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COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 VOL. 926. 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
TAUCHNITZ EDITION". 
 By the same Author, 
 
 DOCTOR THORNE 2 vols. 
 
 THE BERTRAMS 2 vols. 
 
 THE WARDEN 1 vol. 
 
 BARCHESTER TOWERS 2 vols. 
 
 CASTLE RICHMOND . 2 vols. 
 
 THE WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN . 1 vol. 
 
 FRAMLEY PARSONAGE 2 vols. 
 
 NORTH AMERICA 3 vols. 
 
 ORLEY FARM 3 vols. 
 
 RACHEL RAY 2 vols. 
 
 THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON .... 3 vols. 
 
 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? 3 vols. 
 
 THE BELTON ESTATE 2 vols. 
 
 THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET .... 3 vols. 
 
 PHINEAS FINN 3 vols. 
 
 HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT 3 vols. 
 
 THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON 2 vols. 
 
 SIR HARRY HOTSPUR OF HUMBLETHWAITE . 1 vol. 
 
 RALPH THE HEIR 2 vols. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE 1 vol. 
 
 AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND 3 vols. 
 
 LADY ANNA 2 vols. 
 
 HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL 1 vol. 
 
 THE WAY WE LIVE NOW 4 vols. 
 
ii3 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 .OP VOLUME I. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER I. Julia Brabazon 7 
 
 — n. Harry Clavering chooses his Profession ... 18 
 
 — m. Lord Ongar . 36 
 
 — rV. Florence Burton 60 
 
 — V. Lady Ongar's Return 65 
 
 — VI. The Rev. Samuel Saul 80 
 
 — Vn. Some Scenes in the Life of a Countess ... 93 
 
 — Vni. The House in Onslow Crescent 109 
 
 — IX. Too Prudent by Half 123 
 
 — X. Florence Burton at the Rectory . . . . 135 
 
 — XI. Sir Hugh and his Brother Archie .... 150 
 
 — Xn. Lady Ongar takes Possession 169 
 
 — xni. A Visitor calls at Ongar Park 179 
 
 — XrV. Count Pateroff and his Sister 190 
 
 — XV. An Evening in Bolton Street 205 
 
 — XVI. The Rivals 223 
 
 — XVn. Let her Know that you're There .... 238 
 
 — XVin. Captain Clavering makes his First Attempt . . 251 
 
 — XIX. The Blue Posts 267 
 
 — XX. Desolation 283 
 
 389278 
 
vr CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. Yes; Wrong; — Certainly Wrong ... 297 
 
 — XXII. The Day of the Funeral 312 
 
 ~ XXm. Cumberly Lane without the Mud .... 327 
 
 — XXIV. The Russian Spy 338 
 
 1 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 
 ANTHONY TKOLLOPE. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITIOK 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 TJie Itight of Translation is reserved. 
 
 BY 
 
 1867. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2015 
 
 https://archive.org/details/claverings21trol 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Julia Brabazon. 
 
 The gardens of Clavering Park were removed some 
 three hundred yards from the large, square, sombre- 
 looking stone mansion which was the country-house of 
 Sir Hugh Clavering, the eleventh baronet of that name ; 
 and in these gardens, which had but little of beauty to 
 recommend them, I will introduce my readers to two 
 of the personages with whom I wish to make them 
 acquainted in the following story. It was now the end 
 of August, and the parterres, beds, and bits of lawn 
 were dry, disfigured, and almost ugly, from the effects 
 of a long drought. In gardens to which care and 
 labour are given abundantly, flower-beds will be pretty, 
 and grass will be green, let the weather be what it 
 may, but care and labour were but scantily bestowed 
 on the Clavering Gardens, and everything was yellow, 
 adust, harsh, and dry. Over the burnt turf, towards a 
 gate that led to the house, a lady was walking, and 
 by her side there walked a gentleman. 
 
 "You are going in, then. Miss Brabazon," said the 
 gentleman, and it was very manifest from his tone 
 that he intended to convey some deep reproach in his 
 words. 
 
8 
 
 THE CLAVEiaNGS. 
 
 ''Of course I am going in," said tlie lady. "You 
 asked me to walk with you, and I refused. You have 
 now waylaid me, and therefore I shall escape, — 
 unless I am prevented by violence." As she spoke 
 she stood still for a moment, and looked into his face 
 with a smile which seemed to indicate that if such 
 violence were used, within rational bounds, she would 
 not feel herself driven to great anger. 
 
 But though she might be inclined to be playful, 
 he was by no means in that mood. "And why did 
 you refuse me when I asked you?" said he. 
 
 "For two reasons: partly because I thought it better 
 to avoid any conversation with you — " 
 
 "That is civil to an old friend." 
 
 "But chiefly," and now as she spoke she drew her- 
 self up, and dismissed the smile from her face, and 
 allowed her eyes to fall upon the ground; "but chiefly 
 because I thought that Lord Ongar would prefer that 
 I should not roam alone about Clavering Park with 
 any young gentleman while I am down here ; and that 
 he might specially object to my roaming with you, 
 were he to know that you and I were — old acquaint- 
 ances. Now I have been very frank, Mr. Clavering, 
 and I think that that ought to be enough." 
 
 "You are afraid of him already, then?" 
 
 "I am afraid of offending any one whom I love, 
 and especially any one to whom I owe any duty." 
 
