WILLIAM BELTON DOES NOT GO OUT HUNTING.
We will now follow the other message which was sent down into
Norfolk, and which did not get into Belton's hands till the Monday
morning. He was sitting with his sister at breakfast, and was
prepared for hunting, when the paper was brought into the room.
Telegraphic messages were not very common at Plaistow Hall, and on
the arrival of any that had as yet reached that house, something
of that awe had been felt with which such missives were always
accompanied in their earliest days. "A telegruff message, mum, for
Mr. William," said the maid, looking at her mistress with eyes opened
wide, as she handed the important bit of paper to her master. Will
opened it rapidly, laying down the knife and fork with which he was
about to operate upon a ham before him. He was dressed in boots and
breeches, and a scarlet coat,--in which garb he was, in his sister's
eyes, the most handsome man in Norfolk.
"Oh, Mary!" he exclaimed.
"What is it, Will?"
"Mr. Amedroz is dead."
Miss Belton put out her hand for the paper before she spoke again, as
though she could better appreciate the truth of what she heard when
reading it herself on the telegraph slip than she had done from her
brother's words. "How sudden! how terribly sudden!" she said.
"Sudden indeed. When I left him he was not well, certainly, but I
should have said that he might have lived for twenty years. Poor old
man! I can hardly say why it was so, but I had taken a liking to
him."
"You take a liking to everybody, Will."
"No I don't. I know people I don't like." Will Belton as he said this
was thinking of Captain Aylmer, and he pressed the heel of his boot
hard against the floor.
"And Mr. Amedroz is dead! It seems to be so terribly sudden. What
will she do, Will?"
"That's what I'm thinking about."
"Of course you are, my dear. I can see that. I wish,--I wish--"
"It's no good wishing anything, Mary. I don't think wishing ever did
any good yet. If I might have my wish, I shouldn't know how to have
it."
"I was wishing that you didn't think so much about it."
"You need not be troubled about me. I shall do very well. But what is
to become of her,--now at once? Might she not come here? You are now
the nearest female relation that she has." Mary looked at him with
her anxious, painful eyes, and he knew by her look that she did not
approve of his plan. "I could go away," he continued. "She could come
to you without being troubled by seeing me.
"And where would you go, Will?"
"What does it matter? To the devil, I suppose."
"Oh, Will, Will!"
"You know what I mean. I'd go anywhere. Where is she to find a home
till,--till she is married?" He had paused at the word; but was
determined not to shrink from it, and bolted it out in a loud, sharp
tone, so that both he and she recognised all the meaning of the
word,--all that was conveyed in the idea. He hated himself when he
endeavoured to conceal from his own mind any of the misery that was
coming upon him. He loved her. He could not get over it. The passion
was on him,--like a palsy, for the shaking off of which no sufficient
physical energy was left to him. It clung to him in his goings out
and comings in with a painful, wearing tenacity, against which he
would now and again struggle, swearing that it should be so no
longer,--but against which he always struggled in vain. It was with
him when he was hunting. He was ever thinking of it when the bird
rose before his gun. As he watched the furrow, as his men and horses
would drive it straight and deep through the ground, he was thinking
of her,--and not of the straightness and depth of the furrow, as had
been his wont in former years. Then he would turn away his face, and
stand alone in his field, blinded by the salt drops in his eyes,
weeping at his own weakness. And when he was quite alone, he would
stamp his foot on the ground, and throw abroad his arms, and curse
himself. What Nessus's shirt was this that had fallen upon him, and
unmanned him from the sole of his foot to the top of his head? He
went through the occupations of the week. He hunted, and shot, and
gave his orders, and paid his men their wages;--but he did it all
with a palsy of love upon him as he did it. He wanted her, and he
could not overcome the want. He could not bear to confess to himself
that the thing by which he had set so much store could never belong
to him. His sister understood it all, and sometimes he was almost
angry with her because of her understanding it. She sympathised with
him in all his moods, and sometimes he would shake away her sympathy
as though it scalded him. "Where is she to find a home till,--till
she is married?" he said.
Not a word had as yet been said between them about the property which
was now his estate. He was now Belton of Belton, and it must be
supposed that both he and she had remembered that it was so. But
hitherto not a word had been said between them on that point. Now she
was compelled to allude to it. "Cannot she live at the Castle for the
present?"
"What;--all alone?"
"Of course she is remaining there now."
"Yes," said he, "of course she is there now. Now! Why, remember what
these telegraphic messages are. He died only on yesterday morning.
