CHAPTER VII.
MISS AMEDROZ GOES TO PERIVALE.
It had been settled for some time past that Miss Amedroz was to goto Perivale for a few days in November. Indeed it seemed to be arecognised fact in her life that she was to make the journey fromBelton to Perivale and back very often, as there prevailed an ideathat she owed a divided duty. This was in some degree hard upon her,as she had very little gratification in these visits to her aunt. Hadthere been any intention on the part of Mrs. Winterfield to providefor her, the thing would have been intelligible according to theusual arrangements which are made in the world on such matters; butMrs. Winterfield had scarcely a right to call upon her niece fordutiful attendance after having settled it with her own consciencethat her property was all to go to her nephew. But Clara entertainedno thought of rebelling, and had agreed to make the accustomedjourney in November, travelling then, as she did on all suchjourneys, at her aunt's expense.
Two things only occurred to disturb her tranquillity before she went,and they were not of much violence. Mr. Wright, the clergyman, calledat Belton Castle, and in the course of conversation with Mr. Amedrozrenewed one of those ill-natured rumours which had before been spreadabout Mrs. Askerton. Clara did not see him, but she heard an accountof it all from her father.
"Does it mean, papa," she said, speaking almost with anger, "that youwant me to give up Mrs. Askerton?"
"How can you be so unkind as to ask me such a question?" he replied."You know how I hate to be bothered. I tell you what I hear, and thenyou can decide for yourself."
"But that isn't quite fair either, papa. That man comes here--"
"That man, as you call him, is the rector of the parish, and I'veknown him for forty years."
"And have never liked him, papa."
"I don't know much about liking anybody, my dear. Nobody likes me,and so why should I trouble myself?"
"But, papa, it all amounts to this--that somebody has said that theAskertons are not Askertons at all, but ought to be called somethingelse. Now we know that he served as Captain and Major Askerton forseven years in India--and in fact it all means nothing. If I knowanything, I know that he is Colonel Askerton."
"But do you know that she is his wife? That is what Mr. Wright asks.I don't say anything. I think it's very indelicate talking about suchthings."
"If I am asked whether I have seen her marriage certificate,certainly I have not; nor probably did you ever do so as to any ladythat you ever knew. But I know that she is her husband's wife, as weall of us know things of that sort. I know she was in India with him.I've seen things of hers marked with her name that she has had atleast for ten years."
"I don't know anything about it, my dear," said Mr. Amedroz, angrily.
"But Mr. Wright ought to know something about it before he says suchthings. And then this that he's saying now isn't the same that hesaid before."
"I don't know what he said before."
"He said they were both of them using a feigned name."
"It's nothing to me what name they use. I know I wish they hadn'tcome here, if I'm to be troubled about them in this way--first byWright and then by you."
"They have been very good tenants, papa."
"You needn't tell me that, Clara, and remind me about the shootingwhen you know how unhappy it makes me."
After this Clara said nothing more, and simply determined that Mr.Wright and his gossip should have no effect upon her intimacy withMrs. Askerton. But not the less did she continue to remember what hercousin had said about Miss Vigo.
And she had been ruffled a second time by certain observations whichMrs. Askerton made to her respecting her cousin--or rather by littlewords which were dropped on various occasions. It was very clearthat Mrs. Askerton did not like Mr. Belton, and that she wished toprejudice Clara against him. "It's a pity he shouldn't be a loverof yours," the lady said, "because it would be such a fine instanceof Beauty and the Beast." It will of course be understood that Mrs.Askerton had never been told of the offer that had been made.
"You don't mean to say that he's not a handsome man," said Clara.
"I never observe whether a man is handsome or not; but I can see verywell whether he knows what to do with his arms and legs, or whetherhe has the proper use of his voice before ladies." Clara remembered aword or two spoken by her cousin to herself, in speaking which he hadseemed to have a very proper use of his voice. "I know when a man isat ease like a gentleman, and when he is awkward like a--"
"Like a what?" said Clara. "Finish what you've got to say."
"Like a ploughboy, I was going to say," said Mrs. Askerton.
"I declare I think you have a spite against him, because he said youwere like some Miss Vigo," replied Clara, sharply. Mrs. Askerton wason that occasion silenced, and she said nothing more about Mr. Beltontill after Clara had returned from Perivale.