 "Enough! indeed it is not. From what you know 
 of me do you think it likely that that will be 
 enough?" He was now standing in front of her, be- 
 tween her and the gate, and she made no effort to 
 leave him. 
 
 "And what is it you want? I suppose you do not 
 
./ 
 
 "^jULIA BRABAZON. 
 
 9 
 
 mean to fight Lord Oiigar, and that if you did you 
 would not come to me." 
 
 ''Fight him! No; I have no quarrel with him. 
 Fighting him would do no good." 
 
 "None in the least; and he would not fight if you 
 were to ask him; and you could not ask without being 
 false to me." 
 
 "I should have had an example for that, at any rate." 
 
 "That's nonsense, Mr. Clavering. My falsehood, 
 if you should choose to call me false, is of a very dif- 
 ferent nature, and is pardonable by all laws known in 
 the world." 
 
 "You are a jilt, — that is all." 
 
 "Come, Harry, don't use hard words," and she put 
 her hand kindly upon his arm. "Look at me, such as 
 I am, and at yourself, and then say whether anything 
 but misery could come of a match between you and 
 me. Our ages by the register are the same, but I am 
 ten years older than you by the world. I have two 
 hundred a year, and I owe at this moment six hun- 
 dred pounds. You have, perhaps, double as much, and 
 would lose half of that if you married. You are an 
 usher at a school." 
 
 "No, madam, I am not an usher at a school." 
 
 "Well, well, you know I don't mean to make you 
 angry." 
 
 "At the present moment, I am a schoolmaster, and 
 if I remained so, I might fairly look forward to a 
 liberal income. But I am going to give that up." 
 
 "You will not be more fit for matrimony because 
 you are going to give up your profession. Now Lord 
 Ongar has — heaven knows what; — perhaps sixty 
 thousand a year." 
 
10 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "In all my life I never heard sucli effrontery, — 
 such barefaced shameless worldliness!'' 
 
 "Why should I not love a man with a large m- 
 come?" 
 
 "He is old enough to be your father." 
 "He is thirty-six, and I am twenty-four." 
 "Thirty-six!" 
 
 "There is the Peerage for you to look at. But, 
 my dear Harry, do you not know that you are per- 
 plexing me and yourself too, for nothing? I was 
 fool enough when I came here from Nice, after papa's 
 death, to let you talk nonsense to me for a month or 
 two." 
 
 "Did you or did you not swear that you loved 
 me?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Clavering, I did not imagine that your 
 strength would have condescended to take such ad- 
 vantage over the weakness of a woman. I remember 
 no oaths of any kind, and what foolish assertions I 
 may have made, I am not going to repeat. It must 
 have become manifest to you during these two years 
 that all that was a romance. If it be a pleasure to 
 you to look back to it, of that pleasure I cannot de- 
 prive you. Perhaps I also may sometimes look back. 
 But I shall never speak of that time again; and you, 
 if you are as noble as I take you to be, will not 
 speak of it either. I know you would not wish to in- 
 jure me." 
 
 "I would wish to save you from the misery you 
 are bringing on yourself." 
 
 "In that you must allow me to look after myself 
 LordOngar certainly wants a wife, and I intend to be 
 true to him, — and useful." 
 
JULTA BRABAZON. 
 
 11 
 
 "How about love?" 
 
 "And to love him, sir. Do you think that no man 
 can win a woman's love, unless he is filled to the brim 
 with poetry, and has a neck like Lord Byron, and is 
 handsome like your worship? You are very hand- 
 some, Harry, and you, too, should go into the market 
 and make the best of yourself. Why should you not 
 learn to love some nice girl that has money to assist 
 you?" 
 
 "Julia!" 
 
 "No, sir; I will not be called Julia. If you do, I 
 will be insulted, and leave you instantly. I may call 
 you Harry, as being so much younger, — though we 
 were born in the same month, and as a sort of cousin. 
 But I shall never do that after to-day." 
 
 "You have courage enough, then, to tell me that 
 you have not ill-used me?" 
 
 "Certainly I have. Why, what a fool you would 
 have me be! Look at me, and tell me whether I am 
 fit to be the wife of such a one as you. By the time 
 you are entering the world, I shall be an old woman, 
 and shall have lived my life. Even if I were fit to 
 be your mate when we were living here together, am 
 I fit, after what I have done and seen during the last 
 two years? Do you think it would really do any good 
 to any one if I were to jilt, as you call it. Lord Ongar, 
 and tell them all, — your cousin. Sir Hugh, and my 
 sister, and your father, — that I was going to keep 
 myself up, and marry you when you were ready for 
 me?" 
 
 "You mean to say that the evil is done." 
 "No, indeed. At the present moment I owe six 
 hundred pounds, and I don't know where to turn for 
 
12 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 it, SO that my husband may not be dunned for my 
 debts as soon as he has married me.. What a wife I 
 should have been for you*, — should I not?" 
 
 "I could pay the six hundred pounds for you with 
 money that I have earned myself, though you do call 
 me an usher; and perhaps would ask fewer questions 
 about it than Lord Ongar will do with all his thou- 
 sands." 
 
 "Dear Harry, I beg your pardon about the usher. 
 Of course, I know that you are a fellow of your col- 
 lege, and that St. Cuthbert's, where you teach the boys, 
 is one of the grandest schools in England; and I hope 
 you'll be a bishop; nay, — I think you will, if you 
 make up your mind to try for it." 
 
