PASSIONATE PLEADING.
Clara wrote her letter to the lawyer, returning the cheque, before
she would allow herself a moment to dwell upon the news of her
cousin's arrival. She felt that it was necessary to do that before
she should even see her cousin,--thus providing against any
difficulty which might arise from adverse advice on his part; and as
soon as the letter was written she sent it to the post-office in the
village. She would do almost anything that Will might tell her to do,
but Captain Aylmer's money she would not take, even though Will might
so direct her. They would tell her, no doubt, among them, that the
money was her own,--that she might take it without owing any thanks
for it to Captain Aylmer. But she knew better than that,--as she
told herself over and over again. Her aunt had left her nothing, and
nothing would she have from Captain Aylmer,--unless she had all that
Captain Aylmer had to give, after the fashion in which women best
love to take such gifts.
Then, when she had done that, she was able to think of her cousin's
visit. "I knew he would come," she said to herself, as she sat
herself in one of the old chairs in the hall, with a large shawl
wrapped round her shoulders. She had just been to the front door,
with the nominal purpose of despatching her messenger thence to the
post-office; but she had stood for a minute or two under the portico,
looking in the direction by which Belton would come from Redicote,
expecting, or rather hoping, that she might see his figure or hear
the sound of his gig. But she saw nothing and heard nothing, and so
returned into the hall, slowly shutting the door. "I knew that he
would come," she said, repeating to herself the same words, over and
over again. Yet when Mrs. Askerton had told her that he would do this
thing which he had now done, she had expressed herself as almost
frightened by the idea. "God forbid," she had said. Nevertheless now
that he was there at Redicote, she assured herself that his coming
was a thing of which she had been certain; and she took a joy in the
knowledge of his nearness to her which she did not attempt to define
to herself. Had he not said that he would be a brother to her, and
was it not a brother's part to go to a sister in affliction? "I knew
that he would come. I was sure of it. He is so true." As to Captain
Aylmer's not coming she said nothing, even to herself; but she felt
that she had been equally sure on that subject. Of course, Captain
Aylmer would not come! He had sent her seventy-five pounds in lieu
of coming, and in doing so was true to his character. Both men were
doing exactly that which was to have been expected of them. So at
least Clara Amedroz now assured herself. She did not ask herself how
it was that she had come to love the thinner and the meaner of the
two men, but she knew well that such had been her fate.
On a sudden she rose from her chair, as though remembering a duty to
be performed, and went to the kitchen and directed that breakfast
might be got ready for Mr. Belton. He would have travelled all
night,--and would be in want of food. Since the old squire's death
there had been no regular meal served in the house, and Clara had
taken such scraps of food and cups of tea as the old servant of the
house had brought to her. But now the cloth must be spread again,
and as she did this with her own hands she remembered the dinners
which had been prepared for Captain Aylmer at Perivale after his
aunt's death. It seemed to her that she was used to be in the house
with death, and that the sadness and solemn ceremonies of woe were
becoming things familiar to her. There grew upon her a feeling that
it must be so with her always. The circumstances of her life would
ever be sad. What right had she to expect any other fate after such
a catastrophe as that which her brother had brought upon the family?
It was clear to her that she had done wrong in supposing that she
could marry and live with a prosperous man of the world like Captain
Aylmer. Their natures were different, and no such union could lead to
any good. So she told herself, with much misery of spirit, as she was
preparing the breakfast-table for William Belton.
But William Belton did not come to eat the breakfast. He got what he
wanted in that way at the inn at Redicote, and even then hesitated,
loitering at the bar, before he would go over. What was he to say,
and how would he be received? After all, had he not done amiss in
coming to a house at which he probably might not be wanted? Would
it not be thought that his journey had been made solely with a view
to his own property? He would be regarded as the heir pouncing upon
the inheritance before as yet the old owner was under the ground. At
any rate it would be too early for him to make his visit yet awhile;
and, to kill time, he went over to a carpenter who had been employed
by him about the place at Belton. The carpenter spoke to him as
though everything were his own, and was very intent upon future
improvements. This made Will more disgusted with himself than ever,
and before he could get out of the carpenter's yard he thoroughly
wished himself back at Plaistow. But having come so far, he could
hardly return without seeing his cousin, and at last he had himself
driven over, reaching the house between eleven and twelve o'clock in
the day.