The journey itself from Belton to Perivale was always a nuisance, andwas more so now than usual, as it was made in the disagreeable monthof November. There was kept at the little inn at Redicote an oldfly--so called--which habitually made the journey to the Tauntonrailway-station, under the conduct of an old grey horse and anolder and greyer driver, whenever any of the old ladies of theneighbourhood were minded to leave their homes. This vehicle usuallytravelled at the rate of five miles an hour; but the old grey driverwas never content to have time allowed to him for the transitcalculated upon such a rate of speed. Accidents might happen, and whyshould he be made, as he would plaintively ask, to drive the poorbeast out of its skin? He was consequently always at Belton a fullhour before the time, and though Clara was well aware of all this,she could not help herself. Her father was fussy and impatient, theman was fussy and impatient; and there was nothing for her but to go.On the present occasion she was taken off in this way the full sixtyminutes too soon, and after four dreary hours spent upon the road,found herself landed at the Taunton station, with a terrible gulf oftime to be passed before she could again proceed on her journey.
One little accident had occurred to her. The old horse, whiletrotting leisurely along the level high road, had contrived to tumbledown. Clara did not think very much of this, as the same thing hadhappened with her before; but, even with an hour or more to spare,there arises a question whether under such circumstances the traincan be saved. But the grey old man reassured her. "Now, miss," saidhe, coming to the window, while he left his horse recumbent andapparently comfortable on the road, "where'd you have been now, zure,if I hadn't a few minutes in hand for you?" Then he walked off tosome neighbouring cottage, and having obtained assistance, succeededin putting his beast again upon his legs. After that he looked oncemore in at the window. "Who's right now, I wonder?" he said, with anair of triumph. And when he came to her for his guerdon at Taunton,he was evidently cross in not having it increased because of theaccident.
That hour at the Taunton station was terrible to her. I know of nohours more terrible than those so passed. The minutes will not goaway, and utterly fail in making good their claim to be calledwinged. A man walks up and down the platform, and in that way obtainssomething of the advantage of exercise; but a woman finds herselfbound to sit still within the dreary dulness of the waiting-room.There are, perhaps, people who under such circumstances can read, butthey are few in number. The mind altogether declines to be active,whereas the body is seized by a spirit of restlessness to which delayand tranquillity are loathsome. The advertisements on the walls areexamined, the map of some new Eden is studied--some Eden in whichan irregular pond and a church are surrounded by a multiplicityof regular villas and shrubs--till the student feels that noconsideration of health or economy would induce him to live there.Then the porters come in and out, till each porter has made himselfodious to the sight. Everything is hideous, dirty, and disagreeable;and the mind wanders away, to consider why station-masters do notmore frequently commit suicide. Clara Amedroz had already got beyondthis stage, and was beginning to think of herself rather than of thestation-master, when at last there so
unded, close to her ears, thebell of promise, and she knew that the train was at hand.
At Taunton there branched away from the main line that line whichwas to take her to Perivale, and therefore she was able to take herown place quietly in the carriage when she found that the down-trainfrom London was at hand. This she did, and could then watch withequanimity, while the travellers from the other train went throughthe penance of changing their seats. But she had not been so watchingfor many seconds when she saw Captain Frederic Aylmer appear upon theplatform. Immediately she sank back into her corner and watched nomore. Of course he was going to Perivale; but why had not her aunttold her that she was to meet him? Of course she would be staying inthe same house with him, and her present small attempt to avoid himwould thus be futile. The attempt was made; but nevertheless she wasprobably pleased when she found that it was made in vain. He came atonce to the carriage in which she was sitting, and had packed hiscoats, and dressing-bag, and desk about the carriage before he haddiscovered who was his fellow-traveller. "How do you do, CaptainAylmer?" she said, as he was about to take his seat.
"Miss Amedroz! Dear me; how very odd! I had not the slightestexpectation of meeting you here. The pleasure is of course thegreater."
"Nor I of seeing you. Mrs. Winterfield has not mentioned to me thatyou were coming to Perivale."
"I didn't know it myself till the day before yesterday. I'm going togive an account of my stewardship to the good-natured Perivalians whosend me to Parliament. I'm to dine with the mayor to-morrow, and assome big-wig has come in his way who is going to dine with him also,the thing has been got up in a hurry. But I'm delighted to find thatyou are to be with us."
