The Belton Estate Part 25

"Girls, I believe, think sometimes that men are indifferent in their love. They suppose that a man can forget it at once when he is not accepted, and that things can go on just as before."

"I suppose she thinks so of me," said Belton wofully.

"She must either think that, or else be willing to give herself the chance of learning to like you better."

"There's nothing of that, I'm sure. She's as true as steel."

"But she would hardly want you to go there unless she thought you might overcome either your love or her indifference. She would not wish you to be there that you might be miserable."

"Before I had asked her to be my wife I had promised to be her brother. And so I will, if she should ever want a brother. I am not going to desert her because she will not do what I want her to do, or be what I want her to be. She understands that. There is to be no quarrel between us."

"But she would be heartless if she were to encourage you to be with her simply for the a.s.sistance you may give her, knowing at the same time that you could not be happy in her presence."

"She is not heartless."

"Then she must suppose that you are."

"I dare say she doesn't think that I care much about it. When I told her, I did it all of a heap, you see; and I fancy she thought I was just mad at the time."

"And did you speak about it again?"

"No; not a word. I shouldn't wonder if she hadn't forgotten it before I went away."

"That would be impossible."

"You wouldn't say so if you knew how it was done. It was all over in half an hour; and she had given me such an answer that I thought I had no right to say anything more about it. The morning when I left her she did seem to be kinder."

"I wish I knew whether she cares for any one else."

"Ah! I so often think of that. But I couldn't ask her, you know. I had no right to pry into her secrets. When I came away, she got up to see me off; and I almost felt tempted to carry her into the gig and drive her off."

"I don't think that would have done, Will."

"I don't suppose anything will do. We all know what happens to the child who cries for the top brick of the chimney. The child has to do without it. The child goes to bed and forgets it; but I go to bed,--and can't forget it."

"My poor Will!"

Then he got up and shook himself, and stalked about the garden,--always keeping within a few yards of his sister's chair,--and carried on a strong battle within his breast, struggling to get the better of the weakness which his love produced, though resolved that the love itself should be maintained.

"I wish it wasn't Sunday," he said at last, "because then I could go and do something. If I thought that no one would see me, I'd fill a dung-cart or two, even though it is Sunday. I'll tell you what;--I'll go and take a walk as far as Denvir Sluice; and I'll be back to tea.

You won't mind?"

"Denvir Sluice is eight miles off."

"Exactly,--I'll be there and back in something over three hours."

"But, Will,--there's a broiling sun."

"It will do me good. Anything that will take something out of me is what I want. I know I ought to stay and read to you; but I couldn't do it. I've got the fidgets inside, if you know what that means. To have the big hay-rick on fire, or something of that sort, is what would do me most good."

Then he started, and did walk to Denvir Sluice and back in three hours. The road from Plaistow Hall to Denvir Sluice was not in itself interesting. It ran through a perfectly flat country, without a tree.

For the greater part of the way it was constructed on the top of a great bank by the side of a broad dike, and for five miles its course was straight as a line. A country walk less picturesque could hardly be found in England. The road, too, was very dusty, and the sun was hot above Belton's head as he walked. But nevertheless, he persevered, going on till he struck his stick against the waterfall which was called Denvir Sluice, and then returned,--not once slackening his pace, and doing the whole distance at a rate somewhat above five miles an hour. They used to say in the nursery that cold pudding is good to settle a man's love; but the receipt which Belton tried was a walk of sixteen miles, along a dusty road, after dinner, in the middle of an August day.

I think it did him some good. When he got back he took a long draught of home-brewed beer, and then went up-stairs to dress himself.

"What a state you are in," Mary said to him when he showed himself for a moment in the sitting-room.

"I did it from milestone to milestone in eleven minutes, backwards and forwards, all along the five-mile reach."

Then Mary knew from his answer that the exercise had been of service to him, perceiving that he had been able to take an interest in his own prowess as a walker.

"I only hope you won't have a fever," she said.

"The people who stand still are they who get fevers," he answered.

"Hard work never does harm to any one. If John Bowden would walk his five miles an hour on a Sunday afternoon he wouldn't have the gout so often."

John Bowden was a neighbour in the next parish, and Mary was delighted to find that her brother could take a pride in his performance.

By degrees Miss Belton began to know with some accuracy the way in which Will had managed his affairs at Belton Castle, and was enabled to give him salutary advice.

"You see, Will," she said, "ladies are different from men in this, that they cannot allow themselves to be in love so suddenly."

"I don't see how a person is to help it. It isn't like jumping into a river, which a person can do or not, just as he pleases."

"But I fancy it is something like jumping into a river, and that a person can help it. What the person can't help is being in when the plunge has once been made."

"No, by George! There's no getting out of that river."

"And ladies don't take the plunge till they've had time to think what may come after it. Perhaps you were a little too sudden with our cousin Clara?"

"Of course I was. Of course I was a fool, and a brute too."

"I know you were not a brute, and I don't think you were a fool; but yet you were too sudden. You see a lady cannot always make up her mind to love a man, merely because she is asked--all in a moment. She should have a little time to think about it before she is called upon for an answer."

"And I didn't give her two minutes."

"You never do give two minutes to anyone;--do you, Will? But you'll be back there at Christmas, and then she will have had time to turn you and it over in her mind."

"And you think that I may have a chance?"

"Certainty you may have a chance."

"Although she was so sure about it?"

"She spoke of her own mind and her own heart as she knew them then.

But it depends chiefly on this, Will,--whether there is any one else.

For anything we know, she may be engaged now."

"Of course she may." Then Belton speculated on the extreme probability of such a contingency; arguing within his own heart that of course every unmarried man who might see Clara would want to marry her, and that there could not but be some one whom even she would be able to love.