 "I have given up all idea of going into the 
 church." 
 
 "Then youll be a judge. I know you'll be great 
 and distinguished, and that you'll do it all yourself. 
 You are distinguished already. If you could only 
 know how infinitely I should prefer your lot to mine! 
 Oh, Harry, I envy you! I do envy you! You 
 have got the ball at your feet, and the world before 
 you, and can win everything for yourself." 
 
 "But nothing is anything without your love." 
 
 "Psha! Love, indeed. What could I do for you 
 but ruin you? You know it as well as I do; but you 
 are selfish enough to wish to continue a romance which 
 would be absolutely destructive to me, though for a 
 while it might afi'ord a pleasant relaxation to your 
 graver studies. Harry, you can choose in the world. 
 You have divinity, and law, and literature, and art. 
 And if debarred from love now by the exigencies of 
 
JULIA BRABAZON. 
 
 13 
 
 labour, you will be as fit for love in ten years' time 
 as you are at present." 
 "But I do love now." 
 
 "Be a man, then, and keep it to yourself. Love is 
 not to be our master. You can cboose, as I say, but 
 I have had no choice, — no choice but to be married 
 well, or to go out like a snufP of a candle. I don't 
 like the snuff of a candle, and, therefore, I am going 
 to be married well." 
 
 "And that suffices?" 
 
 "It must suffice. And why should it not suf- 
 fice? You are very uncivil, cousin, and very unlike 
 the rest of the world. Everybody compliments me 
 on my marriage. Lord Ongar is not only rich, but he 
 is a man of fashion, and a man of talent." 
 
 "Are you fond of race-horses yourself?" 
 
 "Very fond of them." 
 
 " And of that kind of life?" 
 
 "Very fond of it. I mean to be fond of everything 
 that Lord Ongar likes. I know that I can't change 
 him, and therefore I shall not try." 
 
 "You are right there. Miss Brabazon." 
 
 "You mean to be impertinent, sir-, but I will not 
 take it so. This is to be our last meeting in private, 
 and I won't acknowledge that I am insulted. But it 
 must be over now, Harry, and here I have been pacing 
 round and round the garden with you, in spite of my 
 refusal just now. Tt must not be repeated, or things 
 will be said which I do not mean to have ever said of 
 me. Good-by, Harry." 
 
 "Good-by, Julia." 
 
 "Well, for that once let it pass. And remember 
 this*, I have told you all my hopes, and my one trouble. 
 
14 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 I have been thus open with you because I thought it 
 might serve to make you look at things in a right \ 
 light. I trust to your honour as a gentleman to re- 
 peat nothing that I have said to you." 
 
 "I am not given to repeat such things as those." 
 
 ''I'm sure you are not. And I hope you will not 
 misunderstand the spirit in which they have been 
 spoken. I shall never regret what I have told you 
 now, if it tends to make you perceive that we must 
 both regard our past acquaintance as a romance, which 
 must, from the stern necessity of things, be treated as 
 a dream which we have dreamt, or a poem which we 
 have read." 
 
 "You can treat it as you please." 
 
 "God bless you, Harry, and I will always hope 
 for your welfare, and hear of your success with joy. 
 Will you come up and shoot with them on Thursday?" 
 
 "What, with Hugh? No; Hugh and I do not hit 
 it off together. If I shot at Clavering I should have 
 to do it as a sort of head-keeper. It's a higher posi- 
 tion, I know, than that of an usher, but it doesn't suit 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, Harry! that is so cruel! But you will come 
 up to the house. Lord Ongar will be there on the 
 thirty-first; the day after to morrow, you know." 
 
 "I must decline even that temptation. I never go 
 into the house when Hugh is there, except about twice 
 a year on solemn invitation — just to prevent there 
 being a family quarrel." 
 
 "Grood-by then," and she offered him her hand. 
 
 "Good-by, if it must be so." 
 
 "I don't know whether you mean to grace my mar- 
 riage?" 
 
JULIA BRABAZON. 
 
 15 
 
 "Certainly not. I shall be away from Clavering, 
 so that the marriage bells may not wound my ears. 
 For the matter of that, I shall be at the school.'' 
 
 "I suppose we shall meet some day in town." 
 
 "Most probably not. My ways and Lord Ongar's 
 will be altogether different, even if I should succeed in 
 getting up to London. If you ever come to see Her- 
 mione here, I may chance to meet you in the house. 
 But you will not do that often, the place is so dull 
 and unattractive." 
 
 "It is the dearest old park." 
 
 "You won't care much for old parks as Lady Ongar." 
 
 "You don't know what I may care about as Lady 
 Ongar; but as Julia Brabazon I will now say good-by 
 for the last time." Then they parted, and the lady 
 returned to the great house, while Harry Clavering 
 made his way across the park towards the rectory. 
 