"I generally go to my aunt about this time of the year."
"It is very good-natured of you." Then he asked after her father,and she told him of Mr. Belton's visit, telling him nothing--as thereader will hardly require to be told--of Mr. Belton's offer. And so,by degrees, they fell into close and intimate conversation.
"I am so glad, for your father's sake!" said the captain, withsympathetic voice, speaking still of Mr. Belton's visit.
"That's what I feel, of course."
"It is just as it should be, as he stands in that position to theproperty. And so he is a nice sort of fellow, is he?"
"Nice is no word for him. He is perfect!"
"Dear me! This is terrible! You remember that they hated some oldGreek patriot when they could find no fault in him?"
"I'll defy you to hate my cousin Will."
"What sort of looking man is he?"
"Extremely handsome;--at least I should say so."
"Then I certainly must hate him. And clever?"
"Well;--not what you would call clever. He is very clever aboutfields and cattle."
"Come, there is some relief in that."
"But you must not mistake me. He is clever; and then there's away about him of doing everything just as he likes it, which iswonderful. You feel quite sure that he'll become master ofeverything."
"But I do not feel at all sure that I should like him the better forthat!"
"But he doesn't meddle in things that he doesn't understand. And thenhe is so generous! His spending all that money down there is onlydone because he thinks it will make the place pleasanter to papa."
"Has he got plenty of money?"
"Oh, plenty! At least, I think so. He says that he has."
"The idea of any man owning that he had got plenty of money! Whata happy mortal! And then to be handsome, and omnipotent, and tounderstand cattle and fields! One would strive to emulate him ratherthan envy him, had not one learned to acknowledge that it is notgiven to every one to get to Corinth."
"You may laugh at him, but you'd like him if you knew him."
"One never can be sure of that from a lady's account of a man. Whena man talks to me about another man, I can generally tell whether Ishould like him or not--particularly if I know the man well who isgiving the description; but it is quite different when a woman is thedescriber."
"You mean that you won't take my word?"
"We see with different eyes in such matters. I have no doubt yourcousin is a worthy man--and as prosperous a gentleman as the Thaneof Cawdor in his prosperous days;--but probably if he and I cametogether we shouldn't have a word to say to each other."
Clara almost hated Captain Aylmer for speaking as he did, and yet sheknew that it was true. Will Belton was not an educated man, and werethey two to meet in her presence,--the captain and the farmer,--shefelt that she might have to blush for her cousin. But yet he was thebetter man of the two. She knew that he was the better man of thetwo, though she knew also that she could not love him as she lovedthe other.
Then they changed the subject of their conversation, and discussedMrs. Winterfield, as they had often done before. Captain Aylmer hadsaid that he should return to London on the Saturday, the present daybeing Tuesday, and Clara accused him of escaping always from the realhard work of his position. "I observe that you never stay a Sunday atPerivale," she said.
"Well;--not often. Why should I? Sunday is just the day that peoplelike to be at home."
"I should have thought it would not have made much difference to abachelor in that way."
"But Sunday is a day that one specially likes to pass after one's ownfashion."
"Exactly;--and therefore you don't stay with my aunt. I understand itall completely."
"Now you mean to be ill-natured!"
"I mean to say that I don't like Sundays at Perivale at all, and thatI should do just as you do if I had the power. But women,--women,that is, of my age,--are such slaves! We are forced to give anobedience for which we can see no cause, and for which we canunderstand no necessity. I couldn't tell my aunt that I meant to goaway on Saturday."
"You have no business which makes imperative calls upon your time."
"That means that I can't plead pretended excuses. But the true reasonis that we are dependent."
"There is something in that, I suppose."
"Not that I am dependent on her. But my position generally isdependent, and I cannot assist myself."
