, an angel of light upon the earth, it was her late
mistress; and yet Martha had had her troubles with her mistress; and
there was a legacy of two hundred pounds to the gentleman who was
called upon to act as co-executor with Captain Aylmer. Other clause
in the will there was none, except that one substantial clause which
bequeathed to her well-beloved nephew, Frederic Folliott Aylmer,
everything of which the testatrix died possessed. The will had been
made at some moment in which Clara's spirit of independence had
offended her aunt, and her name was not mentioned. That nothing
should have been left to Clara was the one thing that surprised the
relatives from Taunton who were present. The relatives from Taunton,
to give them their due, expected nothing for themselves; but as there
had been great doubt as to the proportions in which the property
would be divided between the nephew and adopted niece, there was
aroused a considerable excitement as to the omission of the name of
Miss Amedroz--an excitement which was not altogether unpleasant. When
people complain of some cruel shame, which does not affect themselves
personally, the complaint is generally accompanied by an unexpressed
and unconscious feeling of satisfaction.
On the present occasion, when the will had been read and refolded,
Captain Aylmer, who was standing on the rug near the fire, spoke a
few words. His aunt, he said, had desired to add a codicil to the
will, of the nature of which Mr. Palmer was well aware. She had
expressed her intention to leave fifteen hundred pounds to her
niece, Miss Amedroz; but death had come upon her too quickly to
enable her to perform her purpose. Of this intention on the part of
Mrs. Winterfield, Mr. Palmer was as well aware as himself; and he
mentioned the subject now, merely with the object of saying that, as
a matter of course, the legacy to Miss Amedroz was as good as though
the codicil had been completed. On such a question as that there
could arise no question as to legal right; but he understood that the
legal claim of Miss Amedroz, under such circumstances, was as valid
as his own. It was therefore no affair of generosity on his part.
Then there was a little buzz of satisfaction on the part of those
present, and the meeting was broken up.
A certain old Mrs. Folliott, who was cousin to everybody concerned,
had come over from Taunton to see how things were going. She had
always been at variance with Mrs. Winterfield, being a woman who
loved cards and supper parties, and who had throughout her life
stabled her horses in stalls very different to those used by the
lady of Perivale. Now this Mrs. Folliott was the first to tell Clara
of the will. Clara, of course, was altogether indifferent. She had
known for months past that her aunt had intended to leave nothing
to her, and her only hope had been that she might be left free from
any commiseration or remark on the subject. But Mrs. Folliott, with
sundry shakings of the head, told her how her aunt had omitted to
name her--and then told her also of Captain Aylmer's generosity.
"We all did think, my dear," said Mrs. Folliott, "that she would
have done better than that for you, or at any rate that she would
not have left you dependent on him." Captain Aylmer's horses were
also supposed to be stabled in strictly Low Church stalls, and were
therefore regarded by Mrs. Folliott with much dislike.
"I and my aunt understood each other perfectly," said Clara.
"I dare say. But if so, you really were the only person that did
understand her. No doubt what she did was quite right, seeing that
she was a saint; but we sinners would have thought it very wicked to
have made such a will, and then to have trusted to the generosity of
another person after we were dead."
"But there is no question of trusting to any one's generosity, Mrs.
Folliott."
"He need not pay you a shilling, you know, unless he likes it."
"And he will not be asked to pay me a shilling."
"I don't suppose he will go back after what he has said publicly."
"My dear Mrs. Folliott," said Clara earnestly, "pray do not let us
talk about it. It is quite unnecessary. I never expected any of my
aunt's property, and knew all along that it was to go to Captain
Aylmer,--who, indeed, was Mrs. Winterfield's heir naturally. Mrs.
Winterfield was not really my aunt, and I had no claim on her."
"But everybody understood that she was to provide for you."
"As I was not one of the everybodies myself, it will not signify."
Then Mrs. Folliott retreated, having, as she thought, performed her
duty to Clara, and contented herself henceforth with abusing Mrs.
Winterfield's will in her own social circles at Taunton.