Of course she is there, but I do not think it can be good that she
should remain there. There is no one near her where she is but that
Mrs. Askerton. It can hardly be good for her to have no other female
friend at such a time as this."
"I do not think that Mrs. Askerton will hurt her."
"Mrs. Askerton will not hurt her at all,--and as long as Clara does
not know the story, Mrs. Askerton may serve as well as another. But
yet--"
"Can I go to her, Will?"
"No, dearest. The journey would kill you in winter. And he would not
like it. We are bound to think of that for her sake,--cold-hearted,
thankless, meagre-minded creature as I know he is."
"I do not know why he should be so bad."
"No, nor I. But I know that he is. Never mind. Why should we talk
about him? I suppose she'll have to go there,--to Aylmer Park. I
suppose they will send for her, and keep her there till it's all
finished. I'll tell you what, Mary,--I shall give her the place."
"What,--Belton Castle?"
"Why not? Will it ever be of any good to you or me? Do you want to go
and live there?"
"No, indeed;--not for myself."
"And do you think that I could live there? Besides, why should she be
turned out of her father's house?"
"He would not be mean enough to take it."
"He would be mean enough for anything. Besides, I should take very
good care that it should be settled upon her."
"That's nonsense, Will;--it is indeed. You are now William Belton of
Belton, and you must remain so."
"Mary,--I would sooner be Will Belton with Clara Amedroz by my side
to get through the world with me, and not the interest of an acre
either at Belton Castle or at Plaistow Hall! And I believe I should
be the richer man at the end,--if there were any good in that." Then
he went out of the room, and she heard him go through the kitchen,
and knew that he passed out into the farm-yard, towards the stable,
by the back-door. He intended, it seemed, to go on with his hunting
in spite of this death which had occurred. She was sorry for it,
but she could not venture to stop him. And she was sorry also that
nothing had been settled as to the writing of any letter to Clara.
She, however, would take upon herself to write while he was gone.
He went straight out towards the stables, hardly conscious of what he
was doing or where he was going, and found his hack ready saddled for
him in the stall. Then he remembered that he must either go or come
to some decision that he would not go. The horse that he intended
to ride had been sent on to the meet, and if he were not to be used,
some message must be despatched as to the animal's return. But Will
was half inclined to go, although he knew that the world would judge
him to be heartless if he were to go hunting immediately on the
receipt of the tidings which had reached him that morning. He thought
that he would like to set the world at defiance in this matter. Let
Frederic Aylmer go into mourning for the old man who was dead. Let
Frederic Aylmer be solicitous for the daughter who was left lonely in
the old house. No doubt he, Will Belton, had inherited the dead man's
estate, and should, therefore, in accordance with all the ordinary
rules of the world on such matters, submit himself at any rate to the
decency of funereal reserve. An heir should not be seen out hunting
on the day on which such tidings as to his heritage had reached him.
But he did not wish, in his present mood, to be recognised as the
heir. He did not want the property. He would have preferred to rid
himself altogether of any of the obligations which the ownership of
the estate entailed upon him. It was not permitted to him to have the
custody of the old squire's daughter, and therefore he was unwilling
to meddle with any of the old squire's concerns.
Belton had gone into the stable, and had himself loosed the animal,
leading him out into the yard as though he were about to mount him.
Then he had given the reins to a stable boy, and had walked away
among the farm buildings, not thinking of what he was doing. The lad
stood staring at him with open mouth, not at all understanding his
master's hesitation. The meet, as the boy knew, was fourteen miles
off, and Belton had not allowed himself above an hour and a half for
the journey. It was his practice to jump into the saddle and bustle
out of the place, as though seconds were important to him. He would
look at his watch with accuracy, and measure his pace from spot to
spot, as though minutes were too valuable to be lost. But now he
wandered away like one distraught, and the stable boy knew that
something was wrong. "I thout he was a thinken of the white cow as
choked 'erself with the tunnup that was skipped in the chopping,"
said the boy, as he spoke of his master afterwards to the old groom.
At last, however, a thought seemed to strike Belton. "Do you get on
Brag," he said to the boy, "and ride off to Goldingham Corner, and
tell Daniel to bring the horse home again. I shan't hunt to-day. And
I think I shall go away from home. If so, tell him to be sure the
horses are out every morning;--and tell him to stop their beans. I
mightn't hunt again for the next month." Then he returned into the
house, and went to the parlour in which his sister was sitting. "I
shan't go out to-day," he said.
"I thought you would not, Will," she answered.
"Not that I see any harm in it."
