MRS. ASKERTON'S STORY.
When Clara received the letter from Captain Aylmer on which so much
is supposed to hang, she made up her mind to say nothing of it to any
one,--not to think of it if she could avoid thinking of it,--till her
cousin should have left her. She could not mention it to him; for,
though there was no one from whom she would sooner have asked advice
than from him, even on so delicate a matter as this, she could not do
so in the present case, as her informant was her cousin's successful
rival. When, therefore, Mrs. Askerton on leaving the church had
spoken some customary word to Clara, begging her to come to the
cottage on the following day, Clara had been unable to answer,--not
having as yet made up her mind whether she would or would not go
to the cottage again. Of course the idea of consulting her father
occurred to her,--or rather the idea of telling him; but any such
telling would lead to some advice from him which she would find
it difficult to obey, and to which she would be unable to trust.
And, moreover, why should she repeat this evil story against her
neighbours?
She had a long morning by herself after Will had started, and then
she endeavoured to arrange her thoughts and lay down for herself a
line of conduct. Presuming this story to be true, to what did it
amount? It certainly amounted to very much. If, in truth, this woman
had left her own husband and gone away to live with another man, she
had by doing so,--at any rate while she was doing so,--fallen in such
a way as to make herself unfit for the society of an unmarried young
woman who meant to keep her name unblemished before the world. Clara
would not attempt any further unravelling of the case, even in her
own mind;--but on that point she could not allow herself to have a
doubt. Without condemning the unhappy victim, she understood well
that she would owe it to all those who held her dear, if not to
herself, to eschew any close intimacy with one in such a position.
The rules of the world were too plainly written to allow her to guide
herself by any special judgment of her own in such a matter. But
if this friend of hers,--having been thus unfortunate,--had since
redeemed, or in part redeemed, her position by a second marriage,
would it be then imperative upon her to remember the past for ever,
and to declare that the stain was indelible? Clara felt that with a
previous knowledge of such a story she would probably have avoided
any intimacy with Mrs. Askerton. She would then have been justified
in choosing whether such intimacy should or should not exist, and
would so have chosen out of deference to the world's opinion. But
now it was too late for that. Mrs. Askerton had for years been her
friend; and Clara had to ask herself _this_ question; was it now
needful,--did her own feminine purity demand,--that she should throw
her friend over because in past years her life had been tainted by
misconduct.
It was clear enough at any rate that this was expected from
her,--nay, imperatively demanded by him who was to be her lord,--by
him to whom her future obedience would be due. Whatever might be her
immediate decision, he would have a right to call upon her to be
guided by his judgment as soon as she would become his wife. And
indeed, she felt that he had such right now,--unless she should
decide that no such right should be his, now or ever. It was still
within her power to say that she could not submit herself to such a
rule as his,--but having received his commands she must do that or
obey them. Then she declared to herself, not following the matter out
logically, but urged to her decision by sudden impulse, that at any
rate she would not obey Lady Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, in
any such matter, with Lady Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god to
her. That question about the house at Perivale had been very painful
to her. She felt that she could have endured the dreary solitude at
Perivale without complaint, if, after her marriage, her husband's
circumstances had made such a mode of living expedient. But to have
been asked to pledge her consent to such a life before her marriage,
to feel that he was bargaining for the privilege of being rid of
her, to know that the Aylmer people were arranging that he, if he
would marry her, should be as little troubled with his wife as
possible;--all this had been very grievous to her. She had tried
to console herself by the conviction that Lady Aylmer,--not
Frederic,--had been the sinner; but even in that consolation there
had been the terrible flaw that the words had come to her written by
Frederic's hand. Could Will Belton have written such a letter to his
future wife?
In her present emergency she must be guided by her own judgment or
her own instincts,--not by any edicts from Aylmer Park! If in what
she might do she should encounter the condemnation of Captain Aylmer,
she would answer him,--she would be driven to answer him,--by
counter-condemnation of him and his mother. Let it be so. Anything
would be better than a mean, truckling subservience to the imperious
mistress of Aylmer Park.
But what should she do as regarded Mrs. Askerton? That the story was
true she was beginning to believe. That there was some such history
was made certain to her by the promise which Mrs. Askerton had given
her.
"If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will
answer them." Such a promise would not have been volunteered unless
there was something special to be told. It would be best, perhaps, to
demand from Mrs. Askerton the fulfilment of this promise. But then
in doing so she must own from whence her information had come. Mrs.