On the evening of that day, when all the visitors were gone and the
house was again quiet, Captain Aylmer thought it expedient to explain
to Clara the nature of his aunt's will, and the manner in which she
would be allowed to inherit under it the amount of money which her
aunt had intended to bequeath to her. When she became impatient and
objected to listen to him, he argued with her, pointing out to her
that this was a matter of business to which it was now absolutely
necessary that she should attend. "It may be the case," he said,
"and, indeed, I hope it will, that no essential difference will be
made by it;--except that it will gratify you to know how careful
she was of your interests in her last moments. But you are bound in
duty to learn your own position; and I, as her executor, am bound to
explain it to you. But perhaps you would rather discuss it with Mr.
Palmer."
"Oh no;--save me from that."
"You must understand, then, that I shall pay over to you the sum of
fifteen hundred pounds as soon as the will has been proved."
"I understand nothing of the kind. I know very well that if I were
to take it, I should be accepting a present from you, and to that I
cannot consent."
"But Clara--"
"It is no good, Captain Aylmer. Though I don't pretend to understand
much about law, I do know that I can have no claim to anything that
is not put into the will; and I won't have what I could not claim.
My mind is quite made up, and I hope I mayn't be annoyed about it.
Nothing is more disagreeable than having to discuss money matters."
Perhaps Captain Aylmer thought that the having no money matters to
discuss might be even more disagreeable. "Well," he said, "I can only
ask you to consult any friend whom you can trust upon the matter. Ask
your father, or Mr. Belton, and I have no doubt that either of them
will tell you that you are as much entitled to the legacy as though
it had been written in the will."
"On such a matter, Captain Aylmer, I don't want to ask anybody. You
can't pay me the money unless I choose to take it, and I certainly
shall not do that." Upon hearing this he smiled, assuming, as
Clara fancied that he was sometimes wont to do, a look of quiet
superiority; and then, for that time, he allowed the subject to be
dropped between them.
But Clara knew that she must discuss it at length with her father,
and the fear of that discussion made her unhappy. She had already
written to say that she would return home on the day but one after
the funeral, and had told Captain Aylmer of her purpose. So very
prudent a man as he of course could not think it right that a young
lady should remain with him, in his house, as his visitor; and to her
decision on this point he had made no objection. She now heartily
wished that she had named the day after the funeral, and that she
had not been deterred by her dislike of making a Sunday journey. She
dreaded this day, and would have been very thankful if he would have
left her and gone back to London. But he intended, he said, to remain
at Perivale throughout the next week, and she must endure the day as
best she might be able. She wished that it were possible to ask Mr.
Possitt to his accustomed dinner; but she did not dare to make the
proposition to the master of the house. Though Captain Aylmer had
declared Mr. Possitt to be a very worthy man, Clara surmised that he
would not be anxious to commence that practice of a Sabbatical dinner
so soon after his aunt's decease. The day, after all, would be but
one day, and Clara schooled herself into a resolution to bear it with
good humour.
Captain Aylmer had made a positive promise to his aunt on her
deathbed that he would ask Clara Amedroz to be his wife, and he had
no more idea of breaking his word than he had of resigning the whole
property which had been left to him. Whether Clara would accept him
he had much doubt. He was a man by no means brilliant, not naturally
self-confident, nor was he, perhaps, to be credited with the
possession of high principles of the finest sort; but he was clever,
in the ordinary sense of the word, knowing his own interest, knowing,
too, that that interest depended on other things besides money; and
he was a just man, according to the ordinary rules of justice in the
world. Not for the first time, when he was sitting by the bedside of
his dying aunt, had he thought of asking Clara to marry him. Though
he had never hitherto resolved that he would do so--though he had
never till then brought himself absolutely to determine that he would
take so important a step--he had pondered over it often, and was
aware that he was very fond of Clara. He was, in truth, as much in
love with her as it was in his nature to be in love. He was not a
man to break his heart for a girl;--nor even to make a strong fight
for a wife, as Belton was prepared to do. If refused once, he might
probably ask again,--having some idea that a first refusal was not
always intended to mean much,--and he might possibly make a third
attempt, prompted by some further calculation of the same nature. But
it might be doubted whether, on the first, second, or third occasion,
he would throw much passion into his words; and those who knew him
well would hardly expect to see him die of a broken heart, should he
ultimately be unsuccessful.
