could be of service to him. He had been awkward in his love-making, and was aware of it. He should have contrived this period of waiting for himself; giving her no option but to wait and think of it. He should have made no proposal, but have left her certain that such proposal was coming. In such case she must have waited—and if good could have come to him from that, he might have received it. But, as the question was now presented to her, it was impossible that she should consent to wait. To have given such consent would have been tantamount to receiving him as her lover. She was therefore forced to be cruel.
"It will be of no avail to postpone my answer when I know what it must be. Why should there be suspense?"
"You mean that it is impossible that you should love me?"
"Not in that way, Will."
"And why not?" Then there was a pause. "But I am a fool to ask such a question as that, and I should be worse than a fool were I to press it. It must then be considered as settled?"
She got up and clung to his arm. "Oh, Will, do not look at me like that!"
"It must then be considered as settled?" he repeated.
"Yes, Will, yes. Pray consider it as settled." He then sat down on the rock again, and she came and sat by him,—near to him, but not close as she had been before. She turned her eyes upon him, gazing on him, but did not speak to him; and he sat also without speaking for a while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. "I suppose we may go back to the house?" he said at last.
"Give me your hand, Will, and tell me that you will still love me—as your sister."
He gave her his hand. "If you ever want a brother's care you shall have it from me," he said.
"But not a brother's love?"
"No. How can the two go together? I shan't cease to love you because my love is in vain. Instead of making me happy it will make me wretched. That will be the only difference."
"I would give my life to make you happy, if that were possible."
"You will not give me your life in the way that I would have it." After that they walked in silence back to the house, and when he had opened the front door for her, he parted from her and stood alone under the porch, thinking of his misfortune.
CHAPTER VI.
SAFE AGAINST LOVE-MAKING ONCE AGAIN.
For a considerable time Belton stood under the porch of the house, thinking of what had happened to him, and endeavouring to steady himself under the blow which he had received. I do not know that he had been sanguine of success. Probably he had made to himself no assurances on the subject. But he was a man to whom failure, of itself, was intolerable. In any other event of life he would have told himself that he would not fail—that he would persevere and conquer. He could imagine no other position as to which he could at once have been assured of failure, in any project on which he had set his heart. But as to this project it was so. He had been told that she could not love him—that she could never love him;—and he had believed her. He had made his attempt and had failed; and, as he thought of this, standing under the porch, he became convinced that life for him was altogether changed, and that he who had been so happy must now be a wretched man.
He was still standing there when Mr. Amedroz came down into the hall, dressed for dinner, and saw his figure through the open doors. "Will," he said, coming up to him, "it only wants five minutes to dinner." Belton started and shook himself, as though he were shaking off a lethargy, and declared that he was quite ready. Then he remembered that he would be expected to dress, and rushed up-stairs, three steps at a time, to his own room. When he came down, Clara and her father were already in the dining-room, and he joined them there.
Mr. Amedroz, though he was not very quick in reading facts from the manners of those with whom he lived, had felt assured that things had gone wrong between Belton and his daughter. He had not as yet had a minute in which to speak to Clara, but he was certain that it was so. Indeed, it was impossible not to read terrible disappointment and deep grief in the young man's manner. He made no attempt to conceal it, though he did not speak of it. Through the whole evening, though he was alone for a while with the squire, and alone also for a time with Clara, he never mentioned or alluded to the subject of his rejection. But he bore himself as though he knew and they knew—as though all the world knew that he had been rejected. And yet he did not remain silent. He talked of his property and of his plans, and explained how things were to be done in his absence. Once only was there something like an allusion made to his sorrow. "But you will be here at Christmas?" said Mr. Amedroz, in answer to something which Belton had said as to work to be done in his absence. "I do not know how that may be now," said Belton. And then they had all been silent.
It was a terrible evening to Clara. She endeavoured to talk, but found it to be impossible. All the brightness of the last few days had disappeared, and the world seemed to her to be more sad and solemn than ever. She had no idea when she was refusing him that he would have taken it to heart as he had done. The question had come before her for decision so suddenly, that she had not, in fact, had time to think of this as she was making her answer. All she had done was to feel that she could not be to him what he wished her to be. And even as yet she had hardly asked herself why she must be so steadfast in her refusal. But she had refused him steadfastly, and she did not for a moment think of reducing the earnestness of her resolution. It seemed to be manifest to her, from his present manner, that he would never ask the question again; but she was sure, let it be asked ever so often, that it could not be answered in any other way.
Mr. Amedroz, not knowing why it was so, became cross and querulous, and scolded his daughter. To Belton, also, he was captious, making little difficulties, and answering him with petulance. This the rejected lover took with most extreme patience, as though such a trifling annoyance had no effect in adding anything to his misery. He still held his purpose of going on the Saturday, and was still intent on work which was to be done before he went; but it seemed that he was satisfied to do everything now as a duty, and that the enjoyment of the thing, which had heretofore been so conspicuous, was over.
At last they separated, and Clara, as was her wont, went up to her father's room. "Papa," she said, "what is all this about Mr. Belton?"
"All what, my dear? what do you mean?"
"He has asked me to be,—to be his wife; and has told me that he came with your consent."
"And why shouldn't he have my consent? What is there amiss with him? Why shouldn't you marry him if he likes you? You seemed, I thought, to be very fond of him."
This surprised Clara more than anything. She could hardly have told herself why, but she would have thought that such a proposition from her cousin would have made her father angry,—unreasonably angry;—angry with him for presuming to have such an idea; but now it seemed that he was going to be angry with her for not accepting her cousin out of hand.
"Yes, papa; I am fond of him; but not like that. I did not expect that he would think of me in that way."
"But why shouldn't he think of you? It would be a very good marriage for you, as far as money is concerned."
"You would not have me marry any one for that reason;—would you, papa?"
"But you seemed to like him. Well; of course I can't make you like him. I meant to do for the best; and when he came to me as he did, I thought he was behaving very handsomely, and very much like a gentleman."
"I am sure he would do that."
"And if I could have thought that this place would be your home when I am gone, it would have made me very happy;—very happy."
She now came and stood close to him and took his hand. "I hope, papa, you do not make yourself uneasy about me. I shall do very well. I'm sure you can't want me to go away and leave you."