The Belton Estate Part 22

There was no help for her, and the terrible word must be spoken. "She has left her property to Captain Aylmer, papa; and I must say that I think she is right."

"You do not mean everything?"

"She has provided for her servants."

"And has made no provision for you?"

"No, papa."

"Do you mean to tell me that she has left you nothing,--absolutely nothing?" The old man's manner was altogether altered as he asked this question; and there came over his face so unusual a look of energy,--of the energy of anger,--that Clara was frightened, and knew not how to answer him with that tone of authority which she was accustomed to use when she found it necessary to exercise control over him. "Do you mean to say that there is nothing,--nothing?" And as he repeated the question he pushed her away from his knees and stood up with an effort, leaning against the back of his chair.

"Dear papa, do not let this distress you."

"But is it so? Is there in truth nothing?"

"Nothing, papa. Remember that she was not really my aunt."

"Nonsense, child;--nonsense! How can you talk such trash to me as that? And then you tell me not to distress myself! I am to know that you will be a beggar in a year or two,--probably in a few months,--and that is not to distress me! She has been a wicked woman!"

"Oh, papa, do not say that."

"A wicked woman. A very wicked woman. It is always so with those who pretend to be more religious than their neighbours. She has been a very wicked woman, alluring you into her house with false hopes."

"No, papa;--no; I must contradict you. She had given me no ground for such hope."

"I say she had,--even though she may not have made a promise. I say she had. Did not everybody think that you were to have her money?"

"I don't know what people may have thought. n.o.body has had any right to think about it at all."

"That is nonsense, Clara. You know that I expected it;--that you expected it yourself."

"No;--no, no!"

"Clara,--how can you tell me that?"

"Papa, I knew that she intended to leave me nothing. She told me so when I was there in the spring."

"She told you so?"

"Yes, papa. She told me that Frederic Aylmer was to have all her property. She explained to me everything that she meant to do, and I thought that she was right."

"And why was not I told when you came home?"

"Dear papa!"

"Dear papa, indeed. What is the meaning of dear papa? Why have I been deceived?"

"What good could I do by telling you? You could not change it."

"You have been very undutiful; and as for her, her wickedness and cruelty shock me,--shock me. They do, indeed. That she should have known your position, and had you with her always,--and then have made such a will as that! Quite heartless! She must have been quite heartless."

Clara now began to find that she must in justice to her aunt's memory tell her father something more. And yet it would be very difficult to tell him anything that would not bring greater affliction upon him, and would not also lead her into deeper trouble. Should it come to pa.s.s that her aunt's intention with reference to the fifteen hundred pounds was mentioned, she would be subjected to an endless persecution as to the duty of accepting that money from Captain Aylmer. But her present feelings would have made her much prefer to beg her bread upon the roads than accept her late lover's generosity. And then again, how could she explain to her father Mrs.

Winterfield's mistake about her own position without seeming to accuse her father of having robbed her? But nevertheless she must say something, as Mr. Amedroz continued to apply that epithet of heartless to Mrs. Winterfield, going on with it in a low droning tone, that was more injurious to Clara's ears than the first full energy of his anger. "Heartless,--quite heartless;--shockingly heartless,--shockingly heartless!"

"The truth is, papa," Clara said at last, "that when my aunt told me about her will, she did not know but what I had some adequate provision from my own family."

"Oh, Clara!"

"That is the truth, papa;--for she explained the whole thing to me.

I could not tell her that she was mistaken, and thus ask for her money."

"But she knew everything about that poor wretched boy." And now the father dropped back into his chair, and buried his face in his hands.

When he did this Clara again knelt at his feet. She felt that she had been cruel, and that she had defended her aunt at the cost of her own father. She had, as it were, thrown in his teeth his own imprudence, and twitted him with the injuries which he had done to her. "Papa,"

she said, "dear papa, do not think about it at all. What is the use?

After all, money is not everything. I care nothing for money. If you will only agree to banish the subject altogether, we shall be so comfortable."

"How is it to be banished?"

"At any rate we need not speak of it. Why should we talk on a subject which is simply uncomfortable, and which we cannot mend?"

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" And now he swayed himself backwards and forwards in his chair, bewailing his own condition and hers, and his past imprudence, while the tears ran down his cheeks. She still knelt there at his feet, looking up into his face with loving, beseeching eyes, praying him to be comforted, and declaring that all would still be well if he would only forget the subject, or, at any rate, cease to speak of it. But still he went on wailing, complaining of his lot as a child complains, and refusing all consolation. "Yes; I know,"

said he, "it has all been my fault. But how could I help it? What was I to do?"

"Papa, n.o.body has said that anything was your fault; n.o.body has thought so."

"I never spent anything on myself--never, never; and yet,--and yet,--and yet--!"

"Look at it with more courage, papa. After all, what harm will it be if I should have to go out and earn my own bread like any other young woman? I am not afraid."

At last he wept himself into an apathetic tranquillity, as though he had at present no further power for any of the energy of grief; and she left him while she went about the house and learned how things had gone on during her absence. It seemed, from the tidings which the servant gave her, that he had been ill almost since she had been gone. He had, at any rate, chosen to take his meals in his own room, and as far as was remembered, had not once left the house since she had been away. He had on two or three occasions spoken of Mr. Belton, appearing to be anxious for his coming, and asking questions as to the cattle and the work that was still going on about the place; and Clara, when she returned to his room, tried to interest him again about her cousin. But he had in truth been too much distressed by the ill news as to Mrs. Winterfield's will to be able to rally himself, and the evening that was spent up in his room was very comfortless to both of them. Clara had her own sorrows to bear as well as her father's, and could take no pleasant look out into the world of her own circ.u.mstances, She had gained her lover merely to lose him,--and had lost him under circ.u.mstances that were very painful to her woman's feeling. Though he had been for one night betrothed to her as her husband, he had never loved her. He had asked her to be his wife simply in fulfilment of a death-bed promise! The more she thought of it the more bitter did the idea of it become to her. And she could not also but think of her cousin. Poor Will! He, at any rate, had loved her, though his eagerness in love had been, as she told herself, but short-lived. As she thought of him, it seemed but the other day that he had been with her up on the rock in the park;--but as she thought of Captain Aylmer, to whom she had become engaged only yesterday, and from whom she had separated herself only that morning, she felt that an eternity of time had pa.s.sed since she had parted from him.

On the following day, a dull, dark, melancholy day, towards the end of November, she went out to saunter about the park, leaving her father still in his bedroom, and after a while made her way down to the cottage. She found Mrs. Askerton as usual alone in the little drawing-room, sitting near the window with a book in her hand; but Clara knew at once that her friend had not been reading,--that she had been sitting there looking out upon the clouds, with her mind fixed upon things far away. The general cheerfulness of this woman had often been cause of wonder to Clara, who knew how many of her hours were pa.s.sed in solitude; but there did occasionally come upon her periods of melancholy in which she was unable to act up to the settled rule of her life, and in which she would confess that the days and weeks and months were too long for her.

"So you are back," said Mrs. Askerton, as soon as the first greeting was over.

"Yes; I am back."

"I supposed you would not stay there long after the funeral."

"No; what good could I do?"

"And Captain Aylmer is still there, I suppose?"

"I left him at Perivale."

There was a slight pause, as Mrs. Askerton hesitated before she asked her next question. "May I be told anything about the will?" she said.

"The weary will! If you knew how I hated the subject you would not ask me. But you must not think I hate it because it has given me nothing."