 Three years before this scene in the gardens at 
 Clavering Park, Lord Brabazon liad died at Nice, 
 leaving one unmarried daughter, the lady to whom the 
 reader has just been introduced. One other daugh- 
 ter he had, who was then already married to Sir 
 Hugh Clavering, and Lady Clavering was the Her- 
 mione of whom mention has been already made. Lord 
 Brabazon, whose peerage had descended to him in a 
 direct line from the times of the Plantagenets, was one 
 of those unfortunate nobles , of whom England is 
 burdened with but few, who have no means equal to 
 their rank. He had married late in life, and had died 
 without a male heir. The title which had come from 
 the Plantagenets was now lapsed; and when the last 
 lord died, about four hundred a year was divided be- 
 tween his two daughters. The elder had already made 
 
16 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 an excellent match , as regarded fortune , in marrying 
 Sir Hugh Clavering; and the younger was now about 
 to make a much more splendid match in her alliance 
 with Lord Ongar. Of them I do not know that it is 
 necessary to say much more at present. 
 
 And of Harry Clavering it perhaps may not be 
 J necessary to say much in the w^ay of description. The 
 attentive reader will have already gathered nearly all 
 that should be known of him before he makes himself 
 known by his own deeds. He was the only son of the 
 Keverend Henry Clavering, rector of Clavering, uncle 
 of the present Sir Hugh Clavering, and brother of the 
 last Sir Hugh. The Reverend Henry Clavering, and 
 Mrs. Clavering his wife, and his two daughters, Mary 
 and Fanny Clavering, lived always at Clavering 
 Rectory, on the outskirts of Clavering Park, at a full 
 mile's distance from the house. The church stood in 
 the park, about midway between the two residences. 
 When I have named one more Clavering, Captain 
 Clavering, Captain Archibald Clavering, Sir Hugh's 
 brother, and when I shall have said also that both Sir 
 Hugh and Captain Clavering were men fond of plea- 
 sure and fond of money, I shall have said all that I 
 need now say about the Clavering family at large. 
 
 Julia Brabazon had indulged in some reminiscence 
 of the romance of her past poetic life when she talked 
 of cousinship between her and Harry Clavering. Her 
 sister was the wife of Harry Clavering's first cousin, 
 but between her and Harry there was no relationship 
 whatever. When old Lord Brabazon had died at Nice 
 she had come to Clavering Park, and had created some 
 astonishment among those who knew Sir Hugh by 
 making good her footing in his establishment. He was 
 
JULIA BRABAZON. 
 
 17 
 
 not the man to take up a wife's sister, and make his 
 house her home, out of charity or from domestic love. 
 Lady Clavering, who had been a handsome woman 
 and fashionable withal, no doubt may have had some 
 influence*, but Sir Hugh was a man much prone to 
 follow his own courses. It must be presumed that 
 Julia Brabazon had made herself agreeable in the 
 house, and probably also useful. She had been taken 
 to London through two seasons, and had there held 
 up her head among the bravest. And she had been 
 taken abroad, — for Sir Hugh did not love Clavering 
 Park, except during six weeks of partridge-shooting; 
 and she had been at Newmarket with them, and at 
 j the house of a certain fast hunting duke with whom 
 Sir Hugh was intimate; and at Brighton with her 
 sister, when it suited Sir Hugh to remain alone at the 
 duke's; and then again up in London, where she 
 finally arranged matters with Lord Ongar. It was 
 acknowledged by all the friends of the two families, 
 and indeed I may say of the three families now — ■ 
 among the Brabazon people, and the Clavering people, 
 and the Courton people, — Lord Ongar's family name 
 was Courton, — that Julia Brabazon had been very 
 clever. Of her and Harry Clavering together no one 
 had ever said a word. If any words had been spoken 
 between her and Hermione on the subject, the two 
 sisters had been discreet enough to manage that they 
 should go no further. In those short months of Julia's 
 romance Sir Hugh had been away from Clavering, 
 and Hermoine had been much occupied in giving birth 
 to an heir. Julia had now lived past her one short 
 spell of poetry, had written her one sonnet, and was 
 prepared for the business of the world. 
 
 The Claverings. I. 2 
 
18 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Harry Clavering chooses his Profession. 
 
 Harry Clavering might not be an usher, but, 
 nevertheless, he was home for the holidays. And who 
 can say where the usher ends and the schoolmaster 
 begins? He, perhaps, may properly be called an 
 usher, who is hired by a private schoolmaster to 
 assist himself in his private occupation, whereas Harry 
 Clavering had been selected by a public body out of 
 a hundred candidates, with much real or pretended 
 reference to certificates of qualification. He was cer- 
 tainly not an usher, as he was paid three hundred a 
 year for his work, — which is quite beyond the mark 
 of ushers. So much was certain*, but yet the word 
 stuck in his throat and made him uncomfortable. He 
 did not like to reflect that he was home for the holi- 
 days. 
 
 But he had determined that he would never come 
 home for the holidays again. At Christmas he would 
 leave the school at which he had won his appointment 
 with so much trouble, and go into an open profession. 
 Indeed he had chosen his profession, and his mode of 
 entering it. He would become a civil engineer, and 
 perhaps a land surveyor, and with this view he would 
 enter himself as a pupil in the great house of Beilby 
 and Burton. The terms even had been settled. He 
 was to pay a premium of five hundred pounds and 
 join Mr. Burton, who was settled in the town of 
 Stratton, for twelve months before he placed himself 
 in Mr. Beilby's office in London. Stratton was less 
 than twenty miles from Clavering. It was a comfort 
 to him to think that he could pay this five hundred 
 
HARRY CLAVERING CHOOSES HIS PROFESSIOH. 19 
 
 I pounds out of his own earnings, without troubling his 
 father. It was a comfort, even though he had earned 
 that money by "ushering" for the last two years. 
 