"I don't say that there is any harm, but it is as well on such
occasions to do as others do."
"That's humbug, Mary."
"No, Will; I do not think that. When any practice has become the
fixed rule of the society in which we live, it is always wise to
adhere to that rule, unless it call upon us to do something that is
actually wrong. One should not offend the prejudices of the world,
even if one is quite sure that they are prejudices."
"It hasn't been that that has brought me back, Mary. I'll tell you
what. I think I'll go down to Belton--after all."
His sister did not know what to say in answer to this. Her chief
anxiety was, of course, on behalf of her brother. That he should be
made to forget Clara Amedroz, if that were only possible, was her
great desire; and his journey at such a time as this down to Belton
was not the way to accomplish such forgetting. And then she felt that
Clara might very possibly not wish to see him. Had Will simply been
her cousin, such a visit might be very well; but he had attempted to
be more than her cousin, and therefore it would probably not be well.
Captain Aylmer might not like it; and Mary felt herself bound to
consider even Captain Aylmer's likings in such a matter. And yet she
could not bear to oppose him in anything. "It would be a very long
journey," she said.
"What does that signify?"
"And then it might so probably be for nothing."
"Why should it be for nothing?"
"Because--"
"Because what? Why don't you speak out? You need not be afraid of
hurting me. Nothing that you can say can make it at all worse than it
is."
"Dear Will, I wish I could make it better."
"But you can't. Nobody can make it either better or worse. I promised
her once before that I would go to her when she might be in trouble,
and I will be as good as my word. I said I would be a brother to
her;--and so I will. So help me God, I will!" Then he rushed out of
the room, striding through the door as though he would knock it down,
and hurried up-stairs to his own chamber. When there he stripped
himself of his hunting things, and dressed himself again with all
the expedition in his power; and then he threw a heap of clothes
into a large portmanteau, and set himself to work packing as though
everything in the world were to depend upon his catching a certain
train. And he went to a locked drawer, and taking out a cheque-book,
folded it up and put it into his pocket. Then he rang the bell
violently; and as he was locking the portmanteau, pressing down the
lid with all his weight and all his strength, he ordered that a
certain mare should be put into a certain dog-cart, and that somebody
might be ready to drive over with him to the Downham Station. Within
twenty minutes of the time of his rushing up-stairs he appeared again
before his sister with a great-coat on, and a railway rug hanging
over his arm. "Do you mean that you are going to-day?" said she.
"Yes. I'll catch the 11.40 up-train at Downham. What's the good of
going unless I go at once? If I can be of any use it will be at the
first. It may be that she will have nobody there to do anything for
her."
"There is the clergyman, and Colonel Askerton,--even if Captain
Aylmer has not gone down."
"The clergyman and Colonel Askerton are nothing to her. And if that
man is there I can come back again."
"You will not quarrel with him?"
"Why should I quarrel with him? What is there to quarrel about? I'm
not such a fool as to quarrel with a man because I hate him. If he
is there I shall see her for a minute or two, and then I shall come
back."
"I know it is no good my trying to dissuade you."
"None on earth. If you knew it all you would not try to dissuade me.
Before I thought of asking her to be my wife,--and yet I thought of
that very soon;--but before I ever thought of that, I told her that
when she wanted a brother's help I would give it her. Of course I was
thinking of the property,--that she shouldn't be turned out of her
father's house like a beggar. I hadn't any settled plan then;--how
could I? But I meant her to understand that when her father died
I would be the same to her that I am to you. If you were alone, in
distress, would I not go to you?"
"But I have no one else, Will," said she, stretching out her hand to
him where he stood.
"That makes no difference," he replied, almost roughly. "A promise is
a promise, and I resolved from the first that my promise should hold
good in spite of my disappointment. Dear, dear;--it seems but the
other day when I made it,--and now, already, everything is changed."
As he was speaking the servant entered the room, and told him that
the horse and gig were ready for him. "I shall just do it nicely,"
said he, looking at his watch. "I have over an hour. God bless you,
Mary. I shan't be away long. You may be sure of that."
"I don't suppose you can tell as yet, Will."
"What should keep me long? I shall see Green as I go by, and that is
half of my errand. I dare say I shan't stay above a night down in
Somersetshire."
"You'll have to give some orders about the estate."
"I shall not say a word on the subject,--to anybody; that is, not to
anybody there. I am going to look after her, and not the estate."
