But why should she not accept the offer made to her? Captain Aylmer declared that he had determined to ask her to be his wife before he had made any promise to Mrs Winterfield. If this were in truth so, then the very ground on which she had separated herself from him would be removed. Why should she hesitate in acknowledging to herself that she loved the man and believed him to be true? So she sat herself down and answered both the letters writing to the lawyer first. To him she said that nothing need be done about the money or the interest till he should see or hear from Captain Aylmer again. Then to Captain Aylmer she wrote very shortly, but very openly with the same ill-judged candour which her spoken words to him had displayed. Of course she would be his; his without hesitation, now that she knew that he expressed his own wishes, and not merely those of his aunt. 'As to the money,' she said, 'it would be simply nonsense now for us to have any talk of money. It is yours in any way, and you had better manage about it as you please. I have written an ambiguous letter to Mr Green, which will simply plague him, and which you may go and see if you like.' Then she added her postscript, in which she said that she should now at once tell her father, as the news would remove from his mind all solicitude as to her future position. That Captain Aylmer did go to Mr Green we already know, and we know also that he told Mr Green of his intended marriage.

Nothing was said by Captain Aylmer as to any proposed period for their marriage; but that was only natural. It was not probable that any man would name a day till he knew whether or not he was accepted. Indeed, Clara, on thinking over the whole affair, was now disposed to find fault rather with herself than with her lover, and forgetting his coldness and formality at Perivale, remembered only the fact of his offer to her, and his assurance now received that he had intended to make it before the scene which had taken place between him and his aunt. She did find fault with herself, telling herself that she had quarrelled with him without sufficient cause and the eager loving candour of her letter to him was attributable to those self-accusations.

'Papa,' she said, after the postman had gone away from Belton, so that there might be no possibility of any recall of her letter, 'I have something to tell you which I hope will give you pleasure.'

'It isn't often that I hear anything of that kind,' said he.

'But I think that this will give you pleasure. I do indeed. I am going to be married.'

'Going to what?'

'Going to be married, papa. That is, if I have your leave. Of course any offer of that kind that I have accepted is subject to your approval.'

'And I have been told nothing about it!'

'It began at Perivale, and I could not tell you then. You do not ask me who is to be my husband.'

'It is not Will Belton?'

'Poor Will! No; it is not Will. It is Frederic Aylmer. I think you would prefer him as a son-in-law even to my Cousin Will.'

'No I shouldn't. Why should I prefer a man whom I don't even know, who lives in London, and who will take you away, so that I shall never see you again?'

'Dear papa;—don't speak of it in that way. I thought you would be glad to know that I was to be so—so—so happy.'

'But why is it to be done this way,—of a sudden? Why didn't he come to me? Will came to me the very first thing.'

'He couldn't come all the way to Belton very well particularly as he does not know you.'

'Will came here.'

'Oh, papa, don't make difficulties. Of course that was different. He was here when he first thought of it. And even then he didn't think very much about it.'

'He did all that he could, I suppose?'

'Well yes. I don't know how that might be.' And Clara almost laughed as she felt the difficulties into which she was creeping. 'Dear Will. He is much better as a cousin than as a husband.'

'I don't see that at all. Captain Aylmer will not have the Belton estate or Plaistow Hall.'

'Surely he is well enough off to take care of a wife. He will have the whole of the Perivale estate, you know.'

'I don't know anything about it. According to my ideas of what is proper he should have spoken to me first. If he could not come he might have written. No doubt my ideas may be old-fashioned, and I'm told that Captain Aylmer is a fashionable young man.'

'Indeed he is not, papa. He is a hard-working Member of Parliament.'

'I don't know that he is any better for that. People seem to think that if a man is a Member of Parliament he may do what he pleases. There is Thompson, the Member for Minehead, who has bought some sort of place out by the moors. I never saw so vulgar, pigheaded a fellow in my life. Being in Parliament used to be something when I was young, but it won't make a man a gentleman now-a-days. It seems to me that none but brewers, and tallow-chandlers, and lawyers go into Parliament now. Will Belton could go into Parliament if he pleased, but he knows better than that. He won't make himself such a fool.'

This was not comfortable to Clara; but she knew her father, and allowed him to go on with his grumbling. He would come round by degrees, and he would appreciate, if he could not be induced to acknowledge, the wisdom of the step she was about to take.

'When is it to be?' he asked.

'Nothing of that kind has ever been mentioned, papa.'

'It had better be soon, if I am to have anything to do with it.' Now it was certainly the case that the old man was very ill. He had not been out of the house since Clara had returned home; and, though he was always grumbling about his food, he could hardly be induced to eat anything when the morsels for which he expressed a wish were got for him.

'Of course you will be consulted, papa, before anything is settled.'

'I don't want to be in anybody's way, my dear.'

'And may I tell Frederic that you have given your consent?

'What's the use of my consenting or not consenting? If you had been anxious to oblige me you would have taken your Cousin Will.'

'Oh, papa, how could I accept a man I didn't love?'

'You seemed to me to be very fond of him at first; and I must say, I thought he was ill-treated.'

'Papa, papa; do not say such things as that to me!'

'What am I to do? You tell me, and I can't altogether hold my tongue.' Then there was a pause. 'Well, my dear, as for my consent, of course you may have it if it's worth anything. I don't know that I ever heard anything bad about Captain Aylmer.'

He had heard nothing bad about Captain Aylmer! Clara, as she left her father, felt that this was very grievous. Whatever cause she might have had for discontent with her lover, she could not but be aware that he was a man whom any father might be proud to welcome as a suitor for his daughter. He was a man as to whom no ill tales had ever been told who had never been known to do anything wrong or imprudent; who had always been more than respectable, and as to whose worldly position no exception could be taken. She had been entitled to expect her father's warmest congratulations, and her tidings had been received as though she had proposed to give her hand to one whose character and position only just made it not imperative on the father to withhold his consent! All this was hard, and feeling it to be so, she went upstairs, all alone, and cried bitterly as she thought of it.

On the next day she went down to the cottage and saw Mrs Askerton. She went there with the express purpose of telling her friend of her engagement desirous of obtaining in that quarter the sympathy which her father declined to give her. Had her communication to him been accepted in a different spirit, she might probably have kept her secret from Mrs Askerton till something further had been fixed about her marriage; but she was in want of a few kind words, and pined for some of that encouragement which ladies in love usually wish to receive, at any rate from some one chosen friend. But when she found herself alone with Mrs Askerton she hardly knew how to tell her news; and at first could not tell it at all, as that lady was eager in speaking on another subject.

'When do you expect your cousin?' Mrs Askerton asked, almost as soon as Clara was seated.

'The day after tomorrow.'

'And he is in London now?'

'He may be. I dare say he is. But I don't know anything about it.'

'I can tell you then that he is. Colonel Askerton has heard of his being there.'

'You seem to speak of it as though there were some offence in it. Is there any reason why he should not be in London if he pleases?'

'None in the least. I would much rather that he should be there than here.'

'Why so? Will his coming hurt you?'

'I don't like him. I don't like him at all and now you know the truth. You believe in him I don't. You think him to be a fine fellow and a gentleman, whereas I don't think him to be either.'

'Mrs Askerton!'

'This is strong language, I know.'

'Very strong language.'

'Yes, my dear; but the truth is, Clara, that you and I, living together here this sort of hermit's life, each seeing so much of the other and seeing nothing of anybody else, must either be real friends, telling each other what we think, or we must be nothing. We can't go on with the ordinary make-believes of society, saying little civil speeches and not going beyond them. Therefore I have made up my mind to tell you in plain language that I don't like your cousin, and don't believe in him.'

'I don't know what you mean by believing in a man.'

'I believe in you. Sometimes I have thought that you believe in me, and sometimes I have feared that you do not. I think that you are good, and honest, and true; and therefore I like to see your face and hear your voice though it is not often that you say very pleasant things to me.'

'Do I say unpleasant things?'

'I am not going to quarrel with you not if I can help it. What business has Mr Belton to go about London making inquiries as to me? What have I done to him, that he should honour me so far?'

'Has he made inquiries?'

'Yes; he has. If you have been contented with me as I am if you are satisfied, why should he want to learn more? If you have any question to ask me I will answer it. But what right can he have to be asking questions among strangers?'