Askerton had told her that the "communication" would be made by her
cousin Will. Her cousin Will had gone away without a word of Mrs.
Askerton, and now the "communication" had come from Captain Aylmer!
The Monday and Tuesday were rainy days, and the rain was some excuse
for her not going to the cottage. On the Wednesday her father was
ill, and his illness made a further excuse for her remaining at home.
But on the Wednesday evening there came a note to her from Mrs.
Askerton. "You naughty girl, why do you not come to me? Colonel
Askerton has been away since yesterday morning, and I am forgetting
the sound of my own voice. I did not trouble you when your divine
cousin was here,--for reasons; but unless you come to me now I
shall think that his divinity has prevailed. Colonel Askerton is in
Ireland, about some property, and will not be back till next week."
Clara sent back a promise by the messenger, and on the following
morning she put on her hat and shawl, and started on her dreaded
task. When she left the house she had not even yet quite made up her
mind what she would do. At first she put her lover's letter into
her pocket, so that she might have it for reference; but, on second
thoughts, she replaced it in her desk, dreading lest she might be
persuaded into showing or reading some part of it. There had come a
sharp frost after the rain, and the ground was hard and dry. In order
that she might gain some further last moment for thinking, she walked
round, up among the rocks, instead of going straight to the cottage;
and for a moment,--though the air was sharp with frost,--she sat upon
the stone where she had been seated when her cousin Will blurted out
the misfortune of his heart. She sat there on purpose that she might
think of him, and recall his figure, and the tones of his voice, and
the look of his eyes, and the gesture of his face. What a man he
was;--so tender, yet so strong; so thoughtful of others, and yet so
self-sufficient! She had, unconsciously, imputed to him one fault,
that he had loved and then forgotten his love;--unconsciously,
for she had tried to think that this was a virtue rather than a
fault;--but now,--with a full knowledge of what she was doing, but
without any intention of doing it,--she acquitted him of that one
fault. Now that she could acquit him, she owned that it would have
been a fault. To have loved, and so soon to have forgotten it! No; he
had loved her truly, and alas! he was one who could not be made to
forget it. Then she went on to the cottage, exercising her thoughts
rather on the contrast between the two men than on the subject to
which she should have applied them.
"So you have come at last!" said Mrs. Askerton. "Till I got your
message I thought there was to be some dreadful misfortune."
"What misfortune?"
"Something dreadful! One often anticipates something very bad without
exactly knowing what. At least, I do. I am always expecting a
catastrophe;--when I am alone that is;--and then I am so often
alone."
"That simply means low spirits, I suppose?"
"It's more than that, my dear."
"Not much more, I take it."
"Once when we were in India we lived close to the powder magazine,
and we were always expecting to be blown up. You never lived near a
powder magazine."
"No, never;--unless there's one at Belton. But I should have thought
that was exciting."
"And then there was the gentleman who always had the sword hanging
over him by the horse's hair."
"What do you mean, Mrs. Askerton?"
"Don't look so innocent, Clara. You know what I mean. What were the
results at last of your cousin's diligence as a detective officer?"
"Mrs. Askerton, you wrong my cousin greatly. He never once mentioned
your name while he was with us. He did not make a single allusion to
you, or to Colonel Askerton, or to the cottage."
"He did not?"
"Never once."
"Then I beg his pardon. But not the less has he been busy making
inquiries."
"But why should you say that there is a powder magazine, or a sword
hanging over your head?"
"Ah, why?"
Here was the subject ready opened to her hand, and yet Clara did not
know how to go on with it. It seemed to her now that it would have
been easier for her to commence it, if Mrs. Askerton had made no
commencement herself. As it was, she knew not how to introduce the
subject of Captain Aylmer's letter, and was almost inclined to wait,
thinking that Mrs. Askerton might tell her own story without any such
introduction. But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. Mrs. Askerton
began to talk of the frost, and then went on to abuse Ireland,
complaining of the hardship her husband endured in being forced to go
thither in winter to look after his tenants.
"What did you mean," said Clara, at last, "by the sword hanging over
your head?"
"I think I told you what I meant pretty plainly. If you did not
understand me I cannot tell you more plainly."
"It is odd that you should say so much, and not wish to say more."
"Ah!--you are making your inquiries now."
