The Belton Estate

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER IX.

  CAPTAIN AYLMER'S PROMISE TO HIS AUNT.

  What had Captain Aylmer meant by telling her that they might be thedearest friends--by saying so much as that, and then saying no more?Of course Clara asked herself that question as soon as she was alonein her bedroom, after leaving Captain Aylmer below. And she madetwo answers to herself--two answers which were altogether distinctand contradictory one of the other. At first she decided that hehad said so much and no more because he was deceitful--becauseit suited his vanity to raise hopes which he had no intention offulfilling--because he was fond of saying soft things which wereintended to have no meaning. This was her first answer to herself.But in her second she accused herself as much as she had beforeaccused him. She had been cold to him, unfriendly, and harsh. As heraunt had told her, she spoke sharp words to him, and repulsed thekindness which he offered her. What right had she to expect from hima declaration of love when she was studious to stop him at everyavenue by which he might approach it? A little management on herside would, she almost knew, make things right. But then the idea ofany such management distressed her;--nay, more, disgusted her. Themanagement, if any were necessary, must come from him. And it wasmanifest enough that if he had any strong wishes in this matter hewas not a good manager. Her cousin, Will Belton, knew how to managemuch better.

  On the next morning, however, all her thoughts respecting CaptainAylmer were dissipated by tidings which Martha brought to herbedside. Her aunt was ill. Martha was afraid that her mistress wasvery ill. She did not dare to send specially for the doctor on herown responsibility, as Mrs. Winterfield had strong and peculiarfeelings about doctors' visits, and had on this very morning declinedto be so visited. On the next day the doctor would come in the usualcourse of things, for she had submitted for some years back to suchperiodical visitings; but she had desired that nothing might be doneout of the common way. Martha, however, declared that if she werealone with her mistress the doctor would be sent for; and she nowpetitioned for aid from Clara. Clara was, of course, by her aunt'sbedside in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more the doctor fromthe other side of the way was there also.

  It was ten o'clock before Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz metat breakfast, and they had before that been together in Mrs.Winterfield's room. The doctor had told Captain Aylmer that his auntwas very ill--very ill, dangerously ill. She had been wrong to gointo such a place as the cold, unaired Town-hall, and that, too,in the month of November; and the fatigue had also been too muchfor her. Mrs. Winterfield, too, had admitted to Clara that she knewherself to be very ill. "I felt it coming on me last night," shesaid, "when I was talking to you; and I felt it still more stronglywhen I left you after tea. I have lived long enough. God's will bedone." At that moment, when she said she had lived long enough, sheforgot her intention with reference to her will. But she rememberedit before Clara had left the room. "Tell Frederic," she said, "tosend at once for Mr. Palmer." Now Clara knew that Mr. Palmer was theattorney, and resolved that she would give no such message to CaptainAylmer. But Mrs. Winterfield sent for her nephew, who had just lefther, and herself gave her orders to him. In the course of the morningthere came tidings from the attorney's office that Mr. Palmer wasaway from Perivale, that he would be back on the morrow, and that hewould of course wait on Mrs. Winterfield immediately on his return.

  Captain Aylmer and Miss Amedroz discussed nothing but their aunt'sstate of health that morning over the breakfast-table. Of course,under such circumstances in the house, there was no further immediatereference made to that offer of dearest friendship. It was clear tothem both that the doctor did not expect that Mrs. Winterfield wouldagain leave her bed; and it was clear to Clara also that her aunt wasof the same opinion.

  "I shall hardly be able to go home now," she said.

  "It will be kind of you if you can remain."

  "And you?"

  "I shall remain over the Sunday. If by that time she is at allbetter, I will run up to town and come down again before the end ofthe week. I know you don't believe it, but a man really has somethings which he must do."

  "I don't disbelieve you, Captain Aylmer."

  "But you must write to me daily if I do go."