Then he stooped down and kissed his sister, and in another minute was
turning the corner out of the farm-yard on to the road at a quick
pace, not losing a foot of ground in the turn, in that fashion of
rapidity which the horses at Plaistow Hall soon learned from their
master. The horse is a closely sympathetic beast, and will make his
turns, and do his trottings, and comport himself generally in strict
unison with the pulsations of his master's heart. When a horse won't
jump it is generally the case that the inner man is declining to jump
also, let the outer man seem ever so anxious to accomplish the feat.
Belton, who was generally very communicative with his servants,
always talking to any man he might have beside him in his dog-cart
about the fields and cattle and tillage around him, said not a word
to the boy who accompanied him on this occasion. He had a good
many things to settle in his mind before he got to London, and he
began upon the work as soon as he had turned the corner out of the
farm-yard. As regarded this Belton estate, which was now altogether
his own, he had always had doubts and qualms,--qualms of feeling
rather than of conscience; and he had, also, always entertained
a strong family ambition. His people, ever so far back, had been
Beltons of Belton. They told him that his family could be traced
back to very early days,--before the Plantagenets, as he believed,
though on this point of the subject he was very hazy in his
information,--and he liked the idea of being the man by whom the
family should be reconstructed in its glory. Worldly circumstances
had been so kind to him, that he could take up the Belton estate with
more of the prestige of wealth than had belonged to any of the owners
of the place for many years past. Should it come to pass that living
there would be desirable, he could rebuild the old house, and make
new gardens, and fit himself out with all the pleasant braveries of
a well-to-do English squire. There need be no pinching and scraping,
no question whether a carriage would be possible, no doubt as to
the prudence of preserving game. All this had given much that was
delightful to his prospects. And he had, too, been instigated by a
somewhat weak desire to emerge from that farmer's rank into which he
knew that many connected with him had supposed him to have sunk. It
was true that he farmed land that was half his own,--and that, even
at Plaistow, he was a wealthy man; but Plaistow Hall, with all its
comforts, was a farm-house; and the ambition to be more than a farmer
had been strong upon him.
But then there had been the feeling that in taking the Belton estate
he would be robbing his cousin Clara of all that should have been
hers. It must be remembered that he had not been brought up in the
belief that he would ever become the owner of Belton. All his high
ambition in that matter had originated with the wretched death of
Clara's brother. Could he bring himself to take it all with pleasure,
seeing that it came to him by so sad a chance,--by a catastrophe so
deplorable? When he would think of this, his mind would revolt from
its own desires, and he would declare to himself that his inheritance
would come to him with a stain of blood upon it. He, indeed, would
have been guiltless; but how could he take his pleasure in the shades
of Belton without thinking of the tragedy which had given him the
property? Such had been the thoughts and desires, mixed in their
nature and militating against each other, which had induced him to
offer his first visit to his cousin's house. We know what was the
effect of that visit, and by what pleasant scheme he had endeavoured
to overcome all his difficulties, and so to become master of Belton
that Clara Amedroz should also be its mistress. There had been a way
which, after two days' intimacy with Clara, seemed to promise him
comfort and happiness on all sides. But he had come too late, and
that way was closed against him! Now the estate was his, and what was
he to do with it? Clara belonged to his rival, and in what way would
it become him to treat her? He was still thinking simply of the
cruelty of the circumstances which had thrown Captain Aylmer between
him and his cousin, when he drove himself up to the railway station
at Downham.
"Take her back steady, Jem," he said to the boy.
"I'll be sure to take her wery steady," Jem answered.
"And tell Compton to have the samples of barley ready for me. I may
be back any day, and we shall be sowing early this spring."
Then he left his cart, followed the porter who had taken his luggage
eagerly, knowing that Mr. Belton was always good for sixpence, and in
five minutes' time he was again in motion.
On his arrival in London he drove at once to the chambers of his
friend, Mr. Green, and luckily found the lawyer there. Had he missed
doing this, it was his intention to go out to his friend's house; and
in that case he could not have gone down to Taunton till the next
morning; but now he would be able to say what he wished to say, and
hear what he wished to hear, and would travel down by the night-mail
train. He was anxious that Clara should feel that he had hurried
to her without a moment's delay. It would do no good. He knew that.
Nothing that he could do would alter her, or be of any service to
him. She had accepted this man, and had herself no power of making
a change, even if she should wish it. But still there was to him
something of gratification in the idea that she should be made
to feel that he, Belton, was more instant in his affection, more
urgent in his good offices, more anxious to befriend her in her
difficulties, than the man whom she had consented to take for her
husband. Aylmer would probably go down to Belton, but Will was very
anxious to be the first on the ground,--very anxious,--though his
doing so could be of no use. All this was wrong on his part. He knew
that it was wrong, and he abused himself for his own selfishness. But
such self-abuse gave him no aid in escaping from his own wickedness.
