The Belton Estate

by Anthony Trollope

"I have never doubted you. I never will doubt you. I believe in you next to my God. I do, Will; I do." He walked up and down the room half-a-dozen times before he spoke again, while she stood by the table watching him. "I wish," she said, "I knew what it is that troubles you." To this he made no answer, but went on walking till she came up to him, and putting both her hands upon his arm said, "It will be better, Will, that I should go;—will it not? Speak to me, and say so. I feel that it will be better." Then he stopped in his walk and looked down upon her, as her hands still rested upon his shoulder. He gazed upon her for some few seconds, remaining quite motionless, and then, opening his arms, he surrounded her with his embrace, and pressing her with all his strength close to his bosom, kissed her forehead, and her cheeks, and her lips, and her eyes. His will was so masterful, his strength so great, and his motion so quick, that she was powerless to escape from him till he relaxed his hold. Indeed she hardly struggled, so much was she surprised and so soon released. But the moment that he left her he saw that her face was burning red, and that the tears were streaming from her eyes. She stood for a moment trembling, with her hands clenched, and with a look of scorn upon her lips and brow that he had never seen before; and then she threw herself on a sofa, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud, while her whole body was shaken as with convulsions. He leaned over her repentant, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to speak. All ideas of his scheme had gone from him now. He had offended her for ever,—past redemption. What could be the use now of any scheme? And as he stood there he hated himself because of his scheme. The utter misery and disgrace of the present moment had come upon him because he had thought more of himself than of her. It was but a few moments since she had told him that she trusted him next to her God; and yet, in those few moments, he had shown himself utterly unworthy of that trust, and had destroyed all her confidence. But he could not leave her without speaking to her. "Clara!" he said;—"Clara." But she did not answer him. "Clara; will you not speak to me? Will you not let me ask you to forgive me?" But still she only sobbed. For her, at that moment, we may say that sobbing was easier than speech. How was she to pardon so great an offence? How was she to resent such passionate love?

But he could not continue to stand there motionless, all but speechless, while she lay with her face turned away from him. He must at any rate in some manner take himself away out of the room; and this he could not do, even in his present condition of unlimited disgrace, without a word of farewell. "Perhaps I had better go and leave you," he said.

Then at last there came a voice, "Oh, Will, why have you done this? Why have you treated me so badly?" When he had last seen her face her mouth had been full of scorn, but there was no scorn now in her voice. "Why—why—why?"

Why indeed;—except that it was needful for him that she should know the depth of his passion. "If you will forgive me, Clara, I will not offend you so again," he said.

"You have offended me. What am I to say? What am I to do? I have no other friend."

"I am a wretch. I know that I am a wretch."

"I did not suspect that you would be so cruel. Oh, Will!"

But before he went she told him that she had forgiven him, and she had preached to him a solemn, sweet sermon on the wickedness of yielding to momentary impulses. Her low, grave words sank into his ears as though they were divine; and when she said a word to him, blushing as she spoke, of the sin of his passion, and of what her sin would be if she were to permit it, he sat by her weeping like an infant, tears which were certainly tears of innocence. She had been very angry with him; but I think she loved him better when her sermon was finished, than she had ever loved him before.

There was no further question as to her going to Aylmer Castle, nor was any mention made of Mrs. Askerton's invitation to the cottage. The letter for Lady Aylmer was sent, and it was agreed between them that Will should remain at Redicote till the answer from Yorkshire should come, and should then convey Clara as far as London on her journey. And when he took leave of her that afternoon, she was able to give him her hand in her old hearty, loving way, and to call him Will with the old hearty, loving tone. And he,—he was able to accept these tokens of her graciousness, as though they were signs of a pardon which she had been good to give, but which he certainly had not deserved.

As he went back to Redicote, he swore to himself that he would never love any woman but her,—even though she must be the wife of Captain Aylmer.