The Belton Estate

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXII.

  PASSIONATE PLEADING.

  Clara wrote her letter to the lawyer, returning the cheque, beforeshe would allow herself a moment to dwell upon the news of hercousin's arrival. She felt that it was necessary to do that beforeshe should even see her cousin,--thus providing against anydifficulty which might arise from adverse advice on his part; and assoon as the letter was written she sent it to the post-office in thevillage. She would do almost anything that Will might tell her to do,but Captain Aylmer's money she would not take, even though Will mightso direct her. They would tell her, no doubt, among them, that themoney was her own,--that she might take it without owing any thanksfor it to Captain Aylmer. But she knew better than that,--as shetold herself over and over again. Her aunt had left her nothing, andnothing would she have from Captain Aylmer,--unless she had all thatCaptain Aylmer had to give, after the fashion in which women bestlove to take such gifts.

  Then, when she had done that, she was able to think of her cousin'svisit. "I knew he would come," she said to herself, as she satherself in one of the old chairs in the hall, with a large shawlwrapped round her shoulders. She had just been to the front door,with the nominal purpose of despatching her messenger thence to thepost-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 hearthe sound of his gig. But she saw nothing and heard nothing, and soreturned into the hall, slowly shutting the door. "I knew that hewould come," she said, repeating to herself the same words, over andover again. Yet when Mrs. Askerton had told her that he would do thisthing which he had now done, she had expressed herself as almostfrightened by the idea. "God forbid," she had said. Nevertheless nowthat he was there at Redicote, she assured herself that his comingwas a thing of which she had been certain; and she took a joy in theknowledge of his nearness to her which she did not attempt to defineto herself. Had he not said that he would be a brother to her, andwas it not a brother's part to go to a sister in affliction? "I knewthat he would come. I was sure of it. He is so true." As to CaptainAylmer's not coming she said nothing, even to herself; but she feltthat she had been equally sure on that subject. Of course, CaptainAylmer would not come! He had sent her seventy-five pounds in lieuof coming, and in doing so was true to his character. Both men weredoing exactly that which was to have been expected of them. So atleast Clara Amedroz now assured herself. She did not ask herself howit was that she had come to love the thinner and the meaner of thetwo men, but she knew well that such had been her fate.

  On a sudden she rose from her chair, as though remembering a duty tobe performed, and went to the kitchen and directed that breakfastmight be got ready for Mr. Belton. He would have travelled allnight,--and would be in want of food. Since the old squire's deaththere had been no regular meal served in the house, and Clara hadtaken such scraps of food and cups of tea as the old servant of thehouse had brought to her. But now the cloth must be spread again,and as she did this with her own hands she remembered the dinnerswhich had been prepared for Captain Aylmer at Perivale after hisaunt's death. It seemed to her that she was used to be in the housewith death, and that the sadness and solemn ceremonies of woe werebecoming things familiar to her. There grew upon her a feeling thatit must be so with her always. The circumstances of her life wouldever be sad. What right had she to expect any other fate after sucha catastrophe as that which her brother had brought upon the family?It was clear to her that she had done wrong in supposing that shecould marry and live with a prosperous man of the world like CaptainAylmer. Their natures were different, and no such union could lead toany good. So she told herself, with much misery of spirit, as she waspreparing the breakfast-table for William Belton.

  But William Belton did not come to eat the breakfast. He got what hewanted 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 incoming to a house at which he probably might not be wanted? Wouldit not be thought that his journey had been made solely with a viewto his own property? He would be regarded as the heir pouncing uponthe inheritance before as yet the old owner was under the ground. Atany 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 employedby him about the place at Belton. The carpenter spoke to him asthough everything were his own, and was very intent upon futureimprovements. This made Will more disgusted with himself than ever,and before he could get out of the carpenter's yard he thoroughlywished himself back at Plaistow. But having come so far, he couldhardly return without seeing his cousin, and at last he had himselfdriven over, reaching the house between eleven and twelve o'clock inthe day.