He would, if possible, be at Belton before Captain Aylmer; and he
would, if possible, make Clara feel that, though he was not a member
of Parliament, though he was not much given to books, though he was
only a farmer, yet he had at any rate as much heart and spirit as the
fine gentleman whom she preferred to him.
"I thought I should see you," said the lawyer; "but I hardly expected
you so soon as this."
"I ought to have been a day sooner, only we don't get our telegraphic
messages on a Sunday." He still kept his great-coat on; and it seemed
by his manner that he had no intention of staying where he was above
a minute or two.
"You'll come out and dine with me to-day?" said Mr. Green.
"I can't do that, for I shall go down by the mail train."
"I never saw such a fellow in my life. What good will that do? It is
quite right that you should be there in time for the funeral; but I
don't suppose he will be buried before this day week."
But Belton had never thought about the funeral. When he had spoken to
his sister of saying but a few words to Clara and then returning, he
had forgotten that there would be any such ceremony, or that he would
be delayed by any such necessity.
"I was not thinking about the funeral," said Belton.
"You'll only find yourself uncomfortable there."
"Of course I shall be uncomfortable."
"You can't do anything about the property, you know."
"What do you mean by doing anything?" said Belton, in an angry tone.
"You can't very well take possession of the place, at any rate, till
after the funeral. It would not be considered the proper thing to
do."
"You think, then, that I'm a bird of prey, smelling the feast from
afar off, and hurrying at the dead man's carcase as soon as the
breath is out of his body?"
"I don't think anything of the kind, my dear fellow."
"Yes, you do, or you wouldn't talk to me about doing the proper
thing! I don't care a straw about the proper thing! If I find that
there's anything to be done to-morrow that can be of any use, I shall
do it, though all Somersetshire should think it improper! But I'm not
going to look after my own interests!"
"Take off your coat and sit down, Will, and don't look so angry at
me. I know that you're not greedy, well enough. Tell me what you are
going to do, and let me see if I can help you."
Belton did as he was told; he pulled off his coat and sat himself
down by the fire. "I don't know that you can do anything to help
me,--at least, not as yet. But I must go and see after her. Perhaps
she may be all alone."
"I suppose she is all alone."
"He hasn't gone down, then?"
"Who;--Captain Aylmer? No;--he hasn't gone down, certainly. He is in
Yorkshire."
"I'm glad of that!"
"He won't hurry himself. He never does, I fancy. I had a letter from
him this morning about Miss Amedroz."
"And what did he say?"
"He desired me to send her seventy-five pounds,--the interest of her
aunt's money."
"Seventy-five pounds!" said Will Belton, contemptuously.
"He thought she might want money at once; and I sent her the cheque
to-day. It will go down by the same train that carries you."
"Seventy-five pounds! And you are sure that he has not gone himself?"
"It isn't likely that he should have written to me, and passed
through London himself, at the same time;--but it is possible, no
doubt. I don't think he even knew the old squire; and there is no
reason why he should go to the funeral."
"No reason at all," said Belton,--who felt that Captain Aylmer's
presence at the Castle would be an insult to himself. "I don't know
what on earth he should do there,--except that I think him just the
fellow to intrude where he is not wanted." And yet Will was in his
heart despising Captain Aylmer because he had not already hurried
down to the assistance of the girl whom he professed to love.
"He is engaged to her, you know," said the lawyer, in a low voice.
"What difference does that make with such a fellow as he is, a
cold-blooded fish of a man, who thinks of nothing in the world but
being respectable? Engaged to her! Oh, damn him!"
"I've not the slightest objection. I don't think, however, that
you'll find him at Belton before you. No doubt she will have heard
from him; and it strikes me as very possible that she may go to
Aylmer Park."
"What should she go there for?"
"Would it not be the best place for her?"
"No. My house would be the best place for her. I am her nearest
relative. Why should she not come to us?"
Mr. Green turned round his chair and poked the fire, and fidgeted
about for some moments before he answered. "My dear fellow, you must
know that that wouldn't do." He then said, "You ought to feel that it
wouldn't do;--you ought indeed."
"Why shouldn't my sister receive Miss Amedroz as well as that old
woman down in Yorkshire?"
"If I may tell you, I will."
"Of course you may tell me."