Clara had no question to ask, and yet she could not say that she was satisfied. She would have been better satisfied to have known more of Mrs Askerton, but yet she had never condescended to make inquiries about her friend. But her curiosity was now greatly raised; and, indeed, Mrs Askerton's manner was so strange, her vehemence so unusual, and her eagerness to rush into dangerous subjects so unlike her usual tranquillity in conversation, that Clara did not know how to answer her.

'I know nothing of any questioning,' she said.

'I am sure you don't. Had I thought you did, much as I love you valuable as your society is to me down in this desert I would never speak to you again. But remember if you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me of me I will answer them, and will not be angry.'

'But I don't want to ask any questions.'

'You may some day; and then you can remember what I say.'

'And am I to understand that you are determined to quarrel with my Cousin Will?'

'Quarrel with him! I don't suppose that I shall see him. After what I have said it is not probable that you will bring him here, and the servant will have orders to say that I am not at home if he should call. Luckily he and Colonel Askerton did not meet when he was here before.'

'This is the most strange thing I ever heard in my life.'

'You will understand it better, my dear, when he makes his communication to you.'

'What communication?'

'You'll find that he'll have a communication to make. He has been so diligent and so sharp that he'll have a great deal to tell, I do not doubt. Only, remember, Clara, that if anything that he tells you makes any difference in your feelings towards me, I shall expect you to come to me and say so openly. If he makes his statement, let me make mine. I have a right to ask for that, after what I have promised.'

'You may be sure that I will.'

'I want nothing more. I have no distrust in you none in the least. I tell you that I believe in you. If you will do that, and will keep Mr William Belton out of my way during his visit to these parts, I shall be satisfied.' For some time past Mrs Askerton had been walking about the room, but, as she now finished speaking, she sat herself down as though the subject was fully discussed and completed. For a minute or two she made an effort to resume her usual tranquillity of manner, and in doing so attempted to smile, as though ridiculing her own energy. 'I knew I should make a fool of myself when you came,' she said; and now I have done it.'

'I don't think you have been a fool at all, but you may have been mistaken.'

'Very well, my dear, we shall see. It's very odd what a dislike I took to that man the first time I saw him.'

'And I am so fond of him!'

'Yes; he has cozened you as he has your father. I am only glad that he did not succeed in cozening you further than he did. But I ought to have known you bettor than to suppose you could give your heart of hearts to one who is—'

'Do not abuse him any more.'

'—Who is so very unlike the sort of people with whom you have lived. I may, at any rate, say that.'

'I don't know that. I haven't lived much with any one yet—except papa, and my aunt, and you.'

'But you know a gentleman when you see him.'

'Come, Mrs Askerton, I will not stand this. I thought you had done with the subject, and now you begin again. I had come here on purpose to tell you something of real importance that is, to me; but I must go away without telling you, unless you will give over abusing my cousin.'

'I will not say a word more about him not at present.'

'I feel so sure that you are mistaken, you know.'

'Very well;—and I feel sure that you are mistaken. We will leave it so, and go to this matter of importance.' But Clara felt it to be very difficult to tell her tidings after such a conversation as that which had just occurred. When she had entered the room her mind had been tuned to the subject, and she could have found fitting words without much difficulty to herself; but now her thoughts had been scattered and her feelings hurt, and she did not know how to bring herself back to the subject of her engagement. She paused, therefore, and sat with a doubtful, hesitating look, meditating some mode of escape. 'I am all ears,' said Mrs Askerton; and Clara thought that she discovered something of ridicule or of sarcasm in the tone of her friend's voice.

'I believe I'll put it off till another day,' she said.

'Why so? You don't think that anything really important to you will not be important to me also?'

'I'm sure of that, but somehow—'

'You mean to say that I have ruffled you?'

'Well perhaps; a little.'

'Then be unruffled again, like my own dear, honest Clara. I have been ruffled too, but I'll be as tranquil now as a drawing-room cat.' Then Mrs Askerton got up from her chair, and seated herself by Clara's side on the sofa. 'Come; you can't go till you've told me; and if you hesitate, I shall think that you mean to quarrel with me.'

'I'll come to you tomorrow.'

'No, no; you shall tell me today. All tomorrow you'll be preparing for your cousin.'

'What nonsense!'

'Or else you'll come prepared to vindicate him, and then we shan't get on any further. Tell me what it is today. You can't leave me in curiosity after what you have said.'

'You've heard of Captain Aylmer, I think.'

'Of course I've heard of him.'

'But you've never seen him?'

'You know I never have.'

'I told you that he was at Perivale when Mrs Winterfield died.'

'And now he has proposed, and you are going to accept him? That will indeed be important. Is it so?—say. But don't I know it is so? Why don't you speak?'

'If you know it, why need I speak?'

'But it is so? Oh, Clara, I am so glad. I congratulate you with all my heart with all my heart. My dearest, dearest Clara! What a happy arrangement! What a success! It is just as it should be. Dear, good man! to come forward in that sensible way, and put an end to all the little family difficulties!'

'I don't know so much about success. Who is it that is successful?'

'You, to be sure.'

'Then by the same measurement he must be unsuccessful.'

'Don't be a fool, Clara.'

'Of course I have been successful if I've got a man that I can love as my husband.'

'Now, my dear, don't be a fool. Of course all that is between you and him, and I don't in the least doubt that it is all as it should be. If Captain Aylmer had been the elder brother instead of the younger, and had all the Aylmer estates instead of the Perivale property, I know you would not accept him if you did not like him.'

'I hope not.'

'I am sure you would not. But when a girl with nothing a year has managed to love a man with two or three thousand a year, and has managed to be loved by him in return instead of going through the same process with the curate or village doctor it is a success, and her friend will always think so. And when a girl marries a gentleman, and a Member of Parliament, instead of well, I'm not going to say anything personal her friends will congratulate her upon his position. It may be very wicked, and mercenary, and all that; but it's the way of the world.'

'I hate hearing about the world.'

'Yes, my dear; all proper young ladies like you do hate it. But I observe that such girls as you never offend its prejudices. You can't but know that you would have done a wicked as well as a foolish thing to marry a man without an adequate income.'

'But I needn't marry at all.'

'And what would you live on then? Come Clara, we needn't quarrel about that. I've no doubt he's charming, and beautiful, and—'

'He isn't beautiful at all; and as for charming—'

'He has charmed you at any rate.'

'He has made me believe that I can trust him without doubt, and love him without fear.'

'An excellent man! And the income will be an additional comfort; you'll allow that?'

'I'll allow nothing.'

'And when is it to be?'

'Oh,—perhaps in six or seven years.'

'Clara!'

'Perhaps sooner; but there's been no word said about time.'

'Is not Mr Amedroz delighted?'

'Not a bit. He quite scolded me when I told him.'

'Why what did he want?'

'You know papa.'

'I know he scolds at everything, but I shouldn't have thought he would have scolded at that. And when does he come here?'

'Who come here?'

'Captain Aylmer.'

'I don't know that he is coming at all.'

'He must come to be married.'

'All that is in the clouds as yet. I did not like to tell you, but you mustn't suppose that because I've told you, everything is settled. Nothing is settled.'

'Nothing except the one thing?'

'Nothing else.'

It was more than an hour after that before Clara went away, and when she did so she was surprised to find that she was followed out of the house by Colonel Askerton. It was quite dusk at this time, the days being just at their shortest, and Colonel Askerton, according to his custom, would have been riding, or returning from his ride. Clara had been over two hours at the cottage, and had been aware when she reached it that he had not as yet gone out. It appeared now that he had not ridden at all, and, as she remembered to have seen his horse led before the window, it at once occurred to her that he had remained at home with the view of catching her as she went away. He came up to her just as she was passing through the gate, and offered her his right hand as he raised his hat with his left. It sometimes happens to all of us in life that we become acquainted with persons intimately that is, with an assumed intimacy whom in truth we do not know at all. We meet such persons frequently, often eating and drinking in their company, being familiar with their appearance, and well-informed generally as to their concerns; but we never find ourselves holding special conversations with them, or in any way fitting the modes of our life to the modes of their life. Accident has brought us together, and in one sense they are our friends. We should probably do any little kindness for them, or expect the same from them; but there is nothing in common between us, and there is generally a mutual though unexpressed agreement that there shall be nothing in common. Miss Amedroz was intimately acquainted with Colonel Askerton after this fashion. She saw him very frequently, and his name was often on her tongue; but she rarely, if ever, conversed with him, and knew of his habits only from his wife's words respecting them. When, therefore, he followed her through the garden gate into the park, she was driven to suppose that he had something special to say to her.