Clara met him in the hall, and at once led him into the room which
she had prepared for him. He had given her his hand in the hall, but
did not speak to her till she had spoken to him after the closing of
the room door behind them. "I thought that you would come," she said,
still holding him by the hand.
"I did not know what to do," he answered. "I couldn't say which was
best. Now I am here I shall only be in your way." He did not dare to
press her hand, nor could he bring himself to take his away from her.
"In my way;--yes; as an angel, to tell me what to do in my trouble.
I knew you would come, because you are so good. But you will have
breakfast;--see, I have got it ready for you."
"Oh no; I breakfasted at Redicote. I would not trouble you."
"Trouble me, Will! Oh, Will, if you knew!" Then there came tears in
her eyes, and at the sight of them both his own were filled. How
was he to stand it? To take her to his bosom and hold her there for
always; to wipe away her tears so that she should weep no more; to
devote himself and all his energy and all that was his to comfort
her,--this he could have done; but he knew not how to do anything
short of this. Every word that she spoke to him was an encouragement
to this, and yet he knew that it could not be so. To say a word of
his love, or even to look it, would now be an unmanly insult. And
yet, how was he not to look it,--not to speak of it? "It is such a
comfort that you should be here with me," she said.
"Then I am glad I am here, though I do not know what I can do. Did he
suffer much, Clara?"
"No, I think not; very little. He sank at last quicker than I
expected, but just as I thought he would go. He used to speak of you
so often, and always with regard and esteem!"
"Dear old man!"
"Yes, Will; he was, in spite of his little faults. No father ever
loved his daughter better than he loved me."
After a while the servant brought in the tea, explaining to Belton
that Miss Clara had neither eaten nor drank that morning. "She
wouldn't take anything till you came, sir." Then Will added his
entreaties, and Clara was persuaded, and by degrees there grew
between them more ease of manner and capability for talking than had
been within their reach when they first met. And during the morning
many things were explained, as to which Clara would a few hours
previously have thought it to be almost impossible that she should
speak to her cousin. She had told him of her aunt's money, and the
way in which she had on that very morning sent back the cheque to the
lawyer; and she had said something also as to Lady Aylmer's views,
and her own views as to Lady Aylmer. With Will this subject was one
most difficult of discussion; and he blushed and fidgeted in his
chair, and walked about the room, and found himself unable to look
Clara in the face as she spoke to him. But she went on, goading him
with the name, which of all names was the most distasteful to him;
and mentioning that name almost in terms of reproach,--of reproach
which he felt it would be ungenerous to reciprocate, but which he
would have exaggerated to unmeasured abuse if he had given his tongue
licence to speak his mind.
"I was right to send back the money;--wasn't I, Will? Say that I was
right. Pray tell me that you think so!"
"I don't understand it at present, you see; I am no lawyer."
"But it doesn't want a lawyer to know that I couldn't take the money
from him. I am sure you feel that."
"If a man owes money of course he ought to pay it."
"But he doesn't owe it, Will. It is intended for generosity."
"You don't want anybody's generosity, certainly." Then he reflected
that Clara must, after all, depend entirely on the generosity of
some one till she was married; and he wanted to explain to her that
everything he had in the world was at her service,--was indeed her
own. Or he would have explained, if he knew how, that he did not
intend to take advantage of the entail,--that the Belton estate
should belong to her as the natural heir of her father. But he
conceived that the moment for explaining this had hardly as yet
arrived, and that he had better confine himself to some attempt at
teaching her that no extraneous assistance would be necessary to her.
"In money matters," said he, "of course you are to look to me. That
is a matter of course. I'll see Green about the other affairs. Green
and I are friends. We'll settle it."
"That's not what I meant, Will."
"But it's what I mean. This is one of those things in which a man has
to act on his own judgment. Your father and I understood each other."
"He did not understand that I was to accept your bounty."
"Bounty is a nasty word, and I hate it. You accepted me,--as your
brother, and as such I mean to act." The word almost stuck in his
throat, but he brought it out at last in a fierce tone, of which she
understood accurately the cause and meaning. "All money matters about
the place must be settled by me. Indeed, that's why I came down."
"Not only for that, Will?"
"Just to be useful in that way, I mean."
"You came to see me,--because you knew I should want you." Surely
this was malice prepense! Knowing what was his want, how could she
exasperate it by talking thus of her own? "As for money, I have no
claim on any one. No creature was ever more forlorn. But I will not
talk of that."