  Clara met him in the hall, and at once led him into the room whichshe had prepared for him. He had given her his hand in the hall, butdid not speak to her till she had spoken to him after the closing ofthe 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 wasbest. Now I am here I shall only be in your way." He did not dare topress 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 havebreakfast;--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 inher eyes, and at the sight of them both his own were filled. Howwas he to stand it? To take her to his bosom and hold her there foralways; to wipe away her tears so that she should weep no more; todevote himself and all his energy and all that was his to comforther,--this he could have done; but he knew not how to do anythingshort of this. Every word that she spoke to him was an encouragementto this, and yet he knew that it could not be so. To say a word ofhis love, or even to look it, would now be an unmanly insult. Andyet, how was he not to look it,--not to speak of it? "It is such acomfort 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 hesuffer much, Clara?"

  "No, I think not; very little. He sank at last quicker than Iexpected, but just as I thought he would go. He used to speak of youso often, and always with regard and esteem!"

  "Dear old man!"

  "Yes, Will; he was, in spite of his little faults. No father everloved his daughter better than he loved me."

  After a while the servant brought in the tea, explaining to Beltonthat Miss Clara had neither eaten nor drank that morning. "Shewouldn't take anything till you came, sir." Then Will added hisentreaties, and Clara was persuaded, and by degrees there grewbetween them more ease of manner and capability for talking than hadbeen within their reach when they first met. And during the morningmany things were explained, as to which Clara would a few hourspreviously have thought it to be almost impossible that she shouldspeak to her cousin. She had told him of her aunt's money, and theway in which she had on that very morning sent back the cheque to thelawyer; 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 onemost difficult of discussion; and he blushed and fidgeted in hischair, and walked about the room, and found himself unable to lookClara in the face as she spoke to him. But she went on, goading himwith the name, which of all names was the most distasteful to him;and mentioning that name almost in terms of reproach,--of reproachwhich he felt it would be ungenerous to reciprocate, but which hewould have exaggerated to unmeasured abuse if he had given his tonguelicence to speak his mind.

  "I was right to send back the money;--wasn't I, Will? Say that I wasright. 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 m
oneyfrom 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 reflectedthat Clara must, after all, depend entirely on the generosity ofsome one till she was married; and he wanted to explain to her thateverything he had in the world was at her service,--was indeed herown. Or he would have explained, if he knew how, that he did notintend to take advantage of the entail,--that the Belton estateshould belong to her as the natural heir of her father. But heconceived that the moment for explaining this had hardly as yetarrived, and that he had better confine himself to some attempt atteaching her that no extraneous assistance would be necessary to her."In money matters," said he, "of course you are to look to me. Thatis a matter of course. I'll see Green about the other affairs. Greenand 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 hasto 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 yourbrother, and as such I mean to act." The word almost stuck in histhroat, but he brought it out at last in a fierce tone, of which sheunderstood accurately the cause and meaning. "All money matters aboutthe 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." Surelythis was malice prepense! Knowing what was his want, how could sheexasperate it by talking thus of her own? "As for money, I have noclaim on any one. No creature was ever more forlorn. But I will nottalk 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 signof leaving her, and when he did so he had to explain somethingof his plans. He would remain, he said, for about a week in theneighbourhood. She of course was obliged to ask him to stay at thehouse,--at the house which was in fact his own; but he declined to dothis, blurting out his reason at last very plainly. "Captain Aylmerwould not like it, and I suppose you are bound to think of what helikes and dislikes." "I don't know what right Captain Aylmer wouldhave to dislike any such thing," said Clara. But, nevertheless,she allowed the reason to pass as current, and did not press herinvitation. Will declared that he would stay at the inn at Redicote,striving to explain in some very unintelligible manner that such anarrangement would be very convenient. He would remain at Redicote,and would come over to Belton every day during his sojourn in thecountry. Then he asked one question in a low whisper as to the lastsad ceremony, and, having received an answer, started off with thedeclared intention of calling on Colonel Askerton.