'I'm afraid you'll have a dark walk, Miss Amedroz,' he said.

'It's only just across the park, and I know the way so well.'

'Yes of course. I saw you coming out, and as I want to say a word or two, I have ventured to follow you. When Mr Belton was down here I did not have the pleasure of meeting him.'

'I remember that you missed each other.'

'Yes, we did. I understand from my wife that he will be here again in a day or two.'

'He will be with us the day after tomorrow.'

'I hope you will excuse my saying that it will be very desirable that we should miss each other again.' Clara felt that her face became red with anger as she listened to Colonel Askerton's words. He spoke slowly, as was his custom, and without any of that violence of expression which his wife had used; but on that very account there was more, if possible, of meaning in his words than in hers. William Belton was her cousin, and such a speech as that which Colonel Askerton had made, spoken with deliberation and unaccompanied by any previous explanation, seemed to her almost to amount to insult. But as she did not know how to answer him at the spur of the moment, she remained silent. Then he continued, 'You may be sure, Miss Amedroz, that I should not make so strange a request to you if I had not good reason for making it.'

'I think it a very strange request.'

'And nothing but a strong conviction of its propriety on my part would have induced me to make it.'

'If you do not want to see my cousin, why cannot you avoid him without saying anything to me on the subject?'

'Because you would not then have understood as thoroughly as I wish you to do why I kept out of his way. For my wife's sake and for yours, if you will allow me to say so I do not wish to come to any open quarrel with him; but if we met, a quarrel would, I think, be inevitable. Mary has probably explained to you the nature of his offence against us?'

'Mrs Askerton has told me something as to which I am quite sure that she is mistaken.'

'I will say nothing about that, as I have no wish at all to set you against your cousin. I will bid you good-night now as you are close at home.' Then he turned round and left her.

Clara, as she thought of all this, could not but call to mind her cousin's remembrances about Miss Vigo and Mr Berdmore. What if he made some inquiry as to the correctness of his old recollections? Nothing, she thought, could be more natural. And then she reflected that, in the ordinary way of the world, persons feel none of that violent objection to the asking of questions about their antecedents which was now evinced by both Colonel and Mrs Askerton. But of one thing she felt quite assured that her cousin, Will Belton, would make no inquiry which he ought not to make; and would make no improper use of any information which he might obtain.



CHAPTER XVI

THE HEIR'S SECOND VISIT TO BELTON

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 had 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 hall 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 he 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 heard 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 sounds so cruel!'

'I am not your brother, and I have no right to approve or disapprove.'

'I will not say that I could make my engagement with Captain Aylmer dependent on your approval. It would not be fair to him to do so, and it would put me into a false position.'

'Have I asked you to make any such absurd sacrifice?'

'Listen to me, Will. I say that I could not do that. But, short of that, there is nothing I would not do to satisfy you. I think so much of your judgment and goodness, and so very much of your affection; I love you so dearly, that Oh, Will, say a kind word to me!'

'A kind word; yes, but what sort of kindness?'

'You must know that Captain Aylmer'

'Don't talk to me of Captain Aylmer. Have I said anything against him? Have I ventured to make any objection? Of course, I know his superiority to myself. I know that he is a man of the world, and that I am not; that he is educated, and that I am ignorant; that he has a position, and that I have none; that he has much to offer, and that I have nothing. Of course, I see the difference; but that does not make me comfortable.'

'Will, I had learned to love him before I had ever seen you.'

'Why didn't you tell me so, that I might have known there was no hope, and have gone away utterly out of the kingdom? If it was all settled then, why didn't you tell me, and save me from breaking my heart with false hopes?'

'Nothing was settled then. I hardly knew my own mind; but yet I loved him. There; cannot you understand it? Have I not told you enough?'

'Yes, I understand it.'

'And do you blame me?'

He paused awhile before he answered her. 'No; I do not blame you. I suppose I must blame no one but myself. But you should bear with me. I was so happy, and now I am so wretched.'

There was nothing that she could say to comfort him. She had altogether mistaken the nature of the man's regard, and had even mistaken the very nature of the man. So much she now learned, and could tell herself that had she known him better she would either have prevented this second visit, or would have been careful that he should have learned the truth from herself before he came. Now she could only wait till he should again have got strength to hide his suffering under the veil of his own manliness.

'I have not a word to say against what you are doing,' he said at last; 'not a word. But you will understand what I mean when I tell you that it is not likely that you will come to Plaistow.'

'Some day, Will, when you have a wife of your own—'

'Very well; but we won't talk about that at present, if you please. When I have, things will be different. In the meantime your course and mine will be separate. You, I suppose, will be with him in London, while I shall be,—at the devil as likely as not.'

'How can you speak to me in that way? Is that like being my brother?'

'I don't feel like being your brother. However, I beg your pardon, and now we will have done with it. Spilt milk can't be helped, and my milk pans have got themselves knocked over. That's all. Don't you think we ought to go up to your father again?'

On the following day Belton and Mr Amedroz discussed the same subject, but the conversation went off very quietly. Will was determined not to exhibit his weakness before the father as he had done before the daughter. When the squire, with a maundering voice, drawled out some expression of regret that his daughter's choice had not fallen in another place, Will was able to say that bygones must be bygones. He regretted it also, but that was now over. And when the squire endeavoured to say a few ill-natured words about Captain Aylmer, Will stopped him at once by asserting that the captain was all that he ought to be.

'And it would have made me so happy to think that my daughter's child should come to live in his grandfather's old house,' murmured Mr Amedroz.

'And there's no knowing that he mayn't do so yet,' said Will. 'But all these things are so doubtful that a man is wrong to fix his happiness upon them.' After that he went out to ramble about, the place, and before the third day was over Clara was able to perceive that, in spite of what he had said, he was as busy about the cattle as though his bread depended on them.

Nothing had been said as yet about the Askertons, and Clara had resolved that their name should not first be mentioned by her. Mrs Askerton had prophesied that Will would have some communication to make about herself, and Clara would at any rate see whether her cousin would, of his own accord, introduce the subject. But three days passed by, and he had made no allusion to the cottage or its inhabitants. This in itself was singular, as the Askertons were the only local friends whom Clara knew, and as Belton had become personally acquainted with Mrs Askerton. But such was the case; and when Mr Amedroz once said something about Mrs Askerton in the presence of both Clara and Belton, they both of them shrank from the subject in a manner that made Clara understand that any conversation about the Askertons was to be avoided. On the fourth day Clara saw Mrs Askerton, but then Will Belton's name was not mentioned. There was therefore, among them all, a sense of some mystery which made them uncomfortable, and which seemed to admit of no solution. Clara was more sure than ever that her cousin had made no inquiries that he should not have made, and that he would put no information that he might have to an improper use. But of such certainty on her part she could say nothing.

Three weeks passed by, and it seemed as though Belton's visit were to come to an end without any further open trouble. Now and then something was said about. Captain Aylmer; but it was very little, and Belton made no further reference to his own feelings. It had come to be understood that his visit was to be limited to a month; and to both him and Clara the month wore itself away slowly, neither of them having much pleasure in the society of the other. The old squire came down stairs once for an hour or two, and spent the whole time in bitter complaints. Everything was wrong, and everybody was ill-treating him. Even with Will he quarrelled, or did his best to quarrel, in regard to everything about the place, though at the same time he did not cease to grumble at his visitor for going away and leaving him. Belton bore it all so well that the grumbling and quarrelling did not lead to much; but it required all his good-humour and broad common sense to prevent serious troubles and misunderstanding.