 When he left Julia Brabazon in the garden, Harry 
 Clavering did not go at once home to the rectory, but 
 sauntered out all alone into the park, intending to in- 
 dulge in reminiscences of his past romance. It was 
 all over, that idea of having Julia Brabazon for his 
 love; and now he had to ask himself whether he 
 intended to be made permanently miserable by her 
 worldly falseness, or whether he would borrow some- 
 thing of her worldly wisdom, and agree with himself 
 to look back on what was past as a pleasurable excite- 
 ment in his boyhood. Of course we all know that 
 really permanent misery was in truth out of the ques- 
 tion. Nature had not made him physically or mentally 
 so poor a creature as to be incapable of a cure. But 
 on this occasion he decided on permanent misery. There 
 was about his heart, — about his actual anatomical 
 heart, with its internal arrangement of valves and 
 blood-vessels, — a heavy dragging feel that almost 
 amounted to corporeal pain, and which he described to 
 himself as agony. Why should this rich, debauched, 
 disreputable lord have the power of taking the cup 
 from his lip, the one morsel of bread which he coveted 
 from his mouth, his one ingot of treasure out of his 
 coffer? Fight him! No, he knew he could not fight 
 Lord Ongar. The world was against such an arrange- 
 ment. And in truth Harry Clavering had so much 
 contempt for Lord Ongar, that he had no wish to 
 fight so poor a creature. The man had had delirium 
 tremens, and was a worn-out miserable object. So at 
 least Harry Clavering was only too ready to believe, 
 
 2* 
 
20 
 
 TTTE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 He did not care much for Lord Ongar in the matter. 
 His anger was against her; — that she should have 
 deserted him for a miserable creature, who had nothing 
 to back him but wealth and rank! 
 
 There was wretchedness in every view of the matter. 
 He loved her so well, and yet he could do nothing! 
 He could take no step towards saving her or assisting 
 himself. The marriage bells would ring within a 
 month from the present time, and his own father 
 would go to the church and marry them. Unless Lord 
 Ongar were to die before then by God's hand, there 
 could be no escape, — and of such escape Harry 
 Clavering had no thought. He felt a weary, dragging 
 soreness at his heart, and told himself that he must be 
 miserable for ever, — not so miserable but what he 
 would work, but so wretched that the world could 
 have for him no satisfaction. 
 
 What could he do? What thing could he achieve 
 so that she should know that he did not let her go 
 from him without more thought than his poor words 
 had expressed? He was perfectly aware that in their 
 conversation she had had the best of the argument, — 
 that he had talked almost like a boy, while she had 
 talked quite like a woman. She had treated him de 
 haut en bas with all that superiority which youth and 
 beauty give to a young woman over a very young 
 man. What could he do? Before he returned to the 
 rectory, he had made up his mind what he would do, 
 and on the following morning Julia Brabazon received 
 by the hands of her maid the following note: — 
 
 ^'I think I understood all that you said to me 
 yesterday. At any rate, I understand that you have 
 one trouble left, and that I have the means of curing 
 
HARRY CLAVJi JSES HIS PROFESSION. 21 
 
 it." In the first draft of his letter he said something 
 about ushering, but that he omitted afterwards. "You 
 may be assured that the enclosed is all my own, and 
 that it is entirely at my own disposal. You may also 
 be quite sure of good faith on the part of the lender 
 — H. C." And in this letter he enclosed a cheque 
 for six hundred pounds. It was the money which he 
 had saved since he took his degree, and had been 
 intended for Messrs. Beilby and Burton. But he would 
 wait another two years, — continuing to do his ushering 
 for her sake. What did it matter to a man who must, 
 under any circumstances, be permanently miserable? 
 
 Sir Hugh was not yet at Clavering. He was to 
 come with Lord Ongar on the eve of the partridge- 
 shooting. The two sisters, therefore, had the house 
 all to themselves. At about twelve they sat down to 
 breakfast together in a little upstairs chamber ad- 
 joining Lady Clavering's own room, Julia Brabazon 
 at that time having her lover's generous letter in her 
 pocket. She knew that it was as improper as it was 
 generous, and that, moreover, it was very dangerous. 
 There was no knowing what might be the result of 
 such a letter should Lord Ongar even know that she 
 had received it. She was not absolutely angry with 
 Harry, but had, to herself, twenty times called him a 
 foolish, indiscreet, dear generous boy. But what was 
 she to do with the cheque? As to that, she had 
 hardly as yet made up her mind when she joined her 
 sister on the morning in question. Even to Hermione 
 she did not dare to tell the fact that such a letter had 
 been received by her. 
 
 But in truth her debts were a great torment to 
 her; and yet how trifling they were when compared 
 
22 
 
 THE CLAVEHINGS. 
 
 witli the wealth of tlie man wlio was to become lier 
 liusband in six weeks! Let her marry him, and not 
 pay them, and he probabiy would never be the wiser. 
 They would get themselves paid almost without his 
 knowledge, perhaps altogether without his hearing of 
 them. But yet she feared him, knowing him to be 
 greedy about nfoney, and, to give her such merit as 
 was due to her, she felt the meanness of going to her 
 husband with debts on her shoulder. She had five 
 thousand pounds of her own; but the very settlement 
 which gave her a noble dower, and which made the 
 marriage so brilliant, made over this small sum in its 
 entirety to her lord. She had been wrong not to tell 
 the lawyer of her trouble when he had brought the 
 paper for her to sign *, but she had not told him. If 
 Sir Hugh Clavering had been her own brother there 
 would have been no difficulty, but he was only her 
 brother-in-law, and she feared to speak to him. Her 
 sister, however, knew that there were debts, and on 
 that subject she was not afraid to speak to Hermione. 
 
