In course of post there came an answer from Lady Aylmer, naming a day for Clara’s journey to Yorkshire, and also a letter from Captain Aylmer, in, which he stated that he would meet her in London and convey her down to Aylmer Park. ‘The House is sitting,’ he said, ‘and therefore I shall be a little troubled about my time; but I cannot allow that your first meeting with my mother should take place in my absence.’ This was all very well, but at the end of the letter there was a word of caution that was not so well. ‘I am sure, my dear Clara, that you will remember how much is due to my mother’s age, and character, and position. Nothing will be wanted to the happiness of our marriage, if you can succeed in gaining her affection, and therefore I make it my first request to you, that you should endeavour to win her good opinion.’ There was nothing perhaps really amiss, certainly nothing unreasonable, in such words from a future husband to his future wife; but Clara, as she read them, shook her head and pressed her foot against the ground in anger. It would not do. Sorrow would come and trouble and disappointment. She did not say so, even to herself in words; but the words, though not spoken, were audible enough to herself. She could not, would not, bend to Lady Aylmer, and she knew that trouble would come of this visit.
I fear that many ladies will condemn Miss Amedroz when I tell them that she showed this letter to her Cousin Will. It does not promise well for any of the parties concerned when a young woman with two lovers can bring herself to show the love-letters of him to whom she is engaged to the other lover whom she has refused! But I have two excuses to put forward in Clara’s defence. In the first place, Captain Aylmer’s love-letters were not in truth love-letters, but were letters of business; and in the next place, Clara was teaching herself to regard Will Belton as her brother, and to forget that he had ever assumed the part of a lover.
She was so teaching herself, but I cannot say that the lesson was one easily learned; nor had the outrage upon her of which Will had been guilty, and which was described in the last chapter, made the teaching easier. But she had determined, nevertheless, that it should be so. When she thought of Will her heart would become very soft towards him; and sometimes, when she thought of Captain Aylmer, her heart would become anything but soft towards him. Unloving feelings would be very strong within her bosom as she re-read his letters, and remembered that he had not come to her, but had sent her seventy-five pounds to comfort her in her trouble! Nevertheless, he was to be her husband, and she would do her duty. What might have happened had Will Belton come to Belton Castle before she had known Frederic Aylmer of that she stoutly resolved that she would never think at all; and consequently the thought was always intruding upon her.
‘You will sleep one night in town, of course?’ said Will.
‘I suppose so. You know all about it. I shall do as I’m told.’
‘You can’t go down to Yorkshire from here in one day. Where would you like to stay in London?’
‘How on earth should I know? Ladies do sleep at hotels in London sometimes, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes. I can write and have rooms ready for you.’
‘Then that difficulty is over,’ said Clara.
But in Belton’s estimation the difficulty was not exactly over. Captain Aylmer would, of course, be in London that night, and it was a question with Will whether or no Clara was not bound in honour to tell the accursed beast, I am afraid Mr Belton called him in his soliloquies where she would lodge on the occasion. Or would it suffice that he, Will, should hand her over to the enemy at the station of the Great Northern Railway on the following morning? All the little intricacies of the question presented themselves to Will’s imagination. How careful he would be with her, that the inn accommodation should suffice for her comfort! With what pleasure would he order a little dinner for them two, making something of a gentle f?te of the occasion! How sedulously would he wait upon her with those little attentions, amounting almost to worship, with which such men as Will Belton are prone to treat all women in exceptionable circumstances, when the ordinary routine of life has been disturbed! If she had simply been his cousin, and if he had never regarded her otherwise, how happily could he have done all this! As things now were, if it was left to him to do, he should do it, with what patience and grace might be within his power; he would do it, though he would be mindful every moment of the bitterness of the transfer which he would so soon be obliged to make; but he doubted whether it would not be better for Clara’s sake that the transfer should be made overnight. He would take her up to London, because in that way he could be useful; and then he would go away and hide himself. ‘Has Captain Aylmer said where he would meet you?’ he asked after a pause.