  To this Clara made no objection;--and she must write also to some oneelse. She must let her cousin know how little chance there was thatshe would be at home at Christmas, explaining to him at the same timethat his visit to her father would on that account be all the morewelcome.

  "Are you going to her now?" he asked, as Clara got up immediatelyafter breakfast. "I shall be in the house all the morning, and if youwant me you will of course send for me."

  "She may perhaps like to see you."

  "I will come up every now and again. I would remain there altogether,only I should be in the way." Then he got a newspaper and madehimself comfortable over the fire, while she went up to her wearytask in her aunt's room.

  Neither on that day nor on the next did the lawyer come, and onthe following morning all earthly troubles were over with Mrs.Winterfield. It was early on the Sunday morning that she died, andlate on the Saturday evening Mr. Palmer had sent up to say thathe had been detained at Taunton, but that he would wait on Mrs.Winterfield early on the Monday morning. On the Friday the poor ladyhad said much on the subject, but had been comforted by an assurancefrom her nephew that the arrangement should be carried out exactlyas she wished it, whether the codicil was or was not added to thewill. To Clara she said nothing more on the subject, nor at such atime did Captain Aylmer feel that he could offer her any assuranceon the matter. But Clara knew that the will was not altered; andthough at the time she was not thinking much about money, she had,nevertheless, very clearly made up her own mind as to her ownconduct. Nothing should induce her to take a present of fifteenhundred pounds,--or, indeed, of as many pence from Captain Aylmer.During those hours of sickness in the house they had been much throwntogether, and no one could have been kinder or more gentle to herthan he had been. He had come to call her Clara, as people will dowhen joined together in such duties, and had been very pleasant aswell as affectionate in his manner with her. It had seemed to herthat he also wished to take upon himself the cares and love of anadopted brother. But as an adopted brother she would have nothingto do with him. The two men whom she liked best in the world wouldassume each the wrong place; and between them both she felt that shewould be left friendless.

  On the Saturday afternoon they had both surmised how it was going tobe with Mrs. Winterfield, and Captain Aylmer had told Mr. Palmer thathe feared his coming on the Monday would be useless. He explainedalso what was required, and declared that he would be at once readyto make good the deficiency in the will. Mr. Palmer seemed to thinkthat this would be better even than the making of a codicil in thelast moments of the lady's life; and, therefore, he and CaptainAylmer were at rest on that subject.

  During the greater part of the Saturday night both Clara and CaptainAylmer remained with their aunt; and once when the morning was almostthere, and the last hour was near at hand, she had said a word or twowhich both of them had understood, in which she implored her darlingFrederic to take a brother's care of Clara Amedroz. Even in thatmoment Clara had repudiated the legacy, feeling sure in her heartthat Frederic Aylmer was aware what was the nature of the care whichhe ought to owe, if he would consent to owe any care to her. Hepromised his aunt that he would do as she desired him, and it wasimpossible that Clara should then, aloud, repudiate the compact. Butshe said nothing, merely allowing her hand to rest with his beneaththe thin, dry hand of the dying woman. To her aunt, however, when fora moment they were alone together, she showed all possible affection,with thanks and tears, and warm kisses, and prayers for forgivenessas to all those matters in which she had offended. "My prettyone;--my dear," said the old woman, raising her hand on to the headof the crouching girl, who was hiding her moist eyes on the bed.Never during her life had her aunt appeared to her in so lovinga mood as now, when she was leaving it. Then, with some eagerimpassioned words,
in which she pronounced her ideas of what shouldbe the religious duties of a woman, Mrs. Winterfield bade farewellto her niece. After that, she had a longer interview with her nephew,and then it seemed that all worldly cares were over with her.