 " Hermy," said she, " what am I to do about this money 
 that I owe? I got a bill from Colclugh's tbis morning.'' 
 
 "Just because he knows you are going to be mar- 
 ried; that's all." 
 
 "But how am I to pay him?" 
 
 "Take no notice of it till next spring. I don't 
 know what else you can do. You'll be sure to have 
 money when you come back from the Continent." 
 
 "You couldn't lend it me; could you?" 
 
 "Who? I? Did you ever know me have any 
 money in hand since I was married? I have the name 
 of an allowance, but it is always spent before it comes 
 to me, and I am always in debt." 
 
HARRY CLAVEBINO CHOOSES HIS FROiESbiuM. ^3 
 
 "Would Hugh — let me have it?" 
 "What, give it you?" 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't be so very much for him. I 
 never asked him for a pound yet." 
 
 ^'I think he would say something you wouldn't like 
 if you were to ask him; but, of course, you can try it 
 if you please." 
 
 "Then what am I to do?" 
 
 "Lord Ongar should have let you keep your own 
 fortune. It would have been nothing to him." 
 
 "Hugh didn't let you keep your own fortune." 
 
 "But the money which will be nothing to Lord 
 Ongar was a good deal to Hugh. You're going to 
 have sixty thousand a year, while we have to do with 
 seven or eight. Besides, I hadn't been out in London, 
 and it wasn't likely I should owe much in Nice. He 
 did ask me, and there was something." 
 
 "What am I to do, Hermy?" 
 
 "Write and ask Lord Ongar to let you have what 
 you want out of your own money. Write to-day, so 
 that he may get your letter before he comes." 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear! I never wrote a word to 
 him yet, and to begin with asking him for money!" 
 
 "I don't think he can be angry with you for 
 that." 
 
 "I shouldn't know what to say. Would you write 
 it for me, and let me see how it looks?" 
 
 This Lady Clavering did; and had she refused to 
 do it, I think that poor Harry Clavering's cheque would 
 have been used. As it was. Lady Clavering wrote the 
 letter to "My dear Lord Ongar," and it was copied 
 and signed by "Yours most affectionately, Julia Bra- 
 bazon." The effect of this was the receipt of a cheque 
 
24 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 for a thousand pounds in a very pretty note from Lord 
 Ongar, wliicli the lord brought with him to Clavering, 
 and sent up to Julia as he was dressing for dinner. 
 It was an extremely comfortable arrangement, and 
 Julia was very glad of the money, — feeling it to be 
 a portion of that which was her own. And Harry's 
 cheque had been returned to him on the day of its 
 receipt. "Of course I cannot take it, and of course 
 you should not have sent it." These words were written 
 on the morsel of paper in which the money was re- 
 turned. But Miss Brabazon had torn the signature off 
 the cheque, so that it might be safe, whereas Harry 
 Clavering had taken no precaution with it whatever. 
 But then Harry Clavering had not lived two years in 
 London. 
 
 During the hours that the cheque was away from 
 him, Harry had told his father that perhaps, even yet, 
 he might change his purpose as to going to Messrs. 
 Beilby and Burton. He did not know, he said, but he 
 was still in doubt. This had sprung from some chance 
 question which his father had asked, and which had 
 seemed to demand an answer. Mr. Clavering greatly 
 disliked the scheme of life which his son had made. 
 Harry's life hitherto had been prosperous and very 
 creditable. He had gone early to Cambridge, and at 
 twenty-two had become a fellow of his college. This 
 fellowship he could hold for five or six years without 
 going into orders. It would then lead to a living, and 
 would in the meantime afford a livelihood. But, beyond 
 this, Harry, with an energy which he certainly had 
 not inherited from his father, had become a school- 
 master, and was already a rich man. He had done 
 more than well, and there was a great probability that 
 
HARRY CLAVERING CHOOSES HIS PROFESSION. 25 
 
 between them they might be able to buy the next pre- 
 sentation to Clavering, when the time should come in 
 which Sir Hugh should determine on selling it. That 
 Sir Hugh should give the family living to his cousin 
 was never thought probable by any of the family at 
 the rectory, but he might perhaps part with it under 
 such circumstances on favourable terms. For all these 
 reasons the father was very anxious that his son should 
 follow out the course for which he had been intended*, 
 but that he, being unenergetic and having hitherto done 
 little for his son, should dictate to a young man who 
 had been energetic, and who had done much for him- 
 self, was out of the question. Harry, therefore, was 
 to be the arbitei of his own fate. But when Harry 
 received back the cheque from Julia Brabazon, then 
 he again returned to his resolution respecting Messrs. 
 Beilby and Burton, and took the first opportunity of 
 telling his father that such was the case. 
 