During the period of her cousin's visit at Belton, Clara received two letters from Captain Aylmer, who was spending the Christmas holidays with his father and mother, and on the day previous to that of her cousin's departure there came a third. In neither of these letters was there much said about Sir Anthony, but they were all very full of Lady Aylmer. In the first he wrote with something of the personal enthusiasm of a lover and therefore Clara hardly felt the little drawbacks to her happiness which were contained in certain innuendoes respecting Lady Aylmer's ideas, and Lady Aylmer's hopes, and Lady Aylmer's fears. Clara was not going to marry Lady Aylmer, and did not fear but that she could hold her own against any mother-in-law in the world when once they should be brought face to face. And as long as Captain Aylmer seemed to take her part rather than that of his mother it was all very well. The second letter was more trying to her temper, as it contained one or two small morsels of advice as to conduct which had evidently originated with her ladyship. Now there is nothing, I take it, so irritating to an engaged young lady as counsel from her intended husband's mamma. An engaged young lady, if she be really in love, will take almost anything from her lover as long as she is sure that it comes altogether from himself. He may take what liberties he pleases with her dress. He may prescribe high church or low church if he be not, as is generally the case, in a condition to accept, rather than to give, prescriptions on that subject. He may order almost any course of reading providing that he supply the books. And he may even interfere with the style of dancing, and recommend or prohibit partners. But he may not thrust his mother down his future wife's throat. In answer to the second letter, Clara did not say much to show her sense of objection. Indeed she said nothing. But in saying nothing she showed her objection, and Captain Aylmer understood it. Then came the third letter, and as it contained matter touching upon our story, it shall be given entire and I hope it may be taken by gentlemen about to marry as a fair specimen of the sort of letter they ought not to write to the girls of their hearts:

Aylmer Castle, 19th January, 186—.

'Dearest Clara,—I got your letter of the 16th yesterday, and was sorry you said nothing in reference to my mother's ideas as to the house at Perivale. Of course she knew that I heard from you, and was disappointed when, I was obliged to tell her, that you had not alluded to the subject. She is very anxious about you, and, having now given her assent to our marriage, is of course desirous of knowing that her kindly feeling is reciprocated. I assured her that my own Clara was the last person to be remiss in such a matter, and reminded her that young ladies are seldom very careful in their mode of answering letters. Remember, therefore, that I am now your guarantee, and send some message to relieve me from my liability.

'When I told her of your father's long illness, which she laments greatly, and of your cousin's continued presence at Belton Castle, she seemed to think that Mr Belton's visit should not be prolonged. When I told her that he was your nearest relative, she remarked that cousins are the same as any other people,—which indeed they are. I know that my Clara will not suppose that I mean more by this than the words convey. Indeed I mean less. But not having the advantage of a mother of your own, you will not be sorry to know what are my mother's opinions on matters which so nearly concern you.

'And now I come to another subject, as to which what I shall say will surprise you very much. You know, I think, that my aunt Winterfield and I had some conversation about your neighbours, the Askertons; and you will remember that my aunt, whose ideas on such matters were always correct, was a little afraid that your father had not made sufficient inquiry respecting them before he allowed them to settle near him as tenants. It now turns out that she is very far, indeed, from what she ought to be. My mother at first thought of writing to you about this; but she is a little fatigued, and at last resolved that under all the circumstances it might be as well that I should tell you. It seems that Mrs Askerton was married before to a certain Captain Berdmore, and that she left her first husband during his lifetime under the protection of Colonel Askerton. I believe they, the Colonel and Mrs Askerton, have been since married. Captain Berdmore died about four years ago in India, and it is probable that such a marriage has taken place. But under these circumstances, as Lady Aylmer says, you will at once perceive that all acquaintance between you and the lady should be brought to an end. Indeed, your own sense of what is becoming to you, either as an unmarried girl or as my future wife, or indeed as a woman at all, will at once make you feel that this must be so. I think, if I were you, I would tell the whole to Mr Amedroz; but this I will leave to your own discretion. I can assure you that Lady Aylmer has full proof as to the truth of what I tell you.

'I go up to London in February. I suppose I may hardly hope to see you before the recess in July or August; but I trust that before that we shall have fixed the day when you will make me the happiest of men.

'Yours, with truest affection,

'F. F. AYLMER.'

It was a disagreeable, nasty letter from the first line to the last. There was not a word in it which did not grate against Clara's feelings not a thought expressed which did not give rise to fears as to her future happiness. But the information which it contained about the Askertons 'the communication,' as Mrs Askerton herself would have called it made her for the moment almost forget Lady Aylmer and her insolence. Could this story be true? And if true, how far would it be imperative on her to take the hint, or rather obey the order, which had been given her? What steps should she take to learn the truth? Then she remembered Mrs Askerton's promise 'If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will answer them.' The communication, as to which Mrs Askerton had prophesied, had now been made but it had been made not by Will Belton, whom Mrs Askerton had reviled, but by Captain Aylmer, whose praises Mrs Askerton had so loudly sung. As Clara thought of this, she could not analyse her own feelings, which were not devoid of a certain triumph. She had known that Belton would not put on his armour to attack a woman. Captain Aylmer had done so, and she was hardly surprised at his doing it. Yet Captain Aylmer was the man she loved! Captain Aylmer was the man she had promised to marry. But, in truth, she hardly knew which was the man she loved!

This letter came on a Sunday morning, and on that day she and Belton went to church together. On the following morning early he was to start for Taunton. At church they saw Mrs Askerton, whose attendance there was not very frequent. It seemed, indeed, as though she had come with the express purpose of seeing Belton once during his visit. As they left the church she bowed to him, and that was all they saw of each other throughout the month that he remained in Somersetshire.

'Come to me tomorrow Clara,' Mrs Askerton said as they all passed through the village together. Clara muttered some reply, having not as yet made up her mind as to what her conduct must be. Early on the next morning Will Belton went away, and again Clara got up to give him his breakfast. On this occasion he had no thought of kissing her. He went away without having had a word said to him about Mrs Askerton, and then Clara settled herself down to the work of deliberation. What should she do with reference to the communication that had been made to her by Captain Aylmer?



CHAPTER XVII

AYLMER PARK

Aylmer Park and the great house of the Aylmers together formed an important and, as regarded in some minds, an imposing country residence. The park was large, including some three or four hundred acres, and was peopled, rather thinly, by aristocratic deer. It was surrounded by an aristocratic paling, and was entered, at three different points, by aristocratic lodges. The sheep were more numerous than the deer, because Sir Anthony, though he had a large income, was not in very easy circumstances. The ground was quite flat; and though there were thin belts of trees, and some ornamental timber here and there, it was not well wooded. It had no special beauty of its own, and depended for its imposing qualities chiefly on its size, on its three sets of double lodges, and on its old established character as an important family place in the county. The house was of stone, with a portico of Ionic columns which looked as though it hardly belonged of right to the edifice, and stretched itself out grandly, with two pretentious wings, which certainly gave it a just claim to be called a mansion. It required a great many servants to keep it in order, and the numerous servants required an experienced duenna, almost as grand in appearance as Lady Aylmer herself, to keep them in order. There was an open carriage and a closed carriage, and a butler, and two footmen, and three gamekeepers, and four gardeners, and there was a coachman, and there were grooms, and sundry inferior men and boys about the place to do the work which the gardeners and game-keepers and grooms did not choose to do themselves. And they all became fat, and lazy, and stupid, and respectable together; so that, as the reader will at once perceive, Aylmer Park was kept up in the proper English style. Sir Anthony very often discussed with his steward the propriety of lessening the expenditure of his residence, and Lady Aylmer always attended and probably directed these discussions; but it was found that nothing could be done. Any attempt to remove a gamekeeper or a gardener would evidently throw the whole machinery of Aylmer Park out of gear. If retrenchment was necessary Aylmer Park must be abandoned, and the glory of the Aylmers must be allowed to pale. But things were not so bad as that with Sir Anthony. The gardeners, grooms, and gamekeepers were maintained; ten domestic servants sat down to four heavy meals in the servants' hall every day, and Lady Aylmer contented herself with receiving little or no company, and with stingy breakfasts and bad dinners for herself and her husband and daughter. By all this it must be seen that she did her duty as the wife of an English country gentleman, and properly maintained his rank as a baronet.