"In my place would not you do so too? How can I help it when you
talked of a sword? Of course you make me ask what the sword is."
"And am I bound to satisfy your curiosity?"
"You told me, just before my cousin came here, that if I asked any
question you would answer me."
"And I am to understand that you are asking such a question now?"
"Yes;--if it will not offend you."
"But what if it will offend me,--offend me greatly? Who likes to be
inquired into?"
"But you courted such inquiry from me."
"No, Clara, I did not do that. I'll tell you what I did. I gave you
to understand that if it was needful that you should hear about
me and my antecedents,--certain matters as to which Mr. Belton
had been inquiring into in a manner that I thought to be most
unjustifiable,--I would tell you that story."
"And do so without being angry with me for asking."
"I meant, of course, that I would not make it a ground for
quarrelling with you. If I wished to tell you I could do so without
any inquiry."
"I have sometimes thought that you did wish to tell me."
"Sometimes I have,--almost."
"But you have no such wish now?"
"Can't you understand? It may well be that one so much alone as
I am,--living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance,
except yourself,--should often feel a longing for that comfort which
full confidence between us would give me."
"Then why not--"
"Stop a moment. Can't you understand that I may feel this, and yet
entertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tell
our own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a woman
burns to make a full confession, who would be as mute as death before
a policeman."
"I am no policeman."
"But you are determined to ask a policeman's questions?"
To this Clara made no immediate reply. She felt that she was acting
almost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in fact
aware of all the circumstances which Mrs. Askerton could tell;--but
she did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. She
sincerely wished that Mrs. Askerton should be made acquainted with
the truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did
not make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy was
distressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried,
eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longer
any doubt between them.
"Mrs. Askerton," she said, "I know it all. There is nothing for you
to tell. I know what the sword is."
"What is it that you know?"
"That you were married long ago to--Mr. Berdmore."
"Then Mr. Belton did do me the honour of talking about me when he was
here?" As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood before
Clara with flashing eyes.
"Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any one
belonging to you. I have heard it from another."
"From what other?"
"I do not know that that signifies,--but I have learned it."
"Well;--and what next?"
"I do not know what next. As so much has been told me, and as you
had said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shall
believe your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from any
other teller."
"And suppose I refuse to answer you?"
"Then I can say nothing further."
"And what will you do?"
"Ah;--that I do not know. But you are harsh to me, while I am longing
to be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced upon
me,--partly by yourself?"
"And the other part;--who has forced that upon you? Who is your
informant? If you mean to be generous, be generous altogether. Is it
a man or a woman that has taken the trouble to rip up old sorrows
that my name may be blackened? But what matters? There;--I was
married to Captain Berdmore. I left him, and went away with my
present husband. For three years I was a man's mistress, and not
his wife. When that poor creature died we were married, and then
came here. Now you know it all;--all;--all,--though doubtless your
informant has made a better story of it. After that, perhaps, I have
been very wicked to sully the air you breathe by my presence."
"Why do you say that,--to me?"
"But no;--you do not know it all. No one can ever know it all. No one
can ever know how I suffered before I was driven to escape, or how
good to me has been he who--who--who--" Then she turned her back upon
Clara, and, walking off to the window, stood there, hiding the tears
which clouded her eyes, and concealing the sobs which choked her
utterance.
For some moments,--for a space which seemed long to both of
them,--Clara kept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak, and
though she longed to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. At
last she too rose and followed the other to the window. She uttered
no words, however, but gently putting her arm around Mrs. Askerton's
waist, stood there close to her, looking out upon the cold wintry
flower-beds,--not venturing to turn her eyes upon her companion. The
motion of her arm was at first very gentle, but after a while she
pressed it closer, and thus by degrees drew her friend to her with an
eager, warm, and enduring pressure. Mrs. Askerton made some little
effort towards repelling her, some faint motion of resistance; but
as the embrace became warmer the poor woman yielded herself to it,
and allowed her face to fall upon Clara's shoulder. So they stood,
speaking no word, making no attempt to rid themselves of the tears
which were blinding their eyes, but gazing out through the moisture
on the bleak wintry scene before them. Clara's mind was the more
active at the moment, for she was resolving that in this episode
of her life she would accept no lesson whatever from Lady Aylmer's
teaching;--no, nor any lesson whatever from the teaching of any
Aylmer in existence. And as for the world's rules, she would fit
herself to them as best she could; but no such fitting should drive
her to the unwomanly cruelty of deserting this woman whom she had
known and loved,--and whom she now loved with a fervour which she had
never before felt towards her.
