Clara began to doubt whether any possible arrangement of the circumstances of her life could be regarded as fortunate. She was very fond, in a different degree and after a different fashion, of both Captain Aylmer and Mr Belton. As regarded both, her position was now exactly what she herself would have wished. The man that she loved was betrothed to her, and the other man, whom she loved indeed also as a brother, was coming to her in that guise with the understanding that that was to be his position. And yet everything was going wrong! Her father, though he did not actually say anything against Captain Aylmer, showed by a hundred little signs, of which he was a skilful master, that the Aylmer alliance was distasteful to him, and that he thought himself to be aggrieved in that his daughter would not marry her cousin; whereas, over at the cottage, there was a still more bitter feeling against Mr Belton a feeling so bitter, that it almost induced Clara to wish that her cousin was not coming to them.

But the cousin did come, and was driven up to the door in the gig from Taunton, just as had been the case on his previous visit. Then, however, he had come in the full daylight, and the hay-carts had been about, and all the prettiness and warmth of summer had been there; now it was mid-winter, and there had been some slight beginnings of snow, and the wind was moaning about the old tower, and the outside of the house looked very unpleasant from the hall-door. As it had become dusk in the afternoon, the old squire had been very careful in his orders as to preparations for Will’s comfort as though Clara would have forgotten all those things in the preoccupation of her mind, caused by the constancy of her thoughts towards Will’s rival. He even went so far as to creep across the upstairs landing-place to see that the fire was lighted in Will’s room, this being the first time that he had left his chamber for many days and bad given special orders as to the food which was to be prepared for Will’s dinner in a very different spirit from that which bad dictated some former orders when Will was about to make his first visit, and when his coming had been regarded by the old man as a heartless, indelicate, and almost hostile proceeding.

‘I wish I could go down to receive him,’ said Mr Amedroz, plaintively. ‘I hope he won’t take it amiss.’

‘You may be sure he won’t do that.’

‘Perhaps I can tomorrow.’

‘Dear papa, you had better not think of it till the weather is milder.’

‘Milder! how is it to get milder at this time of the year?’

‘Of course he’ll come up to you, papa.’

‘He’s very good. I know he’s very good. No one also would do as much.’

Clara understood accurately what all this meant. Of course she was glad that her father should feel so kindly towards her cousin, and think so much of his coming; but every word said by the old man in praise of Will Belton implied an equal amount of dispraise as regarded Captain Aylmer, and contained a reproach against his daughter for having refused the former and accepted the latter.

Clara was in the ball when Belton arrived, and received him as he entered, enveloped in his damp great-coats. ‘It is so good of you to come in such weather,’ she said.

‘Nice seasonable weather, I call it,’ he said. It was the same comfortable, hearty, satisfactory voice which had done so much towards making his way for him on his first arrival at Belton Castle The voices to which Clara was most accustomed were querulous as though the world had been found by the owners of them to be but a bad place. But Belton’s voice seemed to speak of cheery days and happy friends, and a general state of things which made life worth having. Nevertheless, forty-eight hours had not yet passed over his head since he was walking about London in such misery that he had almost cursed the hour in which be was born. His misery still remained with him, as black now as it had been then; and yet his voice was cheery. The sick birds, we are told, creep into holes, that they may die alone and unnoticed; and the wounded beasts hide themselves that their grief may not be seen of their fellows. A man has the same instinct to conceal the weakness of his sufferings; but, if he be a man, he hides it in his own heart, keeping it for solitude and the watches of the night, while to the outer world he carries a face on which his care has made no marks.

‘You will be sorry to hear that papa is too ill to come downstairs.’

‘Is he, indeed? I am truly sorry. I had beard he was ill; but did not know he was so ill as that.’

‘Perhaps he fancies himself weaker than he is.’

‘We must try and cure him of that. I can see him, I hope?’

‘Oh dear, yes. He is most anxious for you to go to him. As soon as ever you can come upstairs I will take you.’ He had already stripped himself of his wrappings, and declaring himself ready, at once followed Clara to the squire’s room.

‘I’m sorry, sir, to find you in this way,’ he said.

‘I’m very poorly, Will very,’ said the squire, putting out his hand as though he were barely able to lift it above his knee. Now it certainly was the fact that half an hour before he had been walking across the passage.

‘We must see if we can’t soon make you better among us,’ said Will.

The squire shook his head with a slow, melancholy movement, not raising his eyes from the ground. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever see me much better, Will,’ he said. And yet half an hour since he had been talking of being down in the dining-room on the next day. ‘I shan’t trouble you much longer,’ said the squire. ‘You’ll soon have it all without paying rent for it.’

This was very unpleasant, and almost frustrated Belton’s attempts to be cheery. But he persevered nevertheless. ‘It’ll be a long time yet before that day comes, sir.’

‘Ah; that’s easily said. But never mind. Why should I want to remain when I shall have once seen her properly settled. I’ve nothing to live for except that she may have a home.’

On this subject it was quite impossible that Belton should say anything. Clara was standing by him, and she, as he knew, was engaged to Captain Aylmer. So circumstanced, what could he say as to Clara’s settlement in life? That something should be said between him and the old man, and something also between him and Clara, was a matter of course; but it was quite out of the question that he should discuss Clara’s prospects in life in presence of them both together.

‘Papa’s illness makes him a little melancholy,’ said Clara.

‘Of course of course. It always does,’ said Will.

‘I think he will be better when the weather becomes milder,’ said Clara.