When he had first thought of marrying Miss Amedroz he had imagined
that she would have shared with him his aunt's property, and indeed
such had been his belief up to the days of the last illness of Mrs.
Winterfield. The match therefore had recommended itself to him as
being prudent as well as pleasant; and though his aunt had never
hitherto pressed the matter upon him, he had understood what her
wishes were. When she first told him, three or four days before her
death, that her property was left altogether to him, and then, on
hearing how totally her niece was without hope of provision from her
father, had expressed her desire to give a sum of money to Clara, she
had spoken plainly of her desire;--but she had not on that occasion
asked him for any promise. But afterwards, when she knew that she was
dying, she had questioned him as to his own feelings, and he, in his
anxiety to gratify her in her last wishes, had given her the promise
which she was so anxious to hear. He made no difficulty in doing so.
It was his own wish as well as hers. In a money point of view he
might no doubt now do better; but then money was not everything. He
was very fond of Clara, and felt that if she would accept him he
would be proud of his wife. She was well born and well educated, and
it was the proper sort of thing for him to do. No doubt he had some
idea, seeing how things had now arranged themselves, that he would
be giving much more than he would get; and perhaps the manner of
his offer might be affected by that consideration; but not on that
account did he feel at all sure that he would be accepted. Clara
Amedroz was a proud girl,--perhaps too proud. Indeed, it was her
fault. If her pride now interfered with her future fortune in life,
it should be her own fault, not his. He would do his duty to her and
to his aunt;--he would do it perseveringly and kindly; and then, if
she refused him, the fault would not be his.
Such, I think, was the state of Captain Aylmer's mind when he got up
on the Sunday morning, resolving that he would on that day make good
his promise. And it must be remembered, on his behalf, that he would
have prepared himself for his task with more animation if he had
hitherto received warmer encouragement. He had felt himself to be
repulsed in the little efforts which he had already made to please
the lady, and had no idea whatever as to the true state of her
feelings. Had he known what she knew, he would, I think, have been
animated enough, and gone to his task as happy and thriving a lover
as any. But he was a man somewhat diffident of himself, though
sufficiently conscious of the value of the worldly advantages which
he possessed;--and he was, perhaps, a little afraid of Clara, giving
her credit for an intellect superior to his own.
He had promised to walk with her on the Saturday after the reading
of the will, intending to take her out through the gardens down to
a farm, now belonging to himself, which lay at the back of the town,
and which was held by an old widow who had been senior in life to
her late landlady; but no such walk had been possible, as it was
dark before the last of the visitors from Taunton had gone. At
breakfast on Sunday he again proposed the walk, offering to take her
immediately after luncheon. "I suppose you will not go to church?" he
said.
"Not to-day. I could hardly bring myself to do it to-day."
"I think you are right. I shall go. A man can always do these things
sooner than a lady can. But you will come out afterwards?" To this
she assented, and then she was left alone throughout the morning.
The walk she did not mind. That she and Captain Aylmer should walk
together was all very well. They might probably have done so had Mrs.
Winterfield been still alive. It was the long evening afterwards that
she dreaded--the long winter evening, in which she would have to sit
with him as his guest, and with him only. She could not pass these
hours without talking to him, and she felt that she could not talk to
him naturally and easily. It would, however, be but for once, and she
would bear it.
They went together down to the house of Mrs. Partridge, the tenant,
and made their kindly speeches to the old woman. Mrs. Partridge
already knew that Captain Aylmer was to be her landlord, but having
hitherto seen more of Miss Amedroz than of the Captain, and having
always regarded her landlady's niece as being connected irrevocably
with the property, she addressed them as though the estate were a
joint affair.
"I shan't be here to trouble you long;--that I shan't, Miss Clara,"
said the old woman.
"I am sure Captain Aylmer would be very sorry to lose you," replied
Clara, speaking loud, and close to the poor woman's ear, for she was
deaf.
"I never looked to live after she was gone, Miss Clara;--never. No
more I didn't. Deary;--deary! And I suppose you'll be living at the
big house now; won't ye?"