He was a heavy man, over seventy years of age, much afflicted with gout, and given to no pursuit on earth which was available for his comfort. He had been a hunting man, and he had shot also; but not with that energy which induces a sportsman to carry on those amusements in opposition to the impediments of age. He had been, and still was, a county magistrate; but he had never been very successful in the justice-room, and now seldom troubled the county with his judicial incompetence. He had been fond of good dinners and good wine, and still, on occasions, would make attempts at enjoyment in that line; but the gout and Lady Aylmer together were too many for him, and he had but small opportunity for filling up the blanks of his existence out of the kitchen or cellar. He was a big man, with a broad chest, and a red face, and a quantity of white hair and was much given to abusing his servants. He took some pleasure in standing, with two sticks, on the top of the steps before his own front door, and railing at any one who came in his way. But he could not do this when Lady Aylmer was by; and his dependents, knowing his habits, had fallen into an ill-natured way of deserting the side of the house which he frequented. With his eldest son, Anthony Aylmer, he was not on very good terms; and though there was no positive quarrel, the heir did not often come to Aylmer Park. Of his son Frederic he was proud and the best days of his life were probably those which Captain Aylmer spent at the house. The table was then somewhat more generously spread, and this was an excuse for having up the special port in which he delighted. Altogether his life was not very attractive; and though he had been born to a baronetcy, and eight thousand a-year, and the possession of Aylmer Park, I do not think that he was, or had been, a happy man.

Lady Aylmer was more fortunate. She had occupations of which her husband knew nothing, and for which he was altogether unfit. Though she could not succeed in making retrenchments, the could and did succeed in keeping the household books. Sir Anthony could only blow up the servants when they were thoughtless enough to come in his way, and in doing that was restricted by his wife's presence. But Lady Aylmer could get at them day and night. She had no gout to impede her progress about the house and grounds, and could make her way to places which the master never saw; and then she wrote many letters daily, whereas Sir Anthony hardly ever took a pen in his hand. And she knew the cottages of all the poor about the place, and knew also all their sins of omission and commission. She was driven out, too, every day, summer and winter, wet and dry, and consumed enormous packets of wool and worsted, which were sent to her monthly from York. And she had a companion in her daughter, whereas Sir Anthony had no companion. Wherever Lady Aylmer went, Miss Aylmer went with her, and relieved what might otherwise have been the tedium of her life. She had been a beauty on a large scale, and was still aware that she had much in her personal appearance which justified pride. She carried herself uprightly, with a commanding nose and broad forehead; and though the graces of her own hair had given way to a front, there was something even in the front which added to her dignity, if it did not make her a handsome woman.

Miss Aylmer, who was the eldest of the younger generation, and who was now gently descending from her fortieth year, lacked the strength of her mother's character, but admired her mother's ways, and followed Lady Aylmer in all things at a distance. She was very good as indeed was Lady Aylmer entertaining a high idea of duty, and aware that her own life admitted of but little self-indulgence. She had no pleasures, she incurred no expenses; and was quite alive to the fact that as Aylmer Park required a regiment of lazy, gormandizing servants to maintain its position in the county, the Aylmers themselves should not be lazy, and should not gormandize. No one was more careful with her few shillings than Miss Aylmer. She had, indeed, abandoned a life's correspondence with an old friend because she would not pay the postage on letters to Italy. She knew that it was for the honour of the family that one of her brothers should sit in Parliament, and was quite willing to deny herself a new dress because sacrifices must be made to lessen electioneering expenses. She knew that it was her lot to be driven about slowly in a carriage with a livery servant before her and another behind her, and then eat a dinner which the cook-maid would despise. She was aware that it was her duty to be snubbed by her mother, and to encounter her father's ill-temper, and to submit to her brother's indifference, and to have, so to say, the slightest possible modicum of personal individuality. She knew that she had never attracted a man's love, and might hardly hope to make friends for the comfort of her coming age. But still she was contented, and felt that she had consolation for it all in the fact that she was am. Aylmer. She read many novels, and it cannot but be supposed that something of regret would steal over her as she remembered that nothing of the romance of life had ever, or could ever, come in her way. She wept over the loves of many women, though she had never been happy or unhappy in her own. She read of gaiety, though she never encountered it, and must have known that the world elsewhere was less dull than it was at Aylmer Park. But she took her life as it came, without a complaint, and prayed that God would make her humble in the high position to which it had pleased Him to call her. She hated Radicals, and thought that Essays and Reviews, and Bishop Colenso, came direct from the Evil One. She taught the little children in the parish, being specially urgent to them always to courtesy when they saw any of the family and was as ignorant, meek, and stupid a poor woman as you shall find anywhere in Europe.

It may be imagined that Captain Aylmer, who knew the comforts of his club and was accustomed to life in London, would feel the dullness of the paternal roof to be almost unendurable. In truth, he was not very fond of Aylmer Park, but he was more gifted with patience than most men of his age and position, and was aware that it behoved him to keep the Fifth Commandment if he expected to have his own days prolonged in the land. He therefore made his visits periodically, and contented himself with clipping a few days at both ends from the length prescribed by family tradition, which his mother was desirous of exacting. September was always to be passed at Aylmer Park, because of the shooting. In September, indeed, the eldest son himself was wont to be there probably with a friend or two and the fat old servants bestirred themselves, and there was something of life about the place. At Christmas, Captain Aylmer was there as the only visitor, and Christmas was supposed to extend from the middle of December to the opening of Parliament. It must, however, be explained, that on the present occasion his visit had been a matter of treaty and compromise. He had not gone to Aylmer Park at all till his mother had in some sort assented to his marriage with Clara Amedroz. To this Lady Aylmer had been very averse, and there had been many serious letters. Belinda Aylmer, the daughter of the house, had had a bad time in pleading her brother's cause and some very harsh words had been uttered but ultimately the matter had been arranged, and, as is usual in such contests, the mother had yielded to the son. Captain Aylmer had therefore gone down a few days before Christmas, with a righteous feeling that he owed much to his mother for her condescension, and almost prepared to make himself very disagreeable to Clara by way of atoning to his family for his folly in desiring to marry her.

Lady Aylmer was very plain-spoken on the subject of all Clara's shortcomings very plain-spoken, and very inquisitive. 'She will never have one shilling, I suppose?' she said.

'Yes, ma'am.' Captain Aylmer always called his mother 'ma'am'. 'She will have that fifteen hundred pounds that I told you of.'

'That is to say, you will have back the money which you yourself have given her, Fred. I suppose that is the English of it?' Then Lady Aylmer raised her eyebrows and looked very wise.

'Just so, ma'am.'

'You can't call that having anything of her own. In point of fact she is penniless.'

'It is no good harping on that,' said Captain Aylmer, somewhat sharply.

'Not in the least, my dear; no good at all. Of course you have looked it all in the face. You will be a poor man instead of a rich man, but you will have enough to live on that is if she doesn't have a large family which of course she will.'

'I shall do very well, ma'am.'

'You might do pretty well, I dare say, if you could live privately at Perivale, keeping up the old family house there, and having no expenses; but you'll find even that close enough with your seat in Parliament, and the necessity there is that you should be half the year in London. Of course she won't go to London. She can't expect it. All that had better be made quite clear at once.' Hence had come the letter about the house at Perivale, containing Lady Aylmer's advice on that subject, as to which Clara made no reply.

Lady Aylmer, though she had given her assent, was still not altogether without hope. It might be possible that the two young people could be brought to see the folly and error of their ways before it would be too late; and that Lady Aylmer, by a judicious course of constant advice, might be instrumental in opening the eyes, if not of the lady, at any rate of the gentleman. She had great reliance on her own powers, and knew well that a falling drop will hollow a stone. Her son manifested no hot eagerness to complete his folly in a hurry, and to cut the throat of his prospects out of hand. Time, therefore, would be allowed to her, and she was a woman who could use time with patience. Having, through her son, dispatched her advice about the house at Perivale,—which simply amounted to this, that Clara should expressly state her willingness to live there alone whenever it might suit her husband to be in London or elsewhere,—she went to work on other points, connected with the Amedroz family, and eventually succeeded in learning something very much like the truth as to poor Mrs Askerton and her troubles. At first she was so comfortably horror-stricken by the iniquity she had unravelled,—so delightfully shocked and astounded,—as to believe that the facts as they then stood would suffice to annul the match.

