The Belton Estate Part 41

"Oh, Will, Will!"

"You know what I mean. I'd go anywhere. Where is she to find a home till,--till she is married?" He had paused at the word; but was determined not to shrink from it, and bolted it out in a loud, sharp tone, so that both he and she recognised all the meaning of the word,--all that was conveyed in the idea. He hated himself when he endeavoured to conceal from his own mind any of the misery that was coming upon him. He loved her. He could not get over it. The pa.s.sion was on him,--like a palsy, for the shaking off of which no sufficient physical energy was left to him. It clung to him in his goings out and comings in with a painful, wearing tenacity, against which he would now and again struggle, swearing that it should be so no longer,--but against which he always struggled in vain. It was with him when he was hunting. He was ever thinking of it when the bird rose before his gun. As he watched the furrow, as his men and horses would drive it straight and deep through the ground, he was thinking of her,--and not of the straightness and depth of the furrow, as had been his wont in former years. Then he would turn away his face, and stand alone in his field, blinded by the salt drops in his eyes, weeping at his own weakness. And when he was quite alone, he would stamp his foot on the ground, and throw abroad his arms, and curse himself. What Nessus's s.h.i.+rt was this that had fallen upon him, and unmanned him from the sole of his foot to the top of his head? He went through the occupations of the week. He hunted, and shot, and gave his orders, and paid his men their wages;--but he did it all with a palsy of love upon him as he did it. He wanted her, and he could not overcome the want. He could not bear to confess to himself that the thing by which he had set so much store could never belong to him. His sister understood it all, and sometimes he was almost angry with her because of her understanding it. She sympathised with him in all his moods, and sometimes he would shake away her sympathy as though it scalded him. "Where is she to find a home till,--till she is married?" he said.

Not a word had as yet been said between them about the property which was now his estate. He was now Belton of Belton, and it must be supposed that both he and she had remembered that it was so. But hitherto not a word had been said between them on that point. Now she was compelled to allude to it. "Cannot she live at the Castle for the present?"

"What;--all alone?"

"Of course she is remaining there now."

"Yes," said he, "of course she is there now. Now! Why, remember what these telegraphic messages are. He died only on yesterday morning.

Of course she is there, but I do not think it can be good that she should remain there. There is no one near her where she is but that Mrs. Askerton. It can hardly be good for her to have no other female friend at such a time as this."

"I do not think that Mrs. Askerton will hurt her."

"Mrs. Askerton will not hurt her at all,--and as long as Clara does not know the story, Mrs. Askerton may serve as well as another. But yet--"

"Can I go to her, Will?"

"No, dearest. The journey would kill you in winter. And he would not like it. We are bound to think of that for her sake,--cold-hearted, thankless, meagre-minded creature as I know he is."

"I do not know why he should be so bad."

"No, nor I. But I know that he is. Never mind. Why should we talk about him? I suppose she'll have to go there,--to Aylmer Park. I suppose they will send for her, and keep her there till it's all finished. I'll tell you what, Mary,--I shall give her the place."

"What,--Belton Castle?"

"Why not? Will it ever be of any good to you or me? Do you want to go and live there?"

"No, indeed;--not for myself."

"And do you think that I could live there? Besides, why should she be turned out of her father's house?"

"He would not be mean enough to take it."

"He would be mean enough for anything. Besides, I should take very good care that it should be settled upon her."

"That's nonsense, Will;--it is indeed. You are now William Belton of Belton, and you must remain so."

"Mary,--I would sooner be Will Belton with Clara Amedroz by my side to get through the world with me, and not the interest of an acre either at Belton Castle or at Plaistow Hall! And I believe I should be the richer man at the end,--if there were any good in that." Then he went out of the room, and she heard him go through the kitchen, and knew that he pa.s.sed out into the farm-yard, towards the stable, by the back-door. He intended, it seemed, to go on with his hunting in spite of this death which had occurred. She was sorry for it, but she could not venture to stop him. And she was sorry also that nothing had been settled as to the writing of any letter to Clara.

She, however, would take upon herself to write while he was gone.

He went straight out towards the stables, hardly conscious of what he was doing or where he was going, and found his hack ready saddled for him in the stall. Then he remembered that he must either go or come to some decision that he would not go. The horse that he intended to ride had been sent on to the meet, and if he were not to be used, some message must be despatched as to the animal's return. But Will was half inclined to go, although he knew that the world would judge him to be heartless if he were to go hunting immediately on the receipt of the tidings which had reached him that morning. He thought that he would like to set the world at defiance in this matter. Let Frederic Aylmer go into mourning for the old man who was dead. Let Frederic Aylmer be solicitous for the daughter who was left lonely in the old house. No doubt he, Will Belton, had inherited the dead man's estate, and should, therefore, in accordance with all the ordinary rules of the world on such matters, submit himself at any rate to the decency of funereal reserve. An heir should not be seen out hunting on the day on which such tidings as to his heritage had reached him.

But he did not wish, in his present mood, to be recognised as the heir. He did not want the property. He would have preferred to rid himself altogether of any of the obligations which the owners.h.i.+p of the estate entailed upon him. It was not permitted to him to have the custody of the old squire's daughter, and therefore he was unwilling to meddle with any of the old squire's concerns.