  The next two or three days passed uncomfortably enough with WillBelton. He made his head-quarters at the little inn of Redicote, anddrove himself backwards and forwards between that place and theestate which was now his own. On each of these days he saw ColonelAskerton, whom he found to be a civil pleasant man, willing enough torid himself of the unpleasant task he had undertaken, but at the sametime, willing also to continue his services if any further serviceswere required of him. But of Mrs. Askerton on these occasions Willsaw nothing, nor had he ever spoken to her since the time of hisfirst visit to the Castle. Then came the day of the funeral, andafter 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, norwas there anything belonging to him at the time of his death that hecould bequeath. The furniture in the house, the worn-out carpets andold-fashioned chairs, belonged to Clara; but, beyond that, propertyhad she none, nor had it been in her father's power to endow her withanything. She was alone in the world, penniless, with a convictionon her own mind that her engagement with Frederic Aylmer must ofnecessity come to an end, and with a feeling about her cousin whichshe could hardly analyse, but which told her that she could not go tohis house in Norfolk, nor live with him at Belton Castle, nor trustherself 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, shebrought to him a letter, asking him to read it, and tell her whatshe should do. The letter was from Lady Aylmer, and contained aninvitation to Aylmer Castle. It had been accompanied, as the readermay possibly remember, by a letter from Captain Aylmer himself. Ofthis she of course informed her cousin; but she did not find it to benecessary to show the letter of one rival to the other. Lady Aylmer'sletter was cold in its expression of welcome, but very dictatorialin pointing out the absolute necessity that Clara should accept theinvitation so given. "I think you will not fail to agree with me,dear Miss Amedroz," the letter said, "that under these strange andperplexing circumstances, this is the only roof which can, withany propriety, afford you a shelter." "And why not the poor-house?"she said, aloud to her cousin, when she perceived that his eye haddescended so far on the page. He shook his head angrily, but saidnothing; and when he had finished the letter he folded it and gave itback still in silence. "And what am I to do?" she said. "You tell methat 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 submitonly 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 heanswered: "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 insuch a strait? If you had a sister, who came to you, and told you allher difficulty, you would advise her. You would not say words to makethings 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 youhalf 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. Butbefore he had half gone down the stairs he remembered the ceremonyat which he had just been present, and how desolate she was in theworld, 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 youon such a day as this. If I were you I should accept Lady Aylmer'sinvitation,--merely thanking her for it in the ordinary way. I shouldthen go and see how the land lay. That is the advice I should give mysister."

  "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 BeltonCastle, from which no one can turn you out, and where no one canintrude on you. This house belongs to you." Then, before she couldanswer him, he had left the room; and she listened to his heavy quickfootsteps as he went across the hall and out of the front door.

  He walked across the park and entered the little gate of ColonelAskerton's garden, as though it were his habit to go to the cottagewhen he was at Belton. There had been various matters on which thetwo men had been brought into contact concerning the old squire'sdeath and the tenancy of the cottage, so that they had become almostintimate. Belton had nothing new that he special
ly desired to say toColonel Askerton, whom, indeed, he had seen only a short time beforeat the funeral; but he wanted the relief of speaking to some onebefore he returned to the solitude of the inn at Redicote. On thisoccasion, however, the Colonel was out, and the maid asked him if hewould see Mrs. Askerton. When he said something about not troublingher, the girl told him that her mistress wished to speak to him, andthen he had no alternative but to allow himself to be shown into thedrawing-room.

  "I want to see you a minute," said Mrs. Askerton, bowing to himwithout putting out her hand, "that I might ask you how you find yourcousin."

  "She is pretty well, I think."