"You have heard it all now," said Mrs. Askerton at last.
"And is it not better so?"
"Ah;--I do not know. How should I know?"
"Do you not know?" And as she spoke Clara pressed her arm still
closer. "Do you not know yet?" Then, turning herself half round, she
clasped the other woman full in her arms, and kissed her forehead and
her lips.
"Do you not know yet?"
"But you will go away, and people will tell you that you are wrong."
"What people?" said Clara, thinking as she spoke of the whole family
at Aylmer Park.
"Your husband will tell you so."
"I have no husband,--as yet,--to order me what to think or what not
to think."
"No;--not quite as yet. But you will tell him all this."
"He knows it. It was he who told me."
"What!--Captain Aylmer?"
"Yes; Captain Aylmer."
"And what did he say?"
"Never mind. Captain Aylmer is not my husband,--not as yet. If he
takes me, he must take me as I am, not as he might possibly have
wished me to be. Lady Aylmer--"
"And does Lady Aylmer know it?"
"Yes. Lady Aylmer is one of those hard, severe women who never
forgive."
"Ah, I see it all now. I understand it all. Clara, you must forget
me, and come here no more. You shall not be ruined because you are
generous."
"Ruined! If Lady Aylmer's displeasure can ruin me, I must put up with
ruin. I will not accept her for my guide. I am too old, and have had
my own way too long. Do not let that thought trouble you. In this
matter I shall judge for myself. I have judged for myself already."
"And your father?"
"Papa knows nothing of it."
"But you will tell him?"
"I do not know. Poor papa is very ill. If he were well I would tell
him, and he would think as I do."
"And your cousin?"
"You say that he has heard it all."
"I think so. Do you know that I remembered him the first moment that
I saw him. But what could I do? When you mentioned to me my old name,
my real name, how could I be honest? I have been driven to do that
which has made honesty to me impossible. My life has been a lie; and
yet how could I help it? I must live somewhere,--and how could I live
anywhere without deceit?"
"And yet that is so sad."
"Sad indeed! But what could I do? Of course I was wrong in the
beginning. Though how am I to regret it, when it has given me such a
husband as I have? Ah!--if you could know it all, I think,--I think
you would forgive me."
Then by degrees she told it all, and Clara was there for hours
listening to her story. The reader will not care to hear more of
it than he has heard. Nor would Clara have desired any closer
revelation; but as it is often difficult to obtain a confidence,
so is it impossible to stop it in the midst of its effusion. Mrs.
Askerton told the history of her life,--of her first foolish
engagement, her belief, her half-belief, in the man's reformation, of
the miseries which resulted from his vices, of her escape and shame,
of her welcome widowhood, and of her second marriage. And as she told
it, she paused at every point to insist on the goodness of him who
was now her husband. "I shall tell him this," she said at last, "as
I do everything; and then he will know that I have in truth got a
friend."
She asked again and again about Mr. Belton, but Clara could only tell
her that she knew nothing of her cousin's knowledge. Will might have
heard it all, but if so he had kept his information to himself.
"And now what shall you do?" Mrs. Askerton asked of Clara, at length
prepared to go.
"Do? in what way? I shall do nothing."
"But you will write to Captain Aylmer?"
"Yes;--I shall write to him."
"And about this?"
"Yes;--I suppose I must write to him."
"And what will you say?"
"That I cannot tell. I wish I knew what to say. If it were to his
mother I could write my letter easily enough."
"And what would you say to her?"
"I would tell her that I was responsible for my own friends. But I
must go now. Papa will complain that I am so long away." Then there
was another embrace, and at last Clara found her way out of the house
and was alone again in the park.
She clearly acknowledged to herself that she had a great difficulty
before her. She had committed herself altogether to Mrs. Askerton,
and could no longer entertain any thought of obeying the very plainly
expressed commands which Captain Aylmer had given her. The story as
told by Captain Aylmer had been true throughout; but, in the teeth
of that truth, she intended to maintain her acquaintance with Mrs.