'You don't tell me', she said to Belinda, 'that Frederic's wife will have been the friend of such a woman as that!' And Lady Aylmer, sitting upstairs with her household books before her, put up her great fat hands and her great fat arms, and shook her head,—front and all,—in most satisfactory dismay.

'But I suppose Clara did not know it.' Belinda had considered it to be an act of charity to call Miss Amedroz Clara since the family consent had been given.

'Didn't know it! They have been living in that sort of way that they must have been confidantes in everything. Besides, I always hold that a woman is responsible for her female friends.'

'I think if she consents to drop her at once that is, absolutely to make a promise that she will never speak to her again Frederic ought to take that as sufficient. That is, of course, mamma, unless she has had anything to do with it herself.'

'After this I don't know how I'm to trust her. I don't indeed. It seems to me that she has been so artful throughout. It has been a regular case of catching.'

'I suppose, of course, that she has been anxious to marry Frederic but perhaps that was natural.'

'Anxious look at her going there just when he had to meet his constituents. How young women can do such things passes me! And how it is that men don't see it all, when it's going on just under their noses, I can't understand. And then, her getting my poor dear sister to speak to him when she was dying! I didn't think your aunt would have been so weak.' It will be thus seen that there was entire confidence on this subject between Lady Aylmer and her daughter.

We know what were the steps taken with reference to the discovery, and how the family were waiting for Clara's reply. Lady Aylmer, though in her words she attributed so much mean cunning to Miss Amedroz, still was disposed to believe that that lady would show rather a high spirit on this occasion; and trusted to that high spirit as the means for making the breach which she still hoped to accomplish. It had been intended or rather desired that Captain Aylmer's letter should have been much sharper and authoritative than he had really made it; but the mother could not write the letter herself, and had felt that to write in her own name would not have served to create anger on Clara's part against her betrothed. But she had quite succeeded in inspiring her son with a feeling of horror against the iniquity of the Askertons. He was prepared to be indignantly moral; and perhaps the misguided Clara might be silly enough to say a word for her lost friend! Such being the present position of affairs, there was certainly ground for hope.

And now they were all waiting for Clara's answer. Lady Aylmer had well calculated the course of post, and knew that a letter might reach them by Wednesday morning. 'Of course she will not write on Sunday,' she had said to her son, 'but you have a right to expect that not another day should go by.' Captain Aylmer, who felt that they were putting Clara on her trial, shook his head impatiently, and made no immediate answer. Lady Aylmer, triumphantly feeling that she had the culprit on the hip, did not care to notice this. She was doing the best she could for his happiness as she had done for his health, when in days gone by she had administered to him his infantine rhubarb and early senna; but as she had never then expected him to like her doses, neither did she now expect that he should be well pleased at the remedial measures to which he was to be subjected.

No letter came on the Wednesday, nor did any come on the Thursday, and then it was thought by the ladies at the Park that the time had come for speaking a word or two. Belinda, at her mother's instance, began the attack not in her mother's presence, but when she only was with her brother.

'Isn't it odd, Frederic, that Clara shouldn't write about those people at Belton?'

'Somersetshire is the other side of London, and letters take a long time.'

'But if she had written on Monday, her answer would have been here on Wednesday morning indeed, you would have had it Tuesday evening, as mamma sent over to Whitby for the day mail letters.' Poor Belinda was a bad lieutenant, and displayed too much of her senior officer's tactics in thus showing how much calculation and how much solicitude there had been as to the expected letter.

'If I am contented I suppose you may be,' said the brother.

'But it does seem to me to be so very important! If she hasn't got your letter, you know, it would be so necessary that you should write again, so that the—the—contamination should be stopped as soon as possible.' Captain Aylmer shook his head and walked away. He was, no doubt, prepared to be morally indignant,—morally very indignant,—at the Askerton iniquity; but he did not like the word contamination as applied to his future wife.

'Frederic,' said his mother, later on the same day when the hardly-used groom had returned from his futile afternoon's inquiry at the neighbouring post town,—'I think you should do something in this affair.'

'Do what, ma'am? Go off to Belton myself?'

'No, no. I certainly would not do that. In the first place it would be very inconvenient to you, and in the next place it would not be fair upon us. I did not mean that at all. But I think that something should be done. She should be made to understand.'

'You may be sure, ma'am, that she understands as well as anybody.'

'I dare say she is clever enough at these kind of things.'

'What kind of things?'

'Don't bite my nose off, Frederic, because I am anxious about your wife.'

'What is it that you wish me to do? I have written to her, and can only wait for her answer.'

'It may be that she feels a delicacy in writing to you on such a subject; though I own However, to make a long story short, if you like, I will write to her myself.'

'I don't see that that would do any good. It would only give her offence.'

'Give her offence, Frederic, to receive a letter from her future mother-in-law from me! Only think, Frederic, what you are saying.'

'If she thought she was being bullied about this, she would turn rusty at once.'

'Turn rusty! What am I to think of a young lady who is prepared to turn rusty at once, too because she is cautioned by the mother of the man she professes to love against an improper acquaintance against an acquaintance so very improper?' Lady Aylmer's eloquence should have been heard to be appreciated. It is but tame to say that she raised her fat arms and fat hands, and wagged her front her front that was the more formidable as it was the old one, somewhat rough and dishevelled, which she was wont to wear in the morning. The emphasis of her words should have been heard, and the fitting solemnity of her action should have been seen. 'If there were any doubt,' she continued to say, 'but there is no doubt. There are the damning proofs.' There are certain words usually confined to the vocabularies of men, which women such as Lady Aylmer delight to use on special occasions, when strong circumstances demand strong language. As she said this she put her hand below the table, pressing it apparently against her own august person; but she was in truth indicating the position of a certain valuable correspondence, which was locked up in the drawer of her writing-table.

'You can write if you like it, of course; but I think you ought to wait a few more days.'

'Very well, Frederic; then I will wait. I will wait till Sunday. I do not wish to take any step of which you do not approve. If you have not heard by Sunday morning, then I will write to her on Monday.'

On the Saturday afternoon life was becoming inexpressibly disagreeable to Captain Aylmer, and he began to meditate an escape from the Park. In spite of the agreement between him and his mother, which he understood to signify that nothing more was to be said as to Clara's wickedness, at any rate till Sunday after post-hour, Lady Aylmer had twice attacked him on the Saturday, and had expressed her opinion that affairs were in a very frightful position. Belinda went about the house in melancholy guise, with her eyes rarely lifted off the ground, as though she were prophetically weeping the utter ruin of her brother's respectability. And even Sir Anthony had raised his eyes and shaken his head, when, on opening the post-bag at the breakfast-table an operation which was always performed by Lady Aylmer in person her ladyship had exclaimed, 'again no letter!' Then Captain Aylmer thought that he would fly, and resolved that, in the event of such flight, he would give special orders as to the re-direction of his own letters from the post-office at Whitby.

That evening, after dinner, as soon as his mother and sister had left the room, he began the subject with his father. 'I think I shall go up to town on Monday, sir,' said he.

'So soon as that. I thought you were to stop till the 9th.'

'There are things I must see to in London, and I believe I had better go at once.'

'Your mother will be greatly disappointed.'

'I shall be sorry for that;—but business is business, you know.' Then the father filled his glass and passed the bottle. He himself did not at all like the idea of his son's going before the appointed time, but he did not say a word of himself. He looked at the red-hot coals, and a hazy glimmer of a thought passed through his mind, that he too would escape from Aylmer Park,—if it were possible.

'If you'll allow me, I'll take the dog-cart over to Whitby on Monday, for the express train.'

'You can do that certainly, but—'

'Sir?'

'Have you spoken to your mother yet?'

'Not yet. I will to-night.'

'I think she'll be a little angry, Fred.' There was a sudden tone of subdued confidence in the old man's voice as he made this suggestion, which, though it was by no means a customary tone, his son well understood. 'Don't you think she will be eh, a little?'

'She shouldn't go on as she does with me about Clara,' said the captain.

'Ah,—I supposed there was something of that. Are you drinking port?'

'Of course I know that she means all that is good,' said the son, passing back the bottle.

'Oh yes;—she means all that is good.'

'She is the best mother in the world.'

'You may say that, Fred;—and the best wife.'

'But if she can't have her own way altogether—' Then the son paused, and the father shook his head.