  "Colonel Askerton has seen more of her than I have since her father'sdeath, and he says that she does not bear it well. He thinks that sheis 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. Ihope you will excuse me, Mr. Belton, but I love her so well that Icannot bear to be quite in the dark as to her future. Is anythingsettled 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 daresay it is the best thing she could do. She seemed to me to dislikethe Aylmers,--that is, Lady Aylmer,--so much! But I suppose she isright?"

  "She is right to go if she likes it."

  "She is circumstanced so cruelly! Is she not? Where else could shego? 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,--butthat I do not dare to ask her to come to us." She said this in a lowvoice, turning her eyes away from him, looking first upon the ground,and then again up at the window,--but still not daring to meet hiseye.

  "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 satsilent for awhile, thinking, and she waited patiently for his answer.But she spoke again before he answered her. "I am well aware that youknow all my history, Mr. Belton."

  "I shouldn't tell it her, if you mean that, though she were mysister. 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 itall as well as you do."

  "I did not tell her."

  "Nor did I;--but I should have done so had not Captain Aylmer beenbefore 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 ownas any woman in the land. Belton Castle is hers, to do what she mayplease with it. She can live here if she likes it, and nobody can saya 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 cantell 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 throwsherself away altogether. You would not wish your cousin to marry aman whom she does not love because at one time she had come to thinkthat she loved him. That is the truth of it, Mr. Belton. If she goesto Aylmer Castle she will marry him,--and she will be an unhappywoman always afterwards. If you would sanction her coming here fora few days, I think all that would be cured. She would come in amoment, if you advised her."

  Then he went away, allowing himself to make no further answer at themoment, and discussed the matter with himself as he walked back toRedicote, meditating on it with all his mind, and all his heart,and all his strength. And, as he meditated, it came on to rainbitterly,--a cold piercing February rain,--and the darkness of nightcame upon him, and he floundered on through the thick mud of theSomersetshire lanes, unconscious of the weather and of the darkness.There was a way open to him by which he might even yet get what hewanted. He thought he saw that there was a way open to him throughthe policy of this woman, whom he perceived to have become friendlyto him. He saw, or thought that he saw, it all. No day had absolutelybeen fixed for this journey to Yorkshire; and if Clara were inducedto go first to the cottage, and stay there with Mrs. Askerton, nosuch journey might ever be taken. He could well understand thatsuch a visit on her part would give a mortal offence to all theAylmers. That tyranny of which Clara spoke with so much dread wouldbe exhibited then without reserve, and so there would be an endaltogether of the Aylmer alliance. But were she once to start forAylmer Park, then there would be no hope for him. Then her fate wouldbe decided,--and his. As far as he could see, too,--as far as hecould see then, there would be no dishonesty in this plan. Why shouldClara not go to Mrs. Askerton's house? What could be more naturalthan such a visit at such a time? If she were in truth his sisterhe would not interfere to prevent it if she wished it. He had toldhimself that the woman should be forgiven her offence, and hadthought that that forgiveness should be complete. If the Aylmerswere so unreasonable as to quarrel with her on this ground, letthem quarrel with her. Mrs. Askerton had told him that Clara didnot really like Captain Aylmer. Perhaps it was so; and if so, whatgreater kindness could he do her than give her an opportunity forescaping such a union?

  The whole of the next day he remained at Redicote, thinking,doubting, striving to reconcile his wishes and his honesty. It rainedall day, and as he sat alone, smoking in the comfortless inn, hetold himself that the rain was keeping him;--but in truth it was notthe rain. Had he resolved to do his best to prevent this visit toYorkshire, or had he resolved to further it, I think he would havegone to Belton without much fear of the rain. On the second day afterthe funeral he did go, and he had then made up his mind. Clara,if she would listen to him, should show her independence of LadyAylmer by staying a few days with the Askertons before she went toYorkshire, and by telling Lady Aylmer that such was her intention."If she really loves the man," he said to himself, "she will go atonce, in spite of anything that I can say. If she does not, I shallbe saving her."