‘Of course I must write and tell him.’
‘And is he to come to you when you reach London?’
‘He has said nothing about that. ‘He will probably be at the House of Commons, or too busy somewhere to come to me then. But why do you ask? Do you wish to hurry through town?’
‘Oh dear, no.’
‘Or perhaps you have friends you want to see. Pray don’t let me be in your way. I shall do very well, you know.’
Belton rebuked her by a look before he answered her. ‘I was only thinking,’ he said, ‘of what would be most convenient for yourself. I have nobody to see, and nothing to do, and nowhere to go to.’ Then Clara understood it all, and said that she would write to Captain Aylmer and ask him, to join them at the hotel.
She determined that she would see Mrs Askerton before she went; and as that lady did not come to the Castle, Clara called upon her at the cottage. This she did the day before she left, and she took her cousin with her. Belton had been at the cottage once or twice since the day on which Mrs Askerton had explained to him how the Aylmer alliance might be extinguished, but Colonel Askerton had always been there, and no reference had been made to the former conversation. Colonel Askerton was not there now, and Belton was almost afraid that words would be spoken to which he would hardly know how to listen.
‘And so you are really going?’ said Mrs Askerton.
‘Yes; we start tomorrow,’ said Clara.
‘I am not thinking of the journey to London,’ said Mrs Askerton, ‘but of the danger and privations of your subsequent progress to the North.’
‘I shall do very well. I am not afraid that any one will eat me.’
‘There are so many different ways of eating people! Are there not, Mr Belton?’
‘I don’t know about eating, but there are a great many ways of boring people,’ said he.
‘And I should think they will be great at that kind of thing at Aylmer Castle. One never hears of Sir Anthony, but I can fancy Lady Aylmer to be a terrible woman.’
‘I shall manage to hold my own, I dare say,’ said Clara.
‘I hope you will; I do hope you will,’ said Mrs Askerton. ‘I don’t know whether you will be powerful to do so, or whether you will fail; my heart is not absolute; but I do know what will be the result if you are successful.’
‘It is much more then than I know myself.’
‘That I can believe too. Do you travel down to Yorkshire alone?’
‘No; Captain Aylmer will meet me in town.’
Then Mrs Askerton looked at Mr Belton, but made no immediate reply; nor did she say anything further about Clara’s journey. She looked at Mr Belton, and Will caught her eye, and understood that he was being rebuked for not having carried out that little scheme which, had been prepared for him. But he had come to hate the scheme, and almost hated Mrs Askerton for proposing it. He had declared to himself that her welfare, Clara’s welfare, was the one thing which the should regard; and he had told himself that he was not strong enough, either in purpose or in wit, to devise schemes for her welfare. She was better able to manage things for herself than he was to manage them for her. If she loved this ‘accursed beast,’ let her marry him; only for that was now his one difficulty only he could not bring himself to think it possible that she should love him.
‘I suppose you will never see this place again?’ said Mrs Askerton after a long pause.
‘I hope I shall, very often,’ said Clara. ‘Why should I not see it again? It is not going out of the family.’
‘No not exactly out of the family. That is, it will belong to your cousin.’
‘And cousins may be as far apart as strangers, you mean; but Will and I are not like that; are we, Will?’
‘I hardly know what we are like,’ said he.
‘You do not mean to say that you will throw me over? But the truth is, Mrs Askerton, that I do not mean to be thrown over. I look upon him as my brother, and I intend to cling to him as sisters do cling.’
‘You will hardly come back here before you are married,’ said Mrs Askerton. It was a terrible speech for her to make, and could only be excused on the ground that the speaker was in truth desirous of doing that which she thought would benefit both of those whom she addressed.
‘Of course you are going to your wedding now?’
‘I am doing nothing of the kind,’ said Clara. ‘How can you speak in that way to me so soon after my father’s death? It is a rebuke to me for being here at all.’
‘I intend no rebuke, as you well know. What I mean is this; if you do not stay in Yorkshire till you are married, let the time be when it may, where do you intend to go in the meantime?’