‘I suppose I may be allowed to know how I feel myself,’ said the squire. ‘But don’t keep Will up here when he wants his dinner. There; that’ll do. You’d better leave me now.’ Then Will went out to his old room, and a quarter of an hour afterwards he found himself seated with Clara at the dinner — table; and a quarter of an hour after that the dinner was over, and they had both drawn their chairs to the fire.

Neither of them knew how to begin with the other. Clara was under no obligation to declare her engagement to her cousin, but yet she felt that it would be unhandsome in her not to do so. Had Will never made the mistake of wanting to marry her himself, she would have done so as a matter of course. Had she supposed him to cherish any intention of renewing that mistake she would have felt herself bound to tell him so that he might save himself from unnecessary pain. But she gave him credit for no such intention, and yet she could not but remember that scene among the rocks. And then was she, or was she not, to say anything to him about the Askertons? With him also the difficulty was as great. He did not in truth believe that the tidings which he had heard from his friend the lawyer required corroboration; but yet it was necessary that he should know from herself that she had disposed of her hand and it was necessary also that he should say some word to her as to their future standing and friendship.

‘You must be very anxious to see how your farm goes on,’ said she.

He had not thought much of his agricultural venture at Belton for the last three or four days, and would hardly have been vexed had he been told that every head of cattle about the place had died of the murrain. Some general idea of the expediency of going on with a thing which he had commenced still actuated him; but it was the principle involved, and not the speculation itself, which interested him. But he could not explain all this, and he therefore was driven to some cold agreement with her. ‘The farm! you mean the stock. Yes; I shall go and have a look at them early tomorrow. I suppose they’re all alive.’

‘Pudge says that they are doing uncommonly well.’ Pudge was a leading man among the Belton labourers, whom Will had hired to look after his concerns.

‘That’s all right. I dare say Pudge knows quite as much about it as I do.’

‘But the master’s eye is everything.’

‘Pudge’s eye is quite as good as mine; and probably much better, as he knows the country.’

‘You used to say that it was everything for a man to look after his own interests.’

‘And I do look after them. Pudge and I will go and have a look at every beast tomorrow, and I shall look very wise and pretend to know more about it than he does. In stock-farming the chief thing is not to have too many beasts. They used to say that half-stocking was whole profit, and. whole — stocking was half profit. If the animals have plenty to eat, and the rent isn’t too high, they’ll take care of. their owner.’

‘But then there is so much illness.’

‘I always insure.’

Clara perceived that the subject of the cattle didn’t suit the present occasion. When he had before been at Belton. he had liked nothing so much as talking about the cattle-sheds, and the land, and the kind of animals which would suit the place; but now the novelty of the thing was gone and the farmer did not wish to talk of his farm. In her anxiety to find a topic which would not be painful, she went from the cattle to the cow. ‘You can’t think what a pet Bess has been with us. And she seems to think that she is privileged to go everywhere, and do anything.’

‘I hope they have taken care that she has had winter food.’

‘Winter food! Why Pudge, and all the Pudges, and all the family in the house, and all your cattle would have to want, before Bessy would be allowed to miss a meal. Pudge always says, with his sententious shake of the head, that the young squire was very particular about Bessy.’

‘Those Alderneys want a little care that’s all.’

Bessy was. of no better service to Clara in her present difficulty than the less aristocratic herd of common cattle. There was a pause for a moment, and then she began again. ‘How did you leave your sister, Will?’

‘Much the same as usual. I think she has borne the first of the cold weather better than she did last year.’

‘I do so wish that I knew her.’

‘Perhaps you will some day. But I don’t suppose that you ever will.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not likely that you’ll ever come to Plaistow now and Mary never leaves it except to go to my uncle’s.’

Clara instantly knew that he had heard of her engagement, though she could not imagine from what source he had heard it. There was something in the tone of his voice something especially in the expression of that word ‘now’, which told her that it must be so. ‘I should be so glad to go there if I could,’ she said, with that special hypocrisy which belongs to women, and is allowed to them; ‘but, of course, I cannot leave papa in his present state.’

‘And if you did leave him you would not go to Plaistow.’

‘Not unless you and Mary asked me.’

‘And you wouldn’t if we did. How could you?’

‘What do you mean, Will? It seems as though you were almost savage to me.’

‘Am I? Well I feel savage, but not to you.’

‘Nor to any one, I hope, belonging to me.’ She knew that it was all coming; that the whole subject of her future life must now be discussed; and she began to fear that the discussion might not be easy. But she did not know how to give it a direction. She feared that he would become angry, and yet she knew not why. He had accepted his own rejection tranquilly, and could hardly take it as an offence that she should now be engaged to Captain Aylmer.

‘Mr Green has told me’, said he, ‘that you are going to be married.’

‘How could Mr Green have known?’

‘He did know at least I suppose he knew, for he told me.’

‘How very odd.’

‘I suppose it is true?’ Clara did not make any immediate answer, and then he repeated the question. ‘I suppose it is true?’

‘It is true that I am engaged.’

‘To Captain Aylmer?’

‘Yes; to Captain Aylmer. You know that I had known him very long. I hope that you are not angry with me because I did not write and tell you. Strange as it may seem, seeing that you had heard it already, it is not a week yet since it was settled; and had I written to you, I could only have addressed my letter to you here.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about that. I didn’t specially want you to write to me. What difference would it make?’

‘But I should have felt that I owed it to your kindness and your regard for me.’

‘My regard! What’s the use of regard?’

‘You are not going to quarrel with me, Will, because because because . If you had really been my brother, as you once said you would be, you could not but have approved of what I have done.’

‘But I am not your brother.’

‘Oh, Will; that s............