 After breakfast he followed his father into his study, 
 and there, sitting in two easy-chairs opposite to each 
 other, they lit each a cigar. Such was the reverend 
 gentleman's custom in the afternoon, and such also in 
 the morning. I do not know whether the smoking of 
 four or five cigars daily by the parson of a parish may 
 now-a-day be considered as a vice in him, but if so, it 
 was the only vice with which Mr. Clavering could be 
 charged. He was a kind, soft-hearted, gracious man, 
 tender to his wife, whom he ever regarded as the angel 
 of his house, indulgent to his daughters, whom he 
 idolized, ever patient with his parishioners, and awake, 
 — though not widely awake, — to the responsibilities 
 of his calling. The world had been too comfortable 
 for him, and also too narrow; so that he had sunk into 
 
26 
 
 THE CLAVERINCtS. 
 
 idleness. The world had given him much to eat and 
 drink, but it had given him little to do, and thus he 
 had gradually" fallen away from his early purposes, till 
 his energy hardly sufficed for the doing of that little. 
 His living gave him eight hundred a year*, his wife's 
 fortune nearly doubled that. He had married early, 
 and had got his living early , and had been very 
 prosperous. But he was not a happy man. He knew 
 that he had put off the day of action till the power of 
 action had passed away from him. His library was 
 well furnished, but he rarely read much else than 
 novels and poetry; and of late years the reading even 
 of poetry had given way to the reading of novels. 
 Till within ten years of the hour of which I speak, he 
 had been a hunting parson, — not hunting loudly, but 
 followed his sport as it is followed by moderate sports- 
 men. Then there had come a new bishop, and the 
 new bishop had sent for him, — nay, finally had come 
 to him, and had lectured him with blatant authority. 
 "My lord," said the parson of Clavering, plucking up 
 something of his past energy, as the colour rose to his 
 face, "I think you are wrong in this. I think you are 
 specially wrong to interfere with me in this way on 
 your first coming among us. You feel it to be your 
 duty, no doubt; but to me it seems that you mistake 
 your duty. But, as the matter is one simply of my 
 own pleasure, I shall give it up." After that Mr. 
 Clavering hunted no more, and never spoke a good 
 word to any one of the bishop of his diocese. For 
 myself, I think it as well that clergymen should not 
 hunt; but had I been the parson of Clavering, I should, 
 under those circumstances, have hunted double. 
 
 Mr. Clavering hunted no more , and probably smoked 
 
HA RY CLAVERING CHOOSES HIS PROFESSION. 27 
 
 a greater number of cigars in consequence. He liad 
 an increased amount of time at his disposal, but did 
 not, therefore, give more time to his duties. Alas! 
 what time did he give to his duties? He kept a most 
 energetic curate, whom he allowed to do almost what 
 he would witn the parish. Every-day services he did 
 prohibit, declaring that he would not have the parish 
 church made ridiculous; but in other respects his curate 
 was the pastor. Once every Sunday he read the service, 
 and once every Sunday he preached, and he resided 
 in his parsonage ten months every year. His wife and 
 daughters went among the poor, — and he smoked 
 cigars in his library. Though not yet fifty, he was 
 becoming fat and idle, — unwilling to walk, and not 
 caring much even for such riding as the bishop had 
 left to him. And to make matters worse , — far worse, 
 he knew all this of himself, and understood it thoroughly. 
 "I see a better path, and know how good it is, but I 
 follow ever the worse.'' He was saying that to himself 
 daily, and was saying it always without hope. 
 
 And his wife had given him up. She had given 
 him up, not with disdainful rejection, nor with con- 
 tempt in her eye, or censure in her voice, not with 
 diminution of love or of outward respect. She had 
 given him up as a man abandons his attempts to make 
 his favourite dog take the water. He would fain that 
 the dog he loves should dash into the stream as other 
 dogs will do. It is, to his thinking, a noble instinct 
 in a dog. But his dog dreads the water. As, how- 
 ever, he has learned to love the beast, he puts up with 
 this mischance, and never dreams of banishing poor 
 Ponto from his hearth because of this failure. And so 
 it was with Mrs. Clavering and her husband at the 
 
28 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 rectory. He understood it all. He knew tljat lie was 
 so far rejected; and lie acknowledged to himself the 
 necessity for such rejection. 
 
 "It is a very serious thing to decide upon," he 
 said, when his son had spoken to him. 
 
 "Yes; it is serious, — about as serious a thing as 
 a man can think of; but a man cannot put it off on 
 that account. If I mean to make such a change in my 
 plans, the sooner I do it the better." 
 
 "But yesterday you were in another mind." 
 
 "No, father, not in another mind. I did not tell 
 you then , nor can I tell you all now. I had thought 
 that I should want my money for another purpose for 
 a year or two; but that I have abandoned." 
 
 "Is the purpose a secret, Harry?" 
 
 "It is a secret, because it concerns another per- 
 son." 
 
 "You were going to lend your money to some 
 one?" 
 
 "I must keep it a secret, though you know I seldom 
 have any secrets from you. That idea, however, is 
 abandoned, and I mean to go over to Stratton to- 
 morrow, and tell Mr. Burton that I shall be there 
 after Christmas. I must be at St. Cuthbert's on Tues- 
 day." 
 
 Then they both sat silent for a while, silently blow- 
 ing out their clouds of smoke. The son had said all 
 that he cared to say, and would have wished that there 
 might then be an end of it; but he knew that his father 
 had much on his mind, and would fain express, if he 
 could express it without too much trouble, or without 
 too evident a need of self-reproach, his own thoughts 
 on the subject. "You have made up your mind, then, 
 
HARRY CLAVERTNO CHOOSES HIS PROFESSION. 29 
 
 altogether that you do not like the church as a profes- 
 sion," he said at last. 
 