  The Sunday was passed in all that blankness of funeral grief which isabsolutely necessary on such occasions. It cannot be said that eitherClara or Captain Aylmer were stricken with any of that agony of woewhich is produced on us by the death of those whom we have loved sowell that we cannot bring ourselves to submit to part with them. Theywere both truly sorry for their aunt, in the common parlance of theworld; but their sorrow was of that modified sort which does not numbthe heart, and make the surviving sufferer feel that there never canbe a remedy. Nevertheless, it demanded sad countenances, few words,and those spoken hardly above a whisper; an absence of all amusementand almost of all employment, and a full surrender to the trappingsof woe. They two were living together without other companion in thebig house,--sitting down together to dinner and to tea; but on thisday hardly a dozen words were spoken between them, and those dozenwere spoken with no purport. On the Monday Captain Aylmer gave ordersfor the funeral, and then went away to London, undertaking to be backon the day before the last ceremony. Clara was rather glad that heshould be gone, though she feared the solitude of the big house. Shewas glad that he should be gone, as she found it impossible to talkto him with ease to herself. She knew that he was about to assumesome position as protector or quasi guardian over her, in conformitywith her aunt's express wish, and she was quite resolved that shewould submit to no such guardianship from his hands. That being so,the shorter period there might be for any such discussion the better.

  The funeral was to take place on the Saturday, and during the fourdays that intervened she received two visits from Mr. Possitt. Mr.Possitt was very discreet in what he said, and Clara was angry withherself for not allowing his words to have any avail with her. Shetold herself that they were commonplace; but she told herself, also,after his first visit, that she had no right to expect anything elsebut commonplace words. How often are men found who can speak wordson such occasions that are not commonplaces,--that really stir thesoul, and bring true comfort to the listener? The humble listenermay receive comfort even from commonplace words; but Clara was nothumble, and rebuked herself for her own pride. On the second occasionof his coming she did endeavour to receive him with a meek heart,and to accept what he said with an obedient spirit. But the strugglewithin her bosom was hard, and when he bade her to kneel and praywith him, she doubted for a moment between rebellion and hypocrisy.But she had determined to be meek, and so hypocrisy carried the hour.

  What would a clergyman say on such an occasion if the object of hissolicitude were to decline the offer, remarking that prayer at thatmoment did not seem to be opportune; and that, moreover, he, theperson thus invited, would like, first of all, to know what was tobe the special object of the proposed prayer, if he found that hecould, at the spur of the moment, bring himself at all into a fittingmood for the task? Of him who would decline, without argument, theclergyman would opine that he was simply a reprobate. Of him whowould propose to accompany an hypothetical acceptance with certainstipulations, he would say to himself that he was a stiff-neckedwrestler against grace, whose condition was worse than that of thereprobate. Men and women, conscious that they will be thus judged,submit to the hypocrisy, and go down upon their knees unprepared,making no effort, doing nothing while they are there, allowing theirconsciences to be eased if they can only feel themselves numbed intosome ceremonial awe by the occasion. So it was with Clara, when Mr.Possitt, with easy piety, went through the formula of his devotion,hardly ever having realised to himself the fact that, of all works inwhich man can engage himself, that of prayer is the most difficult.

  "It is a sad loss to me," said Mr. Possitt, as he sat for half anhour with Clara, after she had thus submitted herself. Mr. Possittwas a weakly, pale-faced little man, who worked so hard in the parishthat on every day, Sundays included, he went to bed as tired in allhis bones as a day labourer from the fields;--"a very great loss.There are not many now who understand what a clergyman has to gothrough, as our dear friend did." If he was mindful of his twoglasses of port wine on Sundays, who could blame him?

  "She was a very kind woman, Mr. Possitt."

  "Yes, indeed;--and so thoughtful! That she will have an exceedinggreat reward, who can doubt? Since I knew her she always lived as asaint upon earth. I suppose there's nothing known as to who will livein this house, Miss Amedroz?"

  "Nothing;--I should think."

  "Captain Aylmer won't keep it in his own hands?"

  "I cannot tell in the least; but as he is obliged to live in Londonbecause of Parliament, and goes to Yorkshire always in the autumn, hecan hardly want it."