'Of course she likes to have her own way,' said Sir Anthony.

'It's all very well in some things.'

'Yes;—it's very well in some things'

'But there are things which a man must decide for himself.'

'I suppose there are,' said Sir Anthony, not venturing to think what those things might be as regarded himself.

'Now, with reference to marrying—'

'I don't know what you want with marrying at all, Fred. You ought to be very happy as you are. By heavens, I don't know any one who ought to be happier. If I were you, I know—'

'But you see, sir, that's all settled.'

'If it's all settled, I suppose there's an end of it.'

'It's no good my mother nagging at one.'

'My dear boy, she's been nagging at me, as you call it, for forty years. That's her way. The best woman in the world, as we were saying but that's her way. And it's the way with most of them. They can do anything if they keep it up anything. The best thing is to bear it if you've got it to bear. But why on earth you should go and marry, seeing that you're not the eldest son, and that you've got everything on earth that you want as a bachelor, I can't understand. I can't indeed, Fred. By heaven, I can't!' Then Sir Anthony gave a long sigh, and sat musing awhile, thinking of the club in London to which he belonged, but which he never entered of the old days in which he had been master of a bedroom near St. James's Street of his old friends whom he never saw now, and of whom he never heard, except as one and another, year after year, shuffled away from their wives to that world in which there is no marrying or giving in marriage. Ah, well,' he said, 'I suppose we may as well go into the drawing-room. If it is settled, I suppose it is settled. But it really seems to me that your mother is trying to do the best she can for you. It really does.'

Captain Aylmer did not say anything to his mother that night as to his going, but as he thought of his prospects in the solitude of his bedroom, he felt really grateful to his father for the solicitude which Sir Anthony had displayed on his behalf. It was not often that he received paternal counsel, but now that it had come he acknowledged its value. That Clara Amedroz was a self-willed woman he thought that he was aware. She was self-reliant, at any rate and by no means ready to succumb with that pretty feminine docility which he would like to have seen her evince. He certainly would not wish to be 'nagged' by his wife Indeed he knew himself well enough to assure himself that he would not stand it for a day. In his own house he would be master, and if there came tempests he would rule them. He could at least promise himself that. As his mother had been strong, so had his father been weak. But he had as he felt thankful in knowing inherited his mother's strength rather than his father's weakness. But, for all that, why have a tempest to rule at all? Even though a man do rule his domestic tempests, he cannot have a very quiet house with them. Then again he remembered how very easily Clara had been won. He wished to be just to all men and women, and to Clara among the number. He desired even to be generous to her with a moderate generosity. But above all things he desired not to be duped. What if Clara had in truth instigated her aunt to that deathbed scene, as his mother had more than once suggested! He did not believe it. He was sure that it had not been so. But what if it were so? His desire to be generous and trusting was moderate but his desire not to be cheated, not to be deceived, was immoderate. Upon the whole might it not be well for him to wait a little longer, and ascertain how Clara really intended to behave herself in this emergency of the Askertons? Perhaps, after all, his mother might be right.

On the Sunday the expected letter came but before its contents are made known, it will be well that we should go back to Belton, and see what was done by Clara in reference to the tidings which her lover had sent her.



CHAPTER XVIII

MRS ASKERTON'S STORY

When Clara received the letter from Captain Aylmer on which so much is supposed to hang, she made up her mind to say nothing of it to any one not to think of it if she could avoid thinking of it till her cousin should have left her. She could not mention it to him; for, though there was no one from whom she would sooner have asked advice than from him, even on so delicate a matter as this, she could not do so in the present case, as her informant was her cousin's successful rival. When, therefore, Mrs Askerton on leaving the church had spoken some customary word to Clara, begging her to come to the cottage on the following day, Clara had been unable to answer not having as yet made up her mind whether she would or would not go to the cottage again. Of course the idea of consulting her father occurred to her or rather the idea of telling him; but any such telling would lead to some advice from him which she would find it difficult to obey, and to which she would be unable to trust. And, moreover, why should she repeat this evil story against her neighbours?

She had a long morning by herself after Will had started, and then she endeavoured to arrange her thoughts and lay down for herself a line of conduct. Presuming this story to be true, to what did it amount? It certainly amounted to very much. If, in truth, this woman had left her own husband and gone away to live with another man, she had by doing so at any rate while she was doing so fallen in such a way as to make herself unfit for the society of an unmarried young woman who meant to keep her name unblemished before the world. Clara would not attempt any further unravelling of the case, even in her own mind but on that point she could not allow herself to have a doubt. Without condemning the unhappy victim, she understood well that she would owe it to all those who held her dear, if not to herself, to eschew any close intimacy with one in such a position. The rules of the world were too plainly written to allow her to guide herself by any special judgment of her own in such a matter. But if this friend of hers having been thus unfortunate had since redeemed, or in part redeemed, her position by a second marriage, would it be then imperative upon her to remember the past for ever, and to declare that the stain was indelible? Clara felt that with a previous knowledge of such a story she would probably have avoided any intimacy with Mrs Askerton. She would then have been justified in choosing whether such intimacy should or should not exist, and would so have chosen out of deference to the world's opinion. But now it was too late for that. Mrs Askerton had for years been her friend; and Clara had to ask herself this question: was it now needful did her own feminine purity demand that she should throw her friend over because in past years her life had been tainted by misconduct.

It was clear enough at any rate that this was expected from her nay, imperatively demanded by him who was to be her lord by him to whom her future obedience would be due. Whatever might be her immediate decision, he would have a right to call upon her to be guided by his judgment as soon as she would become his wife. And indeed, she felt that he had such right now unless she should decide that no such right should be his, now or ever. It was still within her power to say that she could not submit herself to such a rule as his but having received his commands she must do that or obey them. Then she declared to herself, not following the matter out logically, but urged to her decision by sudden impulse, that at any rate she would not obey Lady Aylmer. She would have nothing to do, in any such matter, with Lady Aylmer. Lady Aylmer should be no god to her. That question about the house at Perivale had been very painful to her. She felt that she could have endured the dreary solitude at Perivale without complaint, if, after her marriage, her husband's circumstances had made such a mode of living expedient. But to have been asked to pledge her consent to such a life before her marriage, to feel that he was bargaining for the privilege of being rid of her, to know that the Aylmer people were arranging that he, if he would marry her, should be as little troubled with his wife as possible all this had been very grievous to her. She had tried to console herself by the conviction that Lady Aylmer not Frederic had been the sinner; but even in that consolation there had been the terrible flaw that the words had come to her written by Frederic's hand. Could Will Belton have written such a letter to his future wife?

In her present emergency she must be guided by her own judgment or her own instincts not by any edicts from Aylmer Park! If in what she might do she should encounter the condemnation of Captain Aylmer, she would answer him she would be driven to answer him by counter-condemnation of him and his mother. Let it be so. Anything would be better than a mean, truckling subservience to the imperious mistress of Aylmer Park.

But what should she do as regarded Mrs Askerton? That the story was true she was beginning to believe. That there was some such history was made certain to her by the promise which Mrs Askerton had given her.

'If you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me, I will answer them.' Such a promise would not have been volunteered unless there was something special to be told. It would be best, perhaps, to demand from Mrs Askerton the fulfilment of this promise. But then in doing so she must own from whence her information had come. Mrs Askerton had told her that the 'communication' would be made by her Cousin Will. Her Cousin Will had gone away without a word of Mrs Askerton, and now the 'communication' had come from Captain Aylmer!

The Monday and Tuesday were rainy days, and the rain was some excuse for her not going to the cottage. On the Wednesday her father was ill, and his illness made a further excuse for her remaining at home. But on the Wednesday evening there came a note to her from Mrs Askerton. 'You naughty girl, why do you not come to me? Colonel Askerton has been away since yesterday morning, and I am forgetting the sound of my own voice. I did not trouble you when your divine cousin was here for reasons; but unless you come to me now I shall think that his divinity has prevailed. Colonel Askerton is in Ireland, about some property, and will not be back till next week.'