"The big house belongs to Captain Aylmer, Mrs. Partridge." She was
driven to bawl out her words, and by no means liked the task. Then
Captain Aylmer said something, but his speech was altogether lost.
"Oh;--it belongs to the Captain, do it? They told me that was the way
of the will; but I suppose it's all one."
"Yes; it's all one," said Captain Aylmer, gaily.
"It's not exactly all one, as you call it," said Clara, attempting to
laugh, but still shouting at the top of her voice.
"Ah;--I don't understand; but I hope you'll both live there
together,--and I hope you'll be as good to the poor as she that is
gone. Well, well; I didn't ever think that I should be still here,
while she is lying under the stones up in the old church!"
Captain Aylmer had determined that he would ask his question on the
way back from the farm, and now resolved that he might as well begin
with some allusion to Mrs. Partridge's words about the house. The
afternoon was bright and cold, and the lane down to the farmhouse
had been dried by the wind, so that the day was pleasant for walking.
"We might as well go on to the bridge," he said, as they left the
farm-yard. "I always think that Perivale church looks better from
Creevy bridge than any other point." Perivale church stood high in
the centre of the town, on an eminence, and was graced with a spire
which was declared by the Perivalians to be preferable to that of
Salisbury in proportion, though it was acknowledged to be somewhat
inferior to it in height. The little river Creevy, which ran through
a portion of the suburbs of the town, and which, as there seen, was
hardly more than a ditch, then sloped away behind Creevy Grange, as
the farm of Mrs. Partridge was called, and was crossed by a small
wooden bridge, from which there was a view, not only of the church,
but of all that side of the hill on which Mrs. Winterfield's large
brick house stood conspicuously. So they walked down to Creevy
bridge, and, when there, stood leaning on the parapet and looking
back upon the town.
"How well I know every house and spot in the place as I see them from
here," he said.
"A good many of the houses are your own,--or will be some day; and
therefore you should know them."
"I remember, when I used to be here as a boy fishing, I always
thought Aunt Winterfield's house was the biggest house in the
county."
"It can't be nearly so large as your father's house in Yorkshire."
"No; certainly it is not. Aylmer Park is a large place; but the house
does not stretch itself out so wide as that; nor does it stand on
the side of a hill so as to show out its proportions with so much
ostentation. The coach-house and the stables, and the old brewhouse,
seem to come half way down the hill. And when I was a boy I had much
more respect for my aunt's red-brick house in Perivale than I had for
Aylmer Park."
"And now it's your own."
"Yes; now it's my own,--and all my respect for it is gone. I used to
think the Creevy the best river in England for fish; but I wouldn't
give a sixpence now for all the perch I ever caught in it."
"Perhaps your taste for perch is gone also."
"Yes; and my taste for jam. I never believed in the store-room at
Aylmer Park as I did in my aunt's store-room here."
"I don't doubt but what it is full now."
"I dare say; but I shall never have the curiosity even to inquire.
Ah, dear,--I wish I knew what to do about the house."
"You won't sell it, I suppose?"
"Not if I could either live in it, or let it. It would be wrong to
let it stand idle."
"But you need not decide quite at once."
"That's just what I want to do. I want to decide at once."
"Then I'm sure I cannot advise you. It seems to me very unlikely
that you should come and live here by yourself. It isn't like a
country-house exactly."
"I shan't live there by myself certainly. You heard what Mrs.
Partridge said just now."
"What did Mrs. Partridge say?"
"She wanted to know whether it belonged to both of us, and whether it
was not all one. Shall it be all one, Clara?"
She was leaning over the rail of the bridge as he spoke, with her
eyes fixed on the slowly moving water. When she heard his words,
she raised her face and looked full upon him. She was in some sort
prepared for the moment, though it would be untrue to say that she
had now expected it. Unconsciously she had made some resolve that
if ever the question were put to her by him, she would not be taken
altogether off her guard; and now that the question was put to her,
she was able to maintain her composure. Her first feeling was one
of triumph,--as it must be in such a position to any woman who has
already acknowledged to herself that she loves the man who then asks
her to be his wife. She looked up into Captain Aylmer's face, and his
eye almost quailed beneath hers. Even should he be triumphant, he was
not perfectly assured that his triumph would be a success.
