The death of the old man at Belton Castle had been very sudden. At three o’clock in the morning Clara had been called into his room, and at five o’clock she was alone in the world having neither father, mother, nor brother; without a home, without a shilling that she could call her own with no hope as to her future life, if as she had so much reason to suppose Captain Aylmer should have chosen to accept her last letter as a ground for permanent separation. But at this moment, on this saddest morning, she did not care much for that chance. It seemed to be almost indifferent to her, that question of Lady Aylmer and her anger. The more that she was absolutely in need of external friendship, the more disposed was she to reject it, and to declare to herself that she was prepared to stand alone in the world.

For the last week she had understood from the doctor that her father was in truth sinking, and that she might hardly hope ever to see him again convalescent. She had therefore in some sort prepared herself for her loneliness, and anticipated the misery of her position. As soon as it was known to the women in the room that life had left the old man, one of them had taken her by the hand and led her back to her own chamber. ‘Now, Miss Clara, you had better lie down on the bed again you had indeed; you can do nothing sitting up.’ She took the old woman’s advice, and allowed them to do with her as they would. It was true that there was no longer any work by which she could make herself useful in that house in that house, or, as far as she could see, in any other. Yes; she would go to bed, and lying there would feel how convenient it would be for many persons if she also could be taken away to her long rest, as her father, and aunt, and brother had been taken before her.

Her name and family had been unfortunate, and it would be well that there should be no Amedroz left to trouble those more fortunate persons who were to come after them. In her sorrow and bitterness she included both her Cousin Will and Captain Aylmer among those more fortunate ones for whose sake it might be well that she should be made to vanish from off the earth. She had read Captain Aylmer’s letter over and over again since she had answered it, and had read nearly as often the copy of her own reply and had told herself, as she read them, that of course he would not forgive her. He might perhaps pardon her, if she would submit to him in everything; but that she would not submit to his commands respecting Mrs Askerton she was fully resolved and, therefore, there could be no hope. Then, when she remembered how lately her dear father’s spirit had fled, she hated herself for having allowed her mind to dwell on any. thing beyond her loss of him.

She was still in her bedroom, having fallen into that half-waking slumber which the numbness of sorrow so often produces, when word was brought to her that Mrs Askerton was in the house. It was the first time that Mrs Askerton had ever crossed the door, and the remembrance that it was so came upon her at once. During her father’s lifetime it had seemed to be understood that their neighbour should have no admittance there but now now that her father was gone the barrier was to be overthrown. And why not? Why should not Mrs Askerton come to her? Why, if Mrs Askerton chose to be kind to her, should she not altogether throw herself into her friend’s arms? Of course her doing so would give mortal offence to everybody at Aylmer Park; but why need she stop to think of that? She had already made up her mind that she would not obey orders from Aylmer Park on this subject.

She had not seen Mrs Askerton since that interview between them which was described some few chapters back. Then everything had been told between them, so that there was no longer any mystery either on the one side or on the other. Then Clara had assured her friend of her loving friendship in spite of any edicts to the contrary which might come from Aylmer Park; and after that what could be more natural than that Mrs Askerton should come to her in her sorrow? ‘She says she’ll come up to you if you’ll let her,’ said the servant. But Clara declined this proposition, and in a few minutes went down to the small parlour in which she had lately lived, and where she found her visitor.

‘My poor dear, this has been very sudden,’ said Mrs Askerton.

‘Very sudden very sudden. And yet, now that he has gone, I know that I expected it.’

‘Of course I came to you as soon as I heard of it, because I knew you were all alone. If there had been any one else I should not have come.’

‘It is very good of you.’

‘Colonel Askerton thought that perhaps he had better come. I told him of all that which we said to each other the other day. He thought at first that it would be better that I should not see you.’

‘It was very good of you to come,’ said Clara again, and as she spoke she put out her hand and took Mrs Askerton’s continuing to hold it for awhile; ‘very good indeed.’

‘I told him that I could not but go down to you that I thought you would not understand it if I stayed away.’

‘At any rate it was good of you to come to me.’

‘I don’t believe,’ said Mrs Askerton, ‘that what people call consolation is ever of any use. It is a terrible thing to lose a father.’