"Did you not say that you would treat me as a brother?"
"I did not mean that I was to be a burden on you."
"I know what I meant, and that is sufficient."
Belton had been at the house some hours before he made any sign
of leaving her, and when he did so he had to explain something
of his plans. He would remain, he said, for about a week in the
neighbourhood. She of course was obliged to ask him to stay at the
house,--at the house which was in fact his own; but he declined to do
this, blurting out his reason at last very plainly. "Captain Aylmer
would not like it, and I suppose you are bound to think of what he
likes and dislikes." "I don't know what right Captain Aylmer would
have to dislike any such thing," said Clara. But, nevertheless,
she allowed the reason to pass as current, and did not press her
invitation. Will declared that he would stay at the inn at Redicote,
striving to explain in some very unintelligible manner that such an
arrangement would be very convenient. He would remain at Redicote,
and would come over to Belton every day during his sojourn in the
country. Then he asked one question in a low whisper as to the last
sad ceremony, and, having received an answer, started off with the
declared intention of calling on Colonel Askerton.
The next two or three days passed uncomfortably enough with Will
Belton. He made his head-quarters at the little inn of Redicote, and
drove himself backwards and forwards between that place and the
estate which was now his own. On each of these days he saw Colonel
Askerton, whom he found to be a civil pleasant man, willing enough to
rid himself of the unpleasant task he had undertaken, but at the same
time, willing also to continue his services if any further services
were required of him. But of Mrs. Askerton on these occasions Will
saw nothing, nor had he ever spoken to her since the time of his
first visit to the Castle. Then came the day of the funeral, and
after that rite was over he returned with his cousin to the house.
There was no will to be read. The old squire had left no will, nor
was there anything belonging to him at the time of his death that he
could bequeath. The furniture in the house, the worn-out carpets and
old-fashioned chairs, belonged to Clara; but, beyond that, property
had she none, nor had it been in her father's power to endow her with
anything. She was alone in the world, penniless, with a conviction
on her own mind that her engagement with Frederic Aylmer must of
necessity come to an end, and with a feeling about her cousin which
she could hardly analyse, but which told her that she could not go to
his house in Norfolk, nor live with him at Belton Castle, nor trust
herself in his hands as she would into those of a real brother.
On the afternoon of the day on which her father had been buried, she
brought to him a letter, asking him to read it, and tell her what
she should do. The letter was from Lady Aylmer, and contained an
invitation to Aylmer Castle. It had been accompanied, as the reader
may possibly remember, by a letter from Captain Aylmer himself. Of
this she of course informed her cousin; but she did not find it to be
necessary to show the letter of one rival to the other. Lady Aylmer's
letter was cold in its expression of welcome, but very dictatorial
in pointing out the absolute necessity that Clara should accept the
invitation so given. "I think you will not fail to agree with me,
dear Miss Amedroz," the letter said, "that under these strange and
perplexing circumstances, this is the only roof which can, with
any propriety, afford you a shelter." "And why not the poor-house?"
she said, aloud to her cousin, when she perceived that his eye had
descended so far on the page. He shook his head angrily, but said
nothing; and when he had finished the letter he folded it and gave it
back still in silence. "And what am I to do?" she said. "You tell me
that I am to come to you for advice in everything."
"You must decide for yourself here."
"And you won't advise me. You won't tell me whether she is right?"
"I suppose she is right."
"Then I had better go?"
"If you mean to marry Captain Aylmer, you had better go."
"I am engaged to him."
"Then you had better go."
"But I will not submit myself to her tyranny."
"Let the marriage take place at once, and you will have to submit
only to his. I suppose you are prepared for that?"
"I do not know. I do not like tyranny."
Again he stood silent for awhile, looking at her, and then he
answered: "I should not tyrannise over you, Clara."
"Oh, Will, Will, do not speak like that. Do not destroy everything."
"What am I to say?"
"What would you say if your sister, your real sister, asked advice in
such a strait? If you had a sister, who came to you, and told you all
her difficulty, you would advise her. You would not say words to make
things worse for her."
"It would be very different."
"But you said you would be my brother."
"How am I to know what you feel for this man? It seems to me that you
half hate him, half fear him, and sometimes despise him."