‘My plans are not settled yet.’
‘She will have this house if she pleases,’ said Will. ‘There will be no one else here. It will be her own, to do as she likes with it.’
‘She will hardly come here to be alone.’
‘I will not be inquired into, my dear,’ said Clara, speaking with restored good-humour. ‘Of course I am an unprotected female, and subject to disadvantages. Perhaps I have no plans for the future; and if I have plans, perhaps I do not mean to divulge them.’
‘I had better come to the point at once,’ said Mrs Askerton. ‘If if if it should ever suit you, pray come here to us. Flowers shall not be more welcome in May. It is difficult to speak of it all, though you both understand everything as well as I do. I cannot press my invitation as another woman might.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Clara with energy. ‘Of course you can.’
‘Can I? Then I do. Dear Clara, do come to us.’ And then as she spoke Mrs Askerton knelt on the ground at her visitor’s knees. ‘Mr Belton, do tell her that when she is tired with the grandeur of Aylmer Park she may come to us here.’
‘I don’t know anything about the grandeur of Aylmer Park,’ said Will, suddenly.
‘But she may come here may she not?’
‘She will not ask my leave,’ said he.
‘She says that you are her brother. Whose leave should she ask?’
‘He knows that I should ask his rather than that of any living person,’ said Clara.
‘There, Mr Belton. Now you must say that she may come or that she may not.’
‘I will say nothing. She knows what to do much better than I can tell her.’
Mrs Askerton was still kneeling, and again appealed to Clara. ‘You hear what he says. What do you say yourself? Will you come to us? that is, if such a visit will suit you in point of convenience?’
‘I will make no promise; but I know no reason why I should not.’
‘And I must be content with that? Well: I will be content.’ Then she got up. ‘For such a one as I am, that is a great deal. And, Mr Belton, let me tell you this I can be grateful to you, though you cannot be gracious to me.’
‘I hope I have not been ungracious,’ said he.
‘Upon my word, I cannot compliment you. But there is something so much better than grace, that I can forgive you. You know, at any rate, how thoroughly I wish you well.’
Upon this Clara got up to take her leave, and the demonstrative affection of an embrace between the two women afforded a remedy for the awkwardness of the previous conversation.
‘God bless you, dearest,’ said Mrs Askerton. ‘May I write to you?’
‘Certainly,’ said Clara.
‘And you will answer my letters?’
‘Of course I will. You must tell me everything about the place and especially as to Bessy. Bessy is never to be sold is she, Will? Bessy was the cow which Belton had given her.
‘Not if you choose to keep her.’
‘I will go down and see to her myself,’ said Mrs Askerton, and will utter little prayers of my own over her horns that certain events that I desire may come to pass. Good-bye, Mr Belton. You may be as ungracious as you please, but it will not make any difference.’
When Clara and her cousin left the cottage they did not return to the house immediately, but took a last walk round the park, and through the shrubbery, and up to the rocks on which a remarkable scene bad once taken place between them. Few words were spoken as they were walking, and there had been no agreement as to the path they would take. Each seemed to understand that there was much of melancholy in their present mood, and that silence was more fitting than speech. But when they reached the rocks Belton sat himself down, asking Clara’s leave to stop there for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose I shall ever come to this place again,’ said he.
‘You are as bad as Mrs Askerton,’ said Clara.
‘I do not think I shall ever come to this place again,’ said he, repeating his words very solemnly. At any rate, I will never do so willingly, unless’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless you are either my wife, or have promised to become so.’
‘Oh, Will; you know that that is impossible.’
‘Then it is impossible that I should come here again.’
‘You know that I am engaged to another man.’
‘Of course I do. I am not asking you to break your engagement. I am simply telling you that in spite of that engagement I love you as well as I did love you before you had made it. I have a right to let you know the truth.’ As if she had not known it without his telling it to her now! ‘It was here that I told you that I loved you. I now repeat it here; and ............