‘Very terrible. Ah, dear, I have hardly yet found out how sad it is. As yet I have only been thinking of myself, and wishing that I could be with him.’

‘Nay, Clara.’

‘How can I help it? What am I to do? Or where am I to go? Of what use is life to such a one as me? And for him who would dare to wish him back again? When people have fallen and gone down in the world, it is bad for them to go on living. Everything is a trouble, and there is nothing but vexation.’

‘Think what I have suffered, dear.’

‘But you have had somebody to care for you somebody whom you could trust.’

‘And have not you?’

‘No; no one.’

‘What do you mean, Clara?’

‘I mean what I say. I have no one. It is no use asking questions not now, at such a time as this. And I did not mean to complain. Complaining is weak and foolish. I have often told myself that I could bear anything, and so I will. When I can bring myself to think of what I have lost in my father I shall be better, even though I shall be more sorrowful. As it is, I hate myself for being so selfish.’

‘You will let me come and stay with you today, will you not?’

‘No, dear; not today.’

‘Why not today, Clara?’

‘I shall be better alone. I have so many things to think of.’

‘I know well that it would be better that you should not be alone much better. But I will not press it. I cannot insist with you as another woman would.’

‘You are wrong there; quite wrong. I would be led by you sooner than by any woman living. What other woman is there to whom I would listen for a moment?’ As she said this, even in the depth of her sorrow she thought of Lady Aylmer, and strengthened herself in her resolution to rebel against her lover’s mother. Then she continued, ‘I wish I knew my Cousin Mary Mary Bolton; but I have never seen her.’

‘Is she nice?

‘So Will tells me; and I know that what he says must be true even about his sister.’

‘Will, Will! You are always thinking of your Cousin Will. If he be really so good he will show it now.’

‘How can he show it? What can he do?’

‘Does he not inherit all the property?’

‘Of course he does. And what of that? When I say that I have no friend I am not thinking of my poverty.’

‘If he has that regard for you which he pretends, he can do much to assist you. Why should he not come here at once?’

‘God forbid.’

‘Why? Why do you say so? He is your nearest relative.’

‘If you do not understand I cannot explain.’

‘Has he been told what has happened?’ Mrs Askerton asked.

‘Colonel Askerton sent a message to him, I believe.’

‘And to Captain Aylmer also?’

‘Yes; and to Captain Aylmer. It was Colonel Askerton who sent it.’

‘Then he will come, of course.’

‘I think not. Why should he come? He did not even know poor papa.’

‘But, my dear Clara, has he not known you?’

‘You will see that he will not come. And I tell you beforehand that he will be right to stay away. Indeed, I do not know how he could come and I do not want him here.’

‘I cannot understand you, Clara.’

‘I suppose not. I cannot very well understand myself.’

‘I should not be at all surprised if Lady Aylmer were to come herself.’

‘Oh, heavens! How little you can know of Lady Aylmer’s position and character!’

‘But if she is to be your mother-inlaw?’

‘And even if she were! The idea of Lady Aylmer coming away from Aylmer Park all the way from Yorkshire, to such a house as this! If they told me that the Queen was coming it would hardly disconcert me more. But, dear, there is no danger of that at least.’

‘I do not know what may have passed between you and him; but unless there has been some quarrel he will come. That is, he will do so if he is at all like any men whom I have known.’

‘He will not come.’

Then Mrs Askerton made some half-whispered offers of services to be rendered by Colonel Askerton, and soon afterwards took her leave, having first asked permission to come again in the afternoon, and when that was declined, having promised to return on the following morning. As she walked back to the cottage she could not but think more of Clara’s engagement to Captain Aylmer than she did of the squire’s death. As regarded herself, of course she could not grieve for Mr Amedroz; and as regarded Clara, Clara’s father had for some time past been apparently so insignificant, even in his own house, that it was difficult to acknowledge the fact that the death of such a one as he might leave a great blank in the world. But what had Clara meant by declaring so emphatically that Captain Aylmer would not visit Belton, and by speaking of herself as one who had neither position nor friends in the world? If there had been a quarrel, indeed, then it was sufficiently intelligible and if there was any such quarrel, from what source must it have arisen? Mrs Askerton felt the blood rise to her cheeks as she thought of this, and told herself that there could be b............