"Hate him!--No, I never hate him."
"Go to him, then, and ask him what you had better do. Don't ask me."
Then he hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him. But
before he had half gone down the stairs he remembered the ceremony
at which he had just been present, and how desolate she was in the
world, and he returned to her. "I beg your pardon, Clara," he said,
"I am passionate; but I must be a beast to show my passion to you
on such a day as this. If I were you I should accept Lady Aylmer's
invitation,--merely thanking her for it in the ordinary way. I should
then go and see how the land lay. That is the advice I should give my
sister."
"And I will,--if it is only because you tell me.
"But as for a home,--tell her you have one of your own,--at Belton
Castle, from which no one can turn you out, and where no one can
intrude on you. This house belongs to you." Then, before she could
answer him, he had left the room; and she listened to his heavy quick
footsteps as he went across the hall and out of the front door.
He walked across the park and entered the little gate of Colonel
Askerton's garden, as though it were his habit to go to the cottage
when he was at Belton. There had been various matters on which the
two men had been brought into contact concerning the old squire's
death and the tenancy of the cottage, so that they had become almost
intimate. Belton had nothing new that he specially desired to say to
Colonel Askerton, whom, indeed, he had seen only a short time before
at the funeral; but he wanted the relief of speaking to some one
before he returned to the solitude of the inn at Redicote. On this
occasion, however, the Colonel was out, and the maid asked him if he
would see Mrs. Askerton. When he said something about not troubling
her, the girl told him that her mistress wished to speak to him, and
then he had no alternative but to allow himself to be shown into the
drawing-room.
"I want to see you a minute," said Mrs. Askerton, bowing to him
without putting out her hand, "that I might ask you how you find your
cousin."
"She is pretty well, I think."
"Colonel Askerton has seen more of her than I have since her father's
death, and he says that she does not bear it well. He thinks that she
is ill."
"I do not think her ill. Of course she is not in good spirits."
"No; exactly. How should she be? But he thinks she seems so worn. I
hope you will excuse me, Mr. Belton, but I love her so well that I
cannot bear to be quite in the dark as to her future. Is anything
settled yet?"
"She is going to Aylmer Castle."
"To Aylmer Castle! Is she indeed? At once?"
"Very soon. Lady Aylmer has asked her."
"Lady Aylmer! Then I suppose--"
"You suppose what?" Will Belton asked.
"I did not think she would have gone to Aylmer Castle,--though I dare
say it is the best thing she could do. She seemed to me to dislike
the Aylmers,--that is, Lady Aylmer,--so much! But I suppose she is
right?"
"She is right to go if she likes it."
"She is circumstanced so cruelly! Is she not? Where else could she
go? I do so feel for her. I believe I need hardly tell you, Mr.
Belton, that she would be as welcome here as flowers in May,--but
that I do not dare to ask her to come to us." She said this in a low
voice, turning her eyes away from him, looking first upon the ground,
and then again up at the window,--but still not daring to meet his
eye.
"I don't exactly know about that," said Belton awkwardly.
"You know, I hope, that I love her dearly."
"Everybody does that," said Will.
"You do, Mr. Belton."
"Yes;--I do; just as though she were--my sister."
"And as your sister would you let her come here,--to us?" He sat
silent for awhile, thinking, and she waited patiently for his answer.
But she spoke again before he answered her. "I am well aware that you
know all my history, Mr. Belton."
"I shouldn't tell it her, if you mean that, though she were my
sister. If she were my wife I should tell her."
"And why your wife?"
"Because then I should be sure it would do no harm."
"Then I find that you can be generous, Mr. Belton. But she knows it
all as well as you do."
"I did not tell her."
"Nor did I;--but I should have done so had not Captain Aylmer been
before me. And now tell me whether I could ask her to come here."
"It would be useless, as she is going to Aylmer Castle."
"But she is going there simply to find a home,--having no other."
"That is not so, Mrs. Askerton. She has a home as perfectly her own
as any woman in the land. Belton Castle is hers, to do what she may
please with it. She can live here if she likes it, and nobody can say
a word to her. She need not go to Aylmer Castle to look for a home."
"You mean you would lend her the house?"
"It is hers."
"I do not understand you, Mr. Belton."
"It does not signify;--we will say no more about it."
"And you think she likes going to Lady Aylmer's?"
"How should I say what she likes?"