  "I suppose not. But it will be a sad loss,--a sad loss to have thishouse empty. Ah!--I shall never forget her kindness to me. Do youknow, Miss Amedroz,"--and as he told his little secret he becamebeautifully confidential;--"do you know, she always used to send meten guineas at Christmas to help me along. She understood, as well asany one, how hard it is for a gentleman to live on seventy pounds ayear. You will not wonder that I should feel that I've had a loss."It is hard for a gentleman to live upon seventy pounds a year; and itis very hard, too, for a lady to live upon nothing a year, which lotin life fate seemed to have in store for Miss Amedroz.

  On the Friday evening Captain Aylmer came back, and Clara was intruth glad to see him. Her aunt's death had been now far enough backto admit of her telling Martha that she would not dine till CaptainAylmer had come, and to allow her to think somewhat of his comfort.People must eat and drink even when the grim monarch is in the house;and it is a relief when they first dare to do so with some attentionto the comforts which are ordinarily so important to them. Forthemselves alone women seldom care to exercise much trouble in thisdirection; but the presence of a man at once excuses and rendersnecessary the ceremony of a dinner. So Clara prepared for thearrival, and greeted the comer with some returning pleasantness ofmanner. And he, too, was pleasant with her, telling her of his plans,and speaking to her as though she were one of those whom it wasnatural that he should endeavour to interest in his future welfare.

  "When I come back to-morrow," he said, "the will must be opened andread. It had better be done here." They were sitting over the fire inthe dining-room, after dinner, and Clara knew that the coming backto which he alluded was his return from the funeral. But she made noanswer to this, as she wished to say nothing about her aunt's will."And after that," he continued, "you had better let me take you out."

  "I am very well," she said. "I do not want any special taking out."

  "But you have been confined to the house the whole week."

  "Women are accustomed to that, and do not feel it as you would.However, I will walk with you if you'll take me."

  "Of course I'll take you. And then we must settle our future plans.Have you fixed upon any day yet for returning? Of course, the longeryou stay, the kinder you will be."

  "I can do no good to any one by staying."

  "You do good to me;--but I suppose I'm nobody. I wish I could tellwhat to do about this house. Dear, good old woman! I know she wouldhave wished that I should keep it in my own hands, with some idea ofliving here at some future time;--but of course I never shall livehere."

  "Why not?"

  "Would you like it yourself?"

  "I am not Member of Parliament for Perivale, and should not be theleading person in the town. You would be a sort of king here; andthen, some day, you will have your mother's property as well as youraunt's; and you would be near to your own tenants."

  "But that does not answer my question. Could you bring yourself tolive here,--even if it were your own?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because it is so deadly dull;--because it has no attractionwhatever;--because of all lives it is the one you would like theleast. No one should live in a provincial town but they who maketheir money by doin
g so."

  "And what are the wives and daughters of such people to do,--andespecially their widows? I have no doubt I could live here veryhappily if I had anybody near me that I liked. I should not wish tohave to depend altogether on Mr. Possitt for society."

  "And you would find him about the best."

  "Mr. Possitt has been with me twice whilst you were away, and he,too, asked what you meant to do about the house."

  "And what did you say?"

  "What could I say? Of course I said I did not know. I suppose hewas meditating whether you would live here and ask him to dinner onSundays!"

  "Mr. Possitt is a very good sort of man," said the Captain,gravely;--for Captain Aylmer, in the carrying out of his principles,always spoke seriously of everything connected with the Church inPerivale.

  "And quite worthy to be asked to dinner on Sundays," said Clara. "ButI did not give him any hope. How could I? Of course I knew that youwould not live here, though I did not tell him so."

  "No; I don't suppose I shall. But I see very plainly that you thinkI ought to do so."

  "I've the old-fashioned idea as to a man's living near to his ownproperty; that is all. No doubt it was good for other people inPerivale, besides Mr. Possitt, that my dear aunt lived here; and ifthe house is shut up, or let to some stranger, they will feel herloss the more. But I don't know that you are bound to sacrificeyourself to them."