Belton had gone into the stable, and had himself loosed the animal, leading him out into the yard as though he were about to mount him.

Then he had given the reins to a stable boy, and had walked away among the farm buildings, not thinking of what he was doing. The lad stood staring at him with open mouth, not at all understanding his master's hesitation. The meet, as the boy knew, was fourteen miles off, and Belton had not allowed himself above an hour and a half for the journey. It was his practice to jump into the saddle and bustle out of the place, as though seconds were important to him. He would look at his watch with accuracy, and measure his pace from spot to spot, as though minutes were too valuable to be lost. But now he wandered away like one distraught, and the stable boy knew that something was wrong. "I thout he was a thinken of the white cow as choked 'erself with the tunnup that was skipped in the chopping,"

said the boy, as he spoke of his master afterwards to the old groom.

At last, however, a thought seemed to strike Belton. "Do you get on Brag," he said to the boy, "and ride off to Goldingham Corner, and tell Daniel to bring the horse home again. I shan't hunt to-day. And I think I shall go away from home. If so, tell him to be sure the horses are out every morning;--and tell him to stop their beans. I mightn't hunt again for the next month." Then he returned into the house, and went to the parlour in which his sister was sitting. "I shan't go out to-day," he said.

"I thought you would not, Will," she answered.

"Not that I see any harm in it."

"I don't say that there is any harm, but it is as well on such occasions to do as others do."

"That's humbug, Mary."

"No, Will; I do not think that. When any practice has become the fixed rule of the society in which we live, it is always wise to adhere to that rule, unless it call upon us to do something that is actually wrong. One should not offend the prejudices of the world, even if one is quite sure that they are prejudices."

"It hasn't been that that has brought me back, Mary. I'll tell you what. I think I'll go down to Belton--after all."

His sister did not know what to say in answer to this. Her chief anxiety was, of course, on behalf of her brother. That he should be made to forget Clara Amedroz, if that were only possible, was her great desire; and his journey at such a time as this down to Belton was not the way to accomplish such forgetting. And then she felt that Clara might very possibly not wish to see him. Had Will simply been her cousin, such a visit might be very well; but he had attempted to be more than her cousin, and therefore it would probably not be well.

Captain Aylmer might not like it; and Mary felt herself bound to consider even Captain Aylmer's likings in such a matter. And yet she could not bear to oppose him in anything. "It would be a very long journey," she said.

"What does that signify?"

"And then it might so probably be for nothing."

"Why should it be for nothing?"

"Because--"

"Because what? Why don't you speak out? You need not be afraid of hurting me. Nothing that you can say can make it at all worse than it is."

"Dear Will, I wish I could make it better."

"But you can't. n.o.body can make it either better or worse. I promised her once before that I would go to her when she might be in trouble, and I will be as good as my word. I said I would be a brother to her;--and so I will. So help me G.o.d, I will!" Then he rushed out of the room, striding through the door as though he would knock it down, and hurried up-stairs to his own chamber. When there he stripped himself of his hunting things, and dressed himself again with all the expedition in his power; and then he threw a heap of clothes into a large portmanteau, and set himself to work packing as though everything in the world were to depend upon his catching a certain train. And he went to a locked drawer, and taking out a cheque-book, folded it up and put it into his pocket. Then he rang the bell violently; and as he was locking the portmanteau, pressing down the lid with all his weight and all his strength, he ordered that a certain mare should be put into a certain dog-cart, and that somebody might be ready to drive over with him to the Downham Station. Within twenty minutes of the time of his rus.h.i.+ng up-stairs he appeared again before his sister with a great-coat on, and a railway rug hanging over his arm. "Do you mean that you are going to-day?" said she.

"Yes. I'll catch the 11.40 up-train at Downham. What's the good of going unless I go at once? If I can be of any use it will be at the first. It may be that she will have n.o.body there to do anything for her."

"There is the clergyman, and Colonel Askerton,--even if Captain Aylmer has not gone down."

"The clergyman and Colonel Askerton are nothing to her. And if that man is there I can come back again."

"You will not quarrel with him?"

"Why should I quarrel with him? What is there to quarrel about? I'm not such a fool as to quarrel with a man because I hate him. If he is there I shall see her for a minute or two, and then I shall come back."

"I know it is no good my trying to dissuade you."

"None on earth. If you knew it all you would not try to dissuade me.

Before I thought of asking her to be my wife,--and yet I thought of that very soon;--but before I ever thought of that, I told her that when she wanted a brother's help I would give it her. Of course I was thinking of the property,--that she shouldn't be turned out of her father's house like a beggar. I hadn't any settled plan then;--how could I? But I meant her to understand that when her father died I would be the same to her that I am to you. If you were alone, in distress, would I not go to you?"

"But I have no one else, Will," said she, stretching out her hand to him where he stood.

"That makes no difference," he replied, almost roughly. "A promise is a promise, and I resolved from the first that my promise should hold good in spite of my disappointment. Dear, dear;--it seems but the other day when I made it,--and now, already, everything is changed."

As he was speaking the servant entered the room, and told him that the horse and gig were ready for him. "I shall just do it nicely,"

said he, looking at his watch. "I have over an hour. G.o.d bless you, Mary. I shan't be away long. You may be sure of that."