Captain Aylmer found it difficult to make any answer to this, feelingthe subject to be one which could hardly be discussed between him andMiss Amedroz. He not unnaturally looked to be the heir of his aunt'sproperty, and any provision made out of that property for Clara,would so far lessen that which would come to him. For anything thathe knew, Mrs. Winterfield might leave everything she possessed toher niece. The old lady had not been open and candid to him whom shemeant to favour in her will, as she had been to her to whom no suchfavour was to be shown. But Captain Aylmer did know, with tolerableaccuracy, what was the state of affairs at Belton, and was awarethat Miss Amedroz had no prospect of maintenance on which to depend,unless she could depend on her aunt. She was now pleading that shewas not dependent on that lady, and Captain Aylmer felt that she waswrong. He was a man of the world, and was by no means inclined toabandon any right that was his own; but it seemed to him that hewas almost bound to say some word to show that in his opinion Clarashould hold herself bound to comply with her aunt's requirements.
"Dependence is a disagreeable word," he said; "and one never quiteknows what it means."
"If you were a woman you'd know. It means that I must stay atPerivale on Sundays, while you can go up to London or down toYorkshire. That's what it means."
"What you do mean, I think, is this;--that you owe a duty toyour aunt, the performance of which is not altogether agreeable.Nevertheless it would be foolish in you to omit it."
"It isn't that;--not that at all. It would not be foolish, not inyour sense of the word, but it would be wrong. My aunt has been kindto me, and therefore I am bound to her for this service. But she iskind to you also, and yet you are not bound. That's why I complain.You sail away under false pretences, and yet you think you do yourduty. You have to see your lawyer,--which means going to your club;or to attend to your tenants,--which means hunting and shooting."
&nb
sp; "I haven't got any tenants."
"You know very well that you could remain over Sunday without doingany harm to anybody;--only you don't like going to church threetimes, and you don't like hearing my aunt read a sermon afterwards.Why shouldn't you stay, and I go to the club?"
"With all my heart, if you can manage it."
"But I can't; we ain't allowed to have clubs, or shooting, or tohave our own way in anything, putting forward little pretences aboutlawyers."
"Come, I'll stay if you'll ask me."
"I'm sure I won't do that. In the first place you'd go to sleep, andthen she would be offended; and I don't know that your sufferingswould make mine any lighter. I'm not prepared to alter the ways ofthe world, but I feel myself entitled to grumble at them sometimes."
Mrs. Winterfield inhabited a large brick house in the centre of thetown. It had a long frontage to the street; for there was not onlythe house itself, with its three square windows on each side of thedoor, and its seven windows over that, and again its seven windows inthe upper story,--but the end of the coach-house also abutted on thestreet, on which was the family clock, quite as much respected inPerivale as was the town-clock; and between the coach-house and themansion there was the broad entrance into the yard, and the entrancealso to the back door. No Perivalian ever presumed to doubt that Mrs.Winterfield's house was the most important house in the town. Nordid any stranger doubt it on looking at the frontage. But then itwas in all respects a town house to the eye,--that is, an Englishtown house, being as ugly and as respectable as unlimited bricks andmortar could make it. Immediately opposite to Mrs. Winterfield livedthe leading doctor and a retired builder, so that the lady's eye wasnot hurt by any sign of a shop. The shops, indeed, came within a veryfew yards of her on either side; but as the neighbouring shops oneach side were her own property, this was not unbearable. To me, hadI lived there, the incipient growth of grass through some of thestones which formed the margin of the road would have been altogetherunendurable. There is no sign of coming decay which is so melancholyto the eye as any which tells of a decrease in the throng of men. Ofmen or horses there was never any throng now in that end of Perivale.That street had formed part of the main line of road from Salisburyto Taunton, and coaches, waggons, and posting-carriages had beenfrequent on it; but now, alas! it was deserted. Even the omnibusesfrom the railway-station never came there unless they were ordered tocall at Mrs. Winterfield's door. For Mrs. Winterfield herself, thisdesolation had, I think, a certain melancholy attraction. It suitedher tone of mind and her religious views that she should be thusdaily reminded that things of this world were passing away and goingto destruction. She liked to have ocular proof that grass was growingin the highways under mortal feet, and that it was no longer worthman's while to renew human flags in human streets. She was drawingnear to the pavements which would ever be trodden by myriads ofbright sandals, and which yet would never be worn, and would becarried to those jewelled causeways on which no weed could find aspot for its useless growth.