  "If I were to marry," said Captain Aylmer, very slowly and in a lowvoice, "of course I should have to think of my wife's wishes."

  "But if your wife, when she accepted you, knew that you were livinghere, she would hardly take upon herself to demand that you shouldgive up your residence."

  "She might find it very dull."

  "She would make her own calculations as to that before she acceptedyou."

  "No doubt;--but I can't fancy any woman taking a man who was tied byhis leg to Perivale. What do the people do who live in Perivale?"

  "Earn their bread."

  "Yes;--that's just what I said. But I shouldn't earn mine here."

  "I have the feeling I spoke of very strongly about papa's place,"said Clara, changing the conversation suddenly. "I very often thinkof the future fate of Belton Castle when papa shall have gone. Mycousin has got his house at Plaistow, and I don't suppose he'd livethere."

  "And where will you go?" he asked.

  As soon as she had spoken, Clara regretted her own imprudence inhaving ventured to speak upon her own affairs. She had been wellpleased to hear him talk of his plans, and had been quite resolvednot to talk of her own. But now, by her own speech, she had set himto make inquiries as to her future life. She did not at first answerthe question; but he repeated it. "And where will you live yourself?"

  "I hope I may not have to think of that for some time to come yet."

  "It is impossible to help thinking of such things."

  "I can assure you that I haven't thought about it; but I suppose Ishall endeavour to--to--; I don't know what I shall endeavour to do."

  "Will you come and live at Perivale?"

  "Why here more than anywhere else?"

  "In this house I mean."

  "That would suit me admirably;--would it not? I'm afraid Mr. Possittwould not find me a good neighbour. To tell the truth, I think thatany lady who lives here alone ought to be older than I am. ThePerivalians would not show to a young woman that sort of respectwhich they have always felt for this house."

  "I didn't mean alone," said Captain Aylmer.

  Then Clara got up and made some excuse for leaving him, and there wasnothing more said between them,--nothing, at least, of moment, onthat evening. She had become uneasy when he asked her whether shewould like to live in his house at Perivale. But afterwards, when hesuggested that she was to have some companion with her there, shefelt herself compelled to put an end to the conversation. And yet sheknew that this was always the way, both with him and with herself. Hewould say things which would seem to promise that in another minutehe would be at her feet, and then he would go no further. And she,when she heard those words,--though in truth she would have had himat her feet if she could,--would draw away, and recede, and forbidhim as it were to go on. But Clara continued to make her comparisons,and knew well that her cousin Will would have gone on in spite of anysuch forbiddings.

  On that night, however, when she was alone, she could console herselfwith thinking how right she had been. In that front bedroom, thedoor of which was opposite to her own, with closed shutters, in theterrible solemnity of lifeless humanity, was still lying the body ofher aunt! What would she have thought of herself if at such a momentshe could have listened to words of love, and promised herself as awife while such an inmate was in the house? She little knew that he,within that same room, had pledged himself, to her who was now lyingthere waiting for her last removal--had pledged himself, just sevendays since, to make the offer which, when he was talking to her, shewas always half hoping and half fearing!

  He could have meant nothing else when he told her that he had notintended to suggest that she should live there alone in that greathouse at Perivale. She could not hinder herself from thinking ofthis, unfit as was the present moment for any such thoughts. How wasit possible that she should not speculate on the subject, let herresolutions against any such speculation be ever so strong? She hadconfessed to herself that she loved the man, and what else could shewish but that he also should love her? But there came upon her somefaint suspicion--some glimpse of what was almost a dream--that hemight possibly in this matter be guided rather by duty than by love.It might be that he would feel himself constrained to offer his handto her--constrained by the peculiarity of his position towards her.If so--should she discover that such were his motives--there would beno doubt as to the nature of her answer.