"Because Miss Amedroz is engaged to be married to that old woman's
son, and is not engaged to be married to your sister's brother. The
thing is done, and what is the good of interfering. As far as she is
concerned, a great burden is off your hands."
"What do you mean by a burden?"
"I mean that her engagement to Captain Aylmer makes it unnecessary
for you to suppose that she is in want of any pecuniary assistance.
You told me once before that you would feel yourself called upon to
see that she wanted nothing."
"So I do now."
"But Captain Aylmer will look after that."
"I tell you what it is, Joe; I mean to settle the Belton property
in such a way that she shall have it, and that he shan't be
able to touch it. And it shall go to some one who shall have my
name,--William Belton. That's what I want you to arrange for me."
"After you are dead, you mean."
"I mean now, at once. I won't take the estate from her. I hate the
place and everything belonging to it. I don't mean her. There is no
reason for hating her."
"My dear Will, you are talking nonsense."
"Why is it nonsense? I may give what belongs to me to whom I please."
"You can do nothing of the kind;--at any rate, not by my assistance.
You talk as though the world were all over with you,--as though you
were never to be married or have any children of your own."
"I shall never marry."
"Nonsense, Will. Don't make such an ass of yourself as to suppose
that you'll not get over such a thing as this. You'll be married and
have a dozen children yet to provide for. Let the eldest have Belton
Castle, and everything will go on then in the proper way."
Belton had now got the poker into his hands, and sat silent for some
time, knocking the coals about. Then he got up, and took his hat, and
put on his coat. "Of course I can't make you understand me," he said;
"at any rate not all at once. I'm not such a fool as to want to give
up my property just because a girl is going to be married to a man I
don't like. I'm not such an ass as to give him my estate for such a
reason as that;--for it will be giving it to him, let me tie it up
as I may. But I've a feeling about it which makes it impossible for
me to take it. How would you like to get a thing by another fellow
having destroyed himself?"
"You can't help that. It's yours by law."
"Of course it is. I know that. And as it's mine I can do what I like
with it. Well;--good-bye. When I've got anything to say, I'll write."
Then he went down to his cab and had himself driven to the Great
Western Railway Hotel.
Captain Aylmer had sent to his betrothed seventy-five pounds; the
exact interest at five per cent. for one year of the sum which his
aunt had left her. This was the first subject of which Belton thought
when he found himself again in the railway carriage, and he continued
thinking of it half the way down to Taunton. Seventy-five pounds!
As though this favoured lover were prepared to give her exactly her
due, and nothing more than her due! Had he been so placed, he, Will
Belton, what would he have done? Seventy-five pounds might have
been more money than she would have wanted, for he would have taken
her to his own house,--to his own bosom, as soon as she would have
permitted, and would have so laboured on her behalf, taking from her
shoulders all money troubles, that there would have been no question
as to principal or interest between them. At any rate he would not
have confined himself to sending to her the exact sum which was her
due. But then Aylmer was a cold-blooded man,--more like a fish than a
man. Belton told himself over and over again that he had discovered
that at the single glance which he had had when he saw Captain Aylmer
in Green's chambers. Seventy-five pounds indeed! He himself was
prepared to give his whole estate to her, if she would take it,--even
though she would not marry him, even though she was going to throw
herself away upon that fish! Then he felt somewhat as Hamlet did when
he jumped upon Laertes at the grave of Ophelia. Send her seventy-five
pounds indeed, while he was ready to drink up Esil for her, or to
make over to her the whole Belton estate, and thus abandon the idea
for ever of being Belton of Belton!
He reached Taunton in the middle of the night,--during the small
hours of the morning in a winter night; but yet he could not bring
himself to go to bed. So he knocked up an ostler at the nearest inn,
and ordered out a gig. He would go down to the village of Redicote,
on the Minehead road, and put up at the public-house there. He could
not now have himself driven at once to Belton Castle, as he would
have done had the old squire been alive. He fancied that his presence
would be a nuisance if he did so. So he went to the little inn at
Redicote, reaching that place between four and five o'clock in the
morning; and very uncomfortable he was when he got there. But in his
present frame of mind he preferred discomfort. He liked being tired
and cold, and felt, when he was put into a chill room, without fire,
and with a sanded floor, that things with him were as they ought to
be.
Yes,--he could have a fly over to Belton Castle after breakfast.
Having learned so much, and ordered a dish of eggs and bacon for his
morning's breakfast, he went up-stairs to a miserable little bedroom,
to dress himself after his night's journey.