  "How cruel of you not to come yesterday!" Clara said, as soon as shesaw him.

  "It rained hard," he answered.

  "But men like you care so little for rain; but that is when you havebusiness 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 whenI think of you it seems that you are an embodiment of prosperity andhappiness."

  "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 tillI 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 herselfwilling to accept Lady Aylmer's invitation, and asked her ladyship tofix 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 hisown as he spoke. There was wantin
g to it that tone of self-assurancewhich his voice almost always possessed, even when self-assurance waslacking 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 weekor 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 foryou,--without thinking of myself;--without thinking of myself, if Icould only help it."

  "I have never doubted you. I never will doubt you. I believe in younext to my God. I do, Will; I do." He walked up and down the roomhalf-a-dozen times before he spoke again, while she stood by thetable watching him. "I wish," she said, "I knew what it is thattroubles you." To this he made no answer, but went on walking tillshe came up to him, and putting both her hands upon his arm said, "Itwill 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 hiswalk and looked down upon her, as her hands still rested upon hisshoulder. He gazed upon her for some few seconds, remaining quitemotionless, and then, opening his arms, he surrounded her with hisembrace, and pressing her with all his strength close to his bosom,kissed her forehead, and her cheeks, and her lips, and her eyes. Hiswill was so masterful, his strength so great, and his motion soquick, that she was powerless to escape from him till he relaxed hishold. Indeed she hardly struggled, so much was she surprised and sosoon released. But the moment that he left her he saw that her facewas burning red, and that the tears were streaming from her eyes. Shestood for a moment trembling, with her hands clenched, and with alook 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, sobbedaloud, while her whole body was shaken as with convulsions. He leanedover 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 herfor ever,--past redemption. What could be the use now of any scheme?And as he stood there he hated himself because of his scheme. Theutter misery and disgrace of the present moment had come upon himbecause he had thought more of himself than of her. It was but a fewmoments since she had told him that she trusted him next to her God;and yet, in those few moments, he had shown himself utterly unworthyof that trust, and had destroyed all her confidence. But he could notleave her without speaking to her. "Clara!" he said;--"Clara." Butshe did not answer him. "Clara; will you not speak to me? Will younot let me ask you to forgive me?" But still she only sobbed. Forher, 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 suchpassionate love?

  But he could not continue to stand there motionless, all butspeechless, while she lay with her face turned away from him. He mustat any rate in some manner take himself away out of the room; andthis he could not do, even in his present condition of unlimiteddisgrace, without a word of farewell. "Perhaps I had better go andleave 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 faceher mouth had been full of scorn, but there was no scorn now in hervoice. "Why--why--why?"

  Why indeed;--except that it was needful for him that she should knowthe depth of his passion. "If you will forgive me, Clara, I will notoffend you so again," he said.

  "You have offended me. What am I to say? What am I to do? I have noother 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 shehad preached to him a solemn, sweet sermon on the wickedness ofyielding to momentary impulses. Her low, grave words sank into hisears 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 hersin would be if she were to permit it, he sat by her weeping like aninfant, tears which were certainly tears of innocence. She had beenvery angry with him; but I think she loved him better when her sermonwas finished, than she had ever loved him before.

  There was no further question as to her going to Aylmer Castle, norwas any mention made of Mrs. Askerton's invitation to the cottage.The letter for Lady Aylmer was sent, and it was agreed between themthat Will should remain at Redicote till the answer from Yorkshireshould come, and should then convey Clara as far as London on herjourney. And when he took leave of her that afternoon, she was ableto give him her hand in her old hearty, loving way, and to call himWill with the old hearty, loving tone. And he,--he was able to acceptthese tokens of her graciousness, as though they were signs of apardon which she had been good to give, but which he certainly hadnot deserved.

  As he went back to Redicote, he swore to himself that he would neverlove any woman but her,--even though she must be the wife of CaptainAylmer.