Then there was another pause before Mrs. Askerton spoke again. "I can
tell you one thing," she said: "she does not like him."
"That is her affair."
"But she should be taught to know her own mind before she throws
herself away altogether. You would not wish your cousin to marry a
man whom she does not love because at one time she had come to think
that she loved him. That is the truth of it, Mr. Belton. If she goes
to Aylmer Castle she will marry him,--and she will be an unhappy
woman always afterwards. If you would sanction her coming here for
a few days, I think all that would be cured. She would come in a
moment, if you advised her."
Then he went away, allowing himself to make no further answer at the
moment, and discussed the matter with himself as he walked back to
Redicote, meditating on it with all his mind, and all his heart,
and all his strength. And, as he meditated, it came on to rain
bitterly,--a cold piercing February rain,--and the darkness of night
came upon him, and he floundered on through the thick mud of the
Somersetshire lanes, unconscious of the weather and of the darkness.
There was a way open to him by which he might even yet get what he
wanted. He thought he saw that there was a way open to him through
the policy of this woman, whom he perceived to have become friendly
to him. He saw, or thought that he saw, it all. No day had absolutely
been fixed for this journey to Yorkshire; and if Clara were induced
to go first to the cottage, and stay there with Mrs. Askerton, no
such journey might ever be taken. He could well understand that
such a visit on her part would give a mortal offence to all the
Aylmers. That tyranny of which Clara spoke with so much dread would
be exhibited then without reserve, and so there would be an end
altogether of the Aylmer alliance. But were she once to start for
Aylmer Park, then there would be no hope for him. Then her fate would
be decided,--and his. As far as he could see, too,--as far as he
could see then, there would be no dishonesty in this plan. Why should
Clara not go to Mrs. Askerton's house? What could be more natural
than such a visit at such a time? If she were in truth his sister
he would not interfere to prevent it if she wished it. He had told
himself that the woman should be forgiven her offence, and had
thought that that forgiveness should be complete. If the Aylmers
were so unreasonable as to quarrel with her on this ground, let
them quarrel with her. Mrs. Askerton had told him that Clara did
not really like Captain Aylmer. Perhaps it was so; and if so, what
greater kindness could he do her than give her an opportunity for
escaping such a union?
The whole of the next day he remained at Redicote, thinking,
doubting, striving to reconcile his wishes and his honesty. It rained
all day, and as he sat alone, smoking in the comfortless inn, he
told himself that the rain was keeping him;--but in truth it was not
the rain. Had he resolved to do his best to prevent this visit to
Yorkshire, or had he resolved to further it, I think he would have
gone to Belton without much fear of the rain. On the second day after
the funeral he did go, and he had then made up his mind. Clara,
if she would listen to him, should show her independence of Lady
Aylmer by staying a few days with the Askertons before she went to
Yorkshire, and by telling Lady Aylmer that such was her intention.
"If she really loves the man," he said to himself, "she will go at
once, in spite of anything that I can say. If she does not, I shall
be saving her."
"How cruel of you not to come yesterday!" Clara said, as soon as she
saw him.
"It rained hard," he answered.
"But men like you care so little for rain; but that is when you have
business to take you out,--or pleasure."
"You need not be so severe. The truth is I had things to trouble me."
"What troubled you, Will? I thought all the trouble was mine."
"I suppose everybody thinks that his own shoe pinches the hardest."
"Your shoe can't pinch you very bad, I should think. Sometimes when
I think of you it seems that you are an embodiment of prosperity and
happiness."
"I don't see it myself;--that's all. Did you write to Lady Aylmer,
Clara?"
"I wrote; but I didn't send it. I would not send any letter till
I had shown it to you, as you are my confessor and adviser. There;
read it. Nothing, I think, could be more courteous or less humble."
He took the letter and read it. Clara had simply expressed herself
willing to accept Lady Aylmer's invitation, and asked her ladyship to
fix a day. There was no mention of Captain Aylmer's name in the note.
"And you think this is best?" he said. His voice was hardly like his
own as he spoke. There was wanting to it that tone of self-assurance
which his voice almost always possessed, even when self-assurance was
lacking to his words.
"I thought it was your own advice," she said.
"Well;--yes; that is, I don't quite know. You couldn't go for a week
or so yet, I suppose."
"Perhaps in about a week."
"And what will you do till then?"