Clara sent back a promise by the messenger, and on the following morning she put on her hat and shawl, and started on her dreaded task. When she left the house she had not even yet quite made up her mind what she would do. At first she put her lover's letter into her pocket, so that she might have it for reference; but, on second thoughts, she replaced it in her desk, dreading lest she might be persuaded into showing or reading some part of it. There had come a sharp frost after the rain, and the ground was hard and dry. In order that she might gain some further last moment for thinking, she walked round, up among the rocks, instead of going straight to the cottage; and for a moment,—though the air was sharp with frost,—she sat upon the stone where she had been seated when her Cousin Will blurted out the misfortune of his heart. She sat there on purpose that she might think of him, and recall his figure, and the tones of his voice, and the look of his eyes, and the gesture of his face. What a man he was;—so tender, yet so strong; so thoughtful of others, and yet so self-sufficient! She had, unconsciously, imputed to him one fault, that he had loved and then forgotten his love;—unconsciously, for she had tried to think that this was a virtue rather than a fault;—but now,—with a full knowledge of what she was doing, but without any intention of doing it,—she acquitted him of that one fault. Now that she could acquit him, she owned that it would have been a fault. To have loved, and so soon to have forgotten it! No; he had loved her truly, and alas! he was one who could not be made to forget it. Then she went on to the cottage, exercising her thoughts rather on the contrast between the two men than on the subject to which she should have applied them.

'So you have come at last!' said Mrs Askerton. 'Till I got your message I thought there was to be some dreadful misfortune.'

'What misfortune?'

'Something dreadful! One often anticipates something very bad without exactly knowing what. At least, I do. I am always expecting a catastrophe when I am alone that is and then I am so often alone.'

'That simply means low spirits, I suppose?'

'It's more than that, my dear.'

'Not much more, I take it.'

'Once when we were in India we lived close to the powder magazine, and we were always expecting to be blown up. You never lived near a powder magazine.'

'No, never unless there's one at Belton. But I should have thought that was exciting.'

'And then there was the gentleman who always had the sword hanging over him by the horse's hair.'

'What do you mean, Mrs Askerton?'

'Don't look so innocent, Clara. You know what I mean. What were the results at last of your cousin's diligence as a detective officer?'

'Mrs Askerton, you wrong my cousin greatly. He never once mentioned your name while he was with us. He did not make a single allusion to you, or to Colonel Askerton, or to the cottage.'

'He did not?'

'Never once.'

'Then I beg his pardon. But not the less has he been busy making inquiries.'

'But why should you say that there is a powder magazine, or a sword hanging over your head?'

'Ah, why?'

Here was the subject ready opened to her hand, and yet Clara did not know how to go on with it. It seemed to her now that it would have been easier for her to commence it, if Mrs Askerton had made no commencement herself. As it was, she knew not how to introduce the subject of Captain Aylmer's letter, and was almost inclined to wait, thinking that Mrs Askerton might tell her own story without any such introduction. But nothing of the kind was forthcoming. Mrs Askerton began to talk of the frost, and then went on to abuse Ireland, complaining of the hardship her husband endured in being forced to go thither in winter to look after his tenants.

'What did you mean', said Clara, at last, 'by the sword hanging over your head?'

'I think I told you what I meant pretty plainly. If you did not understand me I cannot tell you more plainly.'

'It is odd that you should say so much, and not wish to say more.'

'Ah! you are making your inquiries now.'

'In my place would not you do so too? How can I help it when you talked of a sword? Of course you make me ask what the sword is.'

'And am I bound to satisfy your curiosity?'

'You told me, just before my cousin came here, that if I asked any question you would answer me.'

'And I am to understand that you are asking such a question now?'

'Yes if it will not offend you.'

'But what if it will offend me offend me greatly? Who likes to be inquired into?'

'But you courted such inquiry from me.'

'No, Clara, I did not do that. I'll tell you what I did. I gave you to understand that if it was needful that you should hear about me and my antecedents certain matters as to which Mr Belton had been inquiring into in a manner that I thought to be most unjustifiable I would tell you that story.'

'And do so without being angry with me for asking.'

'I meant, of course, that I would not make it a ground for quarrelling with you. If I wished to tell you, I could do so without any inquiry.'

'I have sometimes thought that you did wish to tell me.'

'Sometimes I have almost.'

'But you have no such wish now?'

'Can't you understand? It may well be that one so much alone as I am living here without a female friend, or even acquaintance, except yourself should often feel a longing for that comfort which full confidence between us would give me.'

'Then why not'

'Stop a moment. Can't you understand that I may feel this, and yet entertain the greatest horror against inquiry? We all like to tell our own sorrows, but who likes to be inquired into? Many a woman burns to make a full confession, who would be as mute as death before a policeman.'

'I am no policeman.'

'But you are determined to ask a policeman's questions?'

To this Clara made no immediate reply. She felt that she was acting almost falsely in going on with such questions, while she was in fact aware of all the circumstances which Mrs Askerton could tell but she did not know how to declare her knowledge and to explain it. She sincerely wished that Mrs Askerton should be made acquainted with the truth; but she had fallen into a line of conversation which did not make her own task easy. But the idea of her own hypocrisy was distressing to her, and she rushed at the difficulty with hurried, eager words, resolving that, at any rate, there should be no longer any doubt between them.

'Mrs Askerton,' she said, 'I know it all. There is nothing for you to tell. I know what the sword is.'

'What is it that you know?'

'That you were married long ago to Mr Berdmore.'

'Then Mr Belton did do me the honour of talking about me when he was here?' As she said this she rose from her chair, and stood before Clara with flashing eyes.

'Not a word. He never mentioned your name, or the name of any one belonging to you. I have heard it from another.'

'From what other?'

'I do not know that that signifies but I have learned it.'

'Well and what next?'

'I do not know what next. As so much has been told me, and as you had said that I might ask you, I have come to you, yourself. I shall believe your own story more thoroughly from yourself than from any other teller.'

'And suppose I refuse to answer you?'

'Then I can say nothing further.'

'And what will you do?'

'Ah that I do not know. But you are harsh to me, while I am longing to be kind to you. Can you not see that this has been all forced upon me partly by yourself?'

'And the other part who has forced that upon you? Who is your informant? If you mean to be generous, be generous altogether. Is it a man or a woman that has taken the trouble to rip up old sorrows that my name may be blackened? But what matters? There I was married to Captain Berdmore. I left him, and went away with my present husband. For three years I was a man's mistress, and not his wife. When that poor creature died we were married, and then came here. Now you know it all all all though doubtless your informant has made a better story of it. After that, perhaps, I have been very wicked to sully the air you breathe by my presence.'

'Why do you say that,—to me?'

'But no;—you do not know it all. No one can ever know it all. No one can ever know how I suffered before I was driven to escape, or how good to me has been he who—who' Then she turned her back upon Clara, and, walking off to the window, stood there, hiding the tears which clouded her eyes, and concealing the sobs which choked her utterance.

For some moments,—for a space which seemed long to both of them,—Clara kept her seat in silence. She hardly dared to speak; and though she longed to show her sympathy, she knew not what to say. At last she too rose and followed the other to the window. She uttered no words, however, but gently putting her arm around Mrs Askerton's waist, stood there close to her, looking out upon the cold wintry flower-beds not venturing to turn her eyes upon her companion. The motion of her arm was at first very gentle, but after a while she pressed it closer, and thus by degrees drew her friend to her with an eager, warm, and enduring pressure. Mrs Askerton made some little effort towards repelling her, some faint motion of resistance; but as the embrace became warmer the poor woman yielded herself to it, and allowed her face to fall upon Clara's shoulder. So they stood, speaking no word, making no attempt to rid themselves of the tears which were blinding their eyes, but gazing out through the moisture on the bleak wintry scene before them. Clara's mind was the more active at the moment, for she was resolving that in this episode of her life she would accept no lesson whatever from Lady Aylmer's teaching no, nor any lesson whatever from the teaching of any Aylmer in existence. And as for the world's rules, she would fit herself to them as best she could; but no such fitting should drive her to the unwomanly cruelty of deserting this woman whom she had known and loved and whom she now loved with a fervour which she had never before felt towards her.

'You have heard it all now,' said Mrs Askerton at last.

'And is it not better so?'

'Ah I do not know. How should I know?'

'Do you not know?' And as she spoke, Clara pressed her arm still closer. 'Do you not know yet?' Then, turning herself half round, she clasped the other woman full in her arms, and kissed her forehead and her lips.