Behind the house there was a square prim garden, arranged inparallelograms, tree answering to tree at every corner, round whichit was still her delight to creep when the weather permitted. PoorClara! how much advice she had received during these creepings, andhow often had she listened to inquiries as to the schooling of thegardener's children. Mrs. Winterfield was always unhappy about hergardener. Serious footmen are very plentiful, and even coachmen areto be found who, at a certain rate of extra payment, will be punctualat prayer time, and will promise to read good little books; butgardeners, as a class, are a profane people, who think themselvesentitled to claim liberty of conscience, and who will not submit tothe domestic despotism of a serious Sunday. They live in cottagesby themselves, and choose to have an opinion of their own on churchmatters. Mrs. Winterfield was aware that she ought to bid high forsuch a gardener as she wanted. A man must be paid well who willsubmit to daily inquiries as to the spiritual welfare of himself, hiswife, and family. But even though she did bid high, and though shepaid generously, no gardener would stop with her. One conscientiousman attempted to bargain for freedom from religion during the sixunimportant days of the week, being strong, and willing therefore togive up his day of rest; but such liberty could not be allowed tohim, and he also went. "He couldn't stop," he said, "in justice tothe greenhouses, when missus was so constant down upon him about hissprittual backsliding. And, after all, where did he backslide? It wasonly a pipe of tobacco with the babby in his arms, instead of thatdarned evening lecture."
Poor Mrs. Winterfield! She had been strong in her youth, and hadherself sat through evening lectures with a fortitude which otherpeople cannot attain. And she was strong too in her age, with thestrength of a martyr, submitting herself with patience to wearinesseswhich are insupportable to those who have none of the martyr spirit.The sermons of Perivale were neither bright, nor eloquent, norencouraging. All the old vicar or the young curate could tell she hadheard hundreds of times. She knew it all by heart, and could havepreached their sermons to them better than they could preach them toher. It was impossible that she could learn anything from them; andyet she would sit there thrice a day, suffering from cold in winter,from cough in spring, from heat in summer, and from rheumatism inautumn; and now that her doctor had forbidden her to go more thantwice, recommending her to go only once, she really thought that sheregarded the prohibition as a grievance. Indeed, to such as her, thatexpectation of the jewelled causeway, and of the perfect pavementthat shall never be worn, must be everything. But if she wasright,--right as to herself and others,--then why has the world beenmade so pleasant? Why is the fruit of the earth so sweet; and thetrees,--why are they so green; and the mountains so full of glory?Why are women so lovely? and why is it that the activity of man'smind is the only sure forerunner of man's progress? In listeningthrice a day to outpourings from the clergymen at Perivale, therecertainly was no activity of mind.
Now, in these days, Mrs. Winterfield was near to her reward. That shehad ensured that I cannot doubt. She had fed the poor, and filled theyoung full with religious teachings,--perhaps not wisely, and in herown way only too well, but yet as her judgment had directed her. Shehad cared little for herself,--forgiving injuries done to her, andnot forgiving those only which she thought were done to the Lord. Shehad lived her life somewhat as the martyr lived, who stood for yearson his pillar unmoved, while his nails grew through his flesh. So hadshe stood, doing, I fear, but little positive good with her largemeans,--but thinking nothing of her own comfort here, in comparisonwith the comfort of herself and others in the world to which she wasgoing.
On this occasion her nephew and niece reached her together; the primboy, with the white cotton gloves and the low four-wheeled carriage,having been sent down to meet Clara. For Mrs. Winterfield was a ladywho thought it unbecoming that her niece,--though only an adoptedniece,--should come to her door in an omnibus. Captain Aylmer haddriven the four-wheeled carriage from the station, dispossessing theboy, and the luggage had been confided to the public conveyance.
"It is very fortunate that you should come together," said Mrs.Winterfield. "I didn't know when to expect you, Fred. Indeed, younever say at what hour you'll come."
"I think it safer to allow myself a little margin, aunt, because onehas so many things to do."
"I suppose it is so with a gentleman," said Mrs. Winterfield. Afterwhich Clara looked at Captain Aylmer, but did not betray any of hersuspicions. "But I knew Clara would come by this train," continuedthe old lady; "so I sent Tom to meet her. Ladies always can bepunctual; they can do that at any rate." Mrs. Winterfield was one ofthose women who have always believed that their own sex is in everyrespect inferior to the other.
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