"Shall what be all one?" she asked.
"Shall it be your house and my house? Can you tell me that you will
love me and be my wife?" Again she looked at him, and he repeated his
question. "Clara, can you love me well enough to take me for your
husband?"
"I can," she said. Why should she hesitate, and play the coy girl,
and pretend to any doubts in her mind which did not exist there?
She did love him, and had so told herself with much earnestness. To
him, while his words had been doubtful,--while he had simply played
at making love to her, she had given no hint of the state of her
affections. She had so carried herself before him as to make him
doubt whether success could be possible for him. But now,--why should
she hesitate now? It was as she had hoped,--or as she had hardly
dared to hope. He did love her. "I can," she said; and then, before
he could speak again, she repeated her words with more emphasis.
"Indeed I can; with all my heart."
As regarded herself, she was quite equal to the occasion; but had she
known more of the inner feelings of men and women in general, she
would have been slower to show her own. What is there that any man
desires,--any man or any woman,--that does not lose half its value
when it is found to be easy of access and easy of possession? Wine is
valued by its price, not its flavour. Open your doors freely to Jones
and Smith, and Jones and Smith will not care to enter them. Shut your
doors obdurately against the same gentlemen, and they will use all
their little diplomacy to effect an entrance. Captain Aylmer, when he
heard the hearty tone of the girl's answer, already began almost to
doubt whether it was wise on his part to devote the innermost bin of
his cellar to wine that was so cheap.
Not that he had any idea of receding. Principle, if not love,
prevented that. "Then the question about the house is decided," he
said, giving his hand to Clara as he spoke.
"I don't care a bit about the house now," she answered.
"That's unkind."
"I am thinking so much more of you,--of you and of myself. What does
an old house matter?"
"It's in very good repair," said Captain Aylmer.
"You must not laugh at me," she said; and in truth he was not
laughing at her. "What I mean is that anything about a house is
indifferent to me now. It is as though I had got all that I want in
the world. Is it wrong of me to say so?"
"Oh, dear, no;--not wrong at all. How can it be wrong?" He did
not tell her that he also had got all he wanted; but his lack
of enthusiasm in this respect did not surprise her, or at first
even vex her. She had always known him to be a man careful of his
words,--knowing their value,--not speaking with hurried rashness as
would her dear cousin Will. And she doubted whether, after all, such
hurried words mean as much as words which are slower and calmer.
After all his heat in love and consequent disappointment, Will
Belton had left her apparently well contented. His fervour had been
short-lived. She loved her cousin dearly, and was so very glad that
his fervour had been short-lived!
"When you asked me, I could but tell you the truth," she said,
smiling at him.
The truth is very well, but he would have liked it better had the
truth come to him by slower degrees. When his aunt had told him to
marry Clara Amedroz, he had been at once reconciled to the order by a
feeling on his own part that the conquest of Clara would not be too
facile. She was a woman of value, not to be snapped up easily,--or by
any one. So he had thought then; but he began to fancy now that he
had been wrong in that opinion.
The walk back to the house was not of itself very exciting, though
to Clara it was a short period of unalloyed bliss. No doubt had then
come upon her to cloud her happiness, and she was "wrapped up in
measureless content." It was well that they should both be silent
at such a moment. Only yesterday had been buried their dear old
friend,--the friend who had brought them together, and been so
anxious for their future happiness! And Clara Amedroz was not a young
girl, prone to jump out of her shoes with elation because she had got
a lover. She could be steadily happy without many immediate words
about her happiness. When they had reached the house, and were once
more together in the drawing-room, she again gave him her hand, and
was the first to speak. "And you; are you contented?" she asked. Who
does not know the smile of triumph with which a girl asks such a
question at such a moment as that?
"Contented?--well,--yes; I think I am," he said.
But even those words did not move her to doubt. "If you are," she
said, "I am. And now I will leave you till dinner, that you may think
over what you have done."
"I had thought about it before, you know," he replied. Then he
stooped over her and kissed her. It was the first time he had done
so; but his kiss was as cold and proper as though they had been man
and wife for years! But it sufficed for her, and she went to her room
as happy as a queen.