"What will I do!"
"Yes;--where do you mean to stay?"
"I thought, Will, that perhaps you would let me--remain here."
"Let you!--Oh, heavens! Look here, Clara."
"What is it, Will?"
"Before heaven I want to do for you what may be the best for
you,--without thinking of myself;--without thinking of myself, if I
could only help it."
"I have never doubted you. I never will doubt you. I believe in you
next to my God. I do, Will; I do." He walked up and down the room
half-a-dozen times before he spoke again, while she stood by the
table watching him. "I wish," she said, "I knew what it is that
troubles you." To this he made no answer, but went on walking till
she came up to him, and putting both her hands upon his arm said, "It
will be better, Will, that I should go;--will it not? Speak to me,
and say so. I feel that it will be better." Then he stopped in his
walk and looked down upon her, as her hands still rested upon his
shoulder. He gazed upon her for some few seconds, remaining quite
motionless, and then, opening his arms, he surrounded her with his
embrace, and pressing her with all his strength close to his bosom,
kissed her forehead, and her cheeks, and her lips, and her eyes. His
will was so masterful, his strength so great, and his motion so
quick, that she was powerless to escape from him till he relaxed his
hold. Indeed she hardly struggled, so much was she surprised and so
soon released. But the moment that he left her he saw that her face
was burning red, and that the tears were streaming from her eyes. She
stood for a moment trembling, with her hands clenched, and with a
look of scorn upon her lips and brow that he had never seen before;
and then she threw herself on a sofa, and, burying her face, sobbed
aloud, while her whole body was shaken as with convulsions. He leaned
over her repentant, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to speak.
All ideas of his scheme had gone from him now. He had offended her
for ever,--past redemption. What could be the use now of any scheme?
And as he stood there he hated himself because of his scheme. The
utter misery and disgrace of the present moment had come upon him
because he had thought more of himself than of her. It was but a few
moments since she had told him that she trusted him next to her God;
and yet, in those few moments, he had shown himself utterly unworthy
of that trust, and had destroyed all her confidence. But he could not
leave her without speaking to her. "Clara!" he said;--"Clara." But
she did not answer him. "Clara; will you not speak to me? Will you
not let me ask you to forgive me?" But still she only sobbed. For
her, at that moment, we may say that sobbing was easier than speech.
How was she to pardon so great an offence? How was she to resent such
passionate love?
But he could not continue to stand there motionless, all but
speechless, while she lay with her face turned away from him. He must
at any rate in some manner take himself away out of the room; and
this he could not do, even in his present condition of unlimited
disgrace, without a word of farewell. "Perhaps I had better go and
leave you," he said.
Then at last there came a voice, "Oh, Will, why have you done this?
Why have you treated me so badly?" When he had last seen her face
her mouth had been full of scorn, but there was no scorn now in her
voice. "Why--why--why?"
Why indeed;--except that it was needful for him that she should know
the depth of his passion. "If you will forgive me, Clara, I will not
offend you so again," he said.
"You have offended me. What am I to say? What am I to do? I have no
other friend."
"I am a wretch. I know that I am a wretch."
"I did not suspect that you would be so cruel. Oh, Will!"
But before he went she told him that she had forgiven him, and she
had preached to him a solemn, sweet sermon on the wickedness of
yielding to momentary impulses. Her low, grave words sank into his
ears as though they were divine; and when she said a word to him,
blushing as she spoke, of the sin of his passion, and of what her
sin would be if she were to permit it, he sat by her weeping like an
infant, tears which were certainly tears of innocence. She had been
very angry with him; but I think she loved him better when her sermon
was finished, than she had ever loved him before.
There was no further question as to her going to Aylmer Castle, nor
was any mention made of Mrs. Askerton's invitation to the cottage.
The letter for Lady Aylmer was sent, and it was agreed between them
that Will should remain at Redicote till the answer from Yorkshire
should come, and should then convey Clara as far as London on her
journey. And when he took leave of her that afternoon, she was able
to give him her hand in her old hearty, loving way, and to call him
Will with the old hearty, loving tone. And he,--he was able to accept
these tokens of her graciousness, as though they were signs of a
pardon which she had been good to give, but which he certainly had
not deserved.
As he went back to Redicote, he swore to himself that he would never
love any woman but her,--even though she must be the wife of Captain
Aylmer.