Askerton. From that there was now no escape. She had been carried
away by impulse in what she had done and said at the cottage, but
she could not bring herself to regret it. She could not believe that
it was her duty to throw over and abandon a woman whom she loved,
because that woman had once, in her dire extremity, fallen away from
the path of virtue. But how was she to write the letter?
When she reached her father he complained of her absence, and almost
scolded her for having been so long at the cottage. "I cannot see,"
said he, "what you find in that woman to make so much of her."
"She is the only neighbour I have, papa."
"And better none than her, if all that people say of her is true."
"All that people say is never true, papa."
"There is no smoke without fire. I am not at all sure that it's good
for you to be so much with her."
"Oh, papa,--don't treat me like a child."
"And I'm sure it's not good for me that you should be so much away.
For anything I have seen of you all day you might have been at
Perivale. But you are going soon, altogether, so I suppose I may as
well make up my mind to it."
"I'm not going for a long time yet, papa."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that there's nothing to take me away from here at present."
"You are engaged to be married."
"But it will be a long engagement. It is one of those engagements in
which neither party is very anxious for an immediate change." There
was something bitter in Clara's tone as she said this, which the old
man perceived, but could only half understand. Clara remained with
him then for the rest of the day, going down-stairs for five minutes,
to her dinner, and then returning to him and reading aloud while he
dozed. Her winter evenings at Belton Castle were not very bright, but
she was used to them and made no complaint.
When she left her father for the night she got out her desk and
prepared herself for her letter to her lover. She was determined
that it should be finished that night before she went to bed. And it
was so finished; though the writing of it gave her much labour, and
occupied her till the late hours had come upon her. When completed it
was as follows:--
Belton Castle, Thursday Night.
DEAR FREDERIC,--I received your letter last Sunday,
but I could not answer it sooner, as it required much
consideration, and also some information which I have only
obtained to-day. About the plan of living at Perivale I
will not say much now, as my mind is so full of other
things. I think, however, I may promise that I will never
make any needless difficulty as to your plans. My cousin
Will left us on Monday, so your mother need not have any
further anxiety on that head. It does papa good to have
him here, and for that reason I am sorry that he has gone.
I can assure you that I don't think what you said about
him meant anything at all particular. Will is my nearest
cousin, and of course you would be glad that I should like
him,--which I do, very much.
And now about the other subject, which I own has
distressed me, as you supposed it would;--I mean about
Mrs. Askerton. I find it very difficult in your letter to
divide what comes from your mother and what from yourself.
Of course I want to make the division, as every word from
you has great weight with me. At present I don't know Lady
Aylmer personally, and I cannot think of her as I do of
you. Indeed, were I to know her ever so well, I could not
have the same deference for her that I have for the man
who is to be my husband. I only say this, as I fear that
Lady Aylmer and I may not perhaps agree about Mrs.
Askerton.
I find that your story about Mrs. Askerton is in the main
true. But the person who told it you does not seem to have
known any of the provocations which she received. She
was very badly treated by Captain Berdmore, who, I am
afraid, was a terrible drunkard; and at last she found it
impossible to stay with him. So she went away. I cannot
tell you how horrid it all was, but I am sure that if I
could make you understand it, it would go a long way in
inducing you to excuse her. She was married to Colonel
Askerton as soon as Captain Berdmore died, and this took
place before she came to Belton. I hope you will remember
that. It all occurred out in India, and I really hardly
know what business we have to inquire about it now.
At any rate, as I have been acquainted with her a long
time, and very intimately, and as I am sure that she has
repented of anything that has been wrong, I do not think
that I ought to quarrel with her now. Indeed I have
promised her that I will not. I think I owe it you to tell
you the whole truth, and that is the truth.
Pray give my regards to your mother, and tell her that
I am sure she would judge differently if she were in my
place. This poor woman has no other friend here; and who
am I, that I should take upon myself to condemn her? I
cannot do it. Dear Frederic, pray do not be angry with
me for asserting my own will in this matter. I think
you would wish me to have an opinion of my own. In my
present position I am bound to have one, as I am, as yet,
responsible for what I do myself. I shall be very, very
sorry, if I find that you differ from me; but still I
cannot be made to think that I am wrong. I wish you were
here, that we might talk it over together, as I think that
in that case you would agree with me.
If you can manage to come to us at Easter, or any other
time when Parliament does not keep you in London, we shall
be so delighted to see you.
Dear Frederic,
Yours very affectionately,
CLARA AMEDROZ.