 ^'I think I have, father." 
 
 ''And on what grounds? The grounds which re- 
 commend it to you are very strong. Your education 
 has adapted you for it. Your success in it is already 
 ensured by your fellowship. In a gi-eat degree you 
 have entered it as a profession already, by taking a 
 fellowship. What you are doing is not choosing a line 
 in life, but changing one already chosen. You are 
 making of yourself a rolling stone." 
 
 ''A stone should roll till it has come to the spot 
 that suits it." 
 
 ''Why not give up the school if it irks you?" 
 
 ''And become a Cambridge Don, and practise de- 
 portment among the undergraduates." 
 
 "I don't see that you need do that. You need not 
 even live at Cambridge. Take a church in London. 
 You would be sure to get one by holding up your 
 hand. If that, with your fellowship, is not sufficient, 
 I will give you what more you want." 
 
 "No, father — no. By God's blessing I will never 
 ask you for a pound. I can hold my fellowship for 
 four years longer without orders, and in four years' 
 time I think I can earn my bread." 
 
 "I don't doubt that, Harry." 
 
 "Then why should I not follow my wishes in this 
 matter? The truth is, I do not feel myself qualified 
 to be a good clergyman." 
 
 "It is not that you have doubts, is it?" 
 
 "I might have them if I came to think much about 
 it, — as I must do if I took orders. And I do not 
 wish to be crippled in doing what I think lawful by 
 
30 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 conventional rules. A rebellious clergyman is, I think, 
 a sorry object. It seems to me that be is a bird foul- 
 ing bis own nest Now, I know I sbould be a rebel- 
 lious clergyman." 
 
 "In our church the life of a clergyman is as the 
 life of any other gentleman, — within very broad 
 limits." 
 
 "Then why did Bishop Proudie interfere with your 
 hunting?" 
 
 "Limits may be very broad, Harry, and yet ex- 
 clude hunting. Bishop Proudie was vulgar and in- 
 trusive, such being the nature of his wife, who instructs 
 him*, but if you were in orders I should be very sorry 
 to see you take to hunting." 
 
 "It seems to me that a clergyman has nothing to 
 do in life unless he is always preaching and teaching. 
 Look at Saul," — Mr. Saul was the curate of Claver- 
 ing — "he is always preaching and teaching. He is 
 doing the best he can; and what a life of it he has! 
 He has literally thrown off all worldly cares, — and 
 consequently everybody laughs at him, and nobody 
 loves him. I don't believe a better man breathes, but 
 I shouldn't like his life." 
 
 At this point there was another pause, which^asted 
 till the cigars had come to an end. Then, as he threw 
 the stump into the fire, Mr. Clavering spoke again. 
 "The truth is, Harry, that you have had, all your life, 
 a bad example before you." 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 "Yes, my son; — let me speak on to the end, and 
 then you can say what you please. In me you have 
 had a bad example on one side, and now, in poor 
 Saul, you have a bad example on the other side. Can 
 
HARRY CLAVERING CHOOSES lUS PROFESSION. 31 
 
 you fancy no life between tlie two, which would fit 
 your physical nature, which is larger than his, and your 
 mental wants, which are higher than mine? Yes, they 
 are, Harry. It is my duty to say this, but it would 
 be unseemly that there should be any controversy be- 
 tween us on the subject." 
 
 "If you choose to stop me in that way — " 
 
 "I do choose to stop you in that way. As for Saul, 
 it is impossible that you should become such a man as 
 he. It is not that he mortifies his flesh, but that he 
 has no flesh to mortify. He is unconscious of the 
 flavour of venison, or the scent of roses, or the beauty of 
 women. He is an exceptional specimen of a man, and 
 you need no more fear, than you should venture to 
 hope, that you could become such as he is." 
 
 At this point they were interrupted by the entrance 
 of Fanny Clavering, who came to say that Mr. Saul 
 was in the drawing-room. "What does he want, 
 Fanny?" This question Mr. Clavering asked half in 
 a whisper, but with something of comic humour in his 
 face, as though partly afraid that Mr. Saul should hear 
 it, and partly intending to convey a wish that he might 
 escape Mr. Saul, if it were possible. 
 
 "It's about the iron church, papa. He says it is 
 come, — or part of it has come, — and he wants you 
 to go out to Cumberly Green about the site." 
 
 "I thought that was all settled." 
 
 "He says not." 
 
 "What does it matter where it is? He can put it 
 anywhere he likes on the Green. However, I had 
 better go to him." So Mr. Clavering went. Cumberly 
 Green was a hamlet in the parish of Clavering, three 
 miles distant from the church, the people of which had 
 
32 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 got into a wicked habit of going to a dissenting chapel 
 near to them. By Mr. Saul's energy, but chiefly out 
 of Mr. Clavering's purse, an iron chapel had been pur- 
 chased for a hundred and fifty pounds, and Mr. Saul 
 proposed to add to his own duties the pleasing occupa- 
 tion of walking to Cumberly Green every Sunday 
 morning before breakfast, and every Wednesday even- 
 ing after dinner, to perform a service and bring back 
 to the true flock as many of the erring sheep of Cum- 
 berly Green as he might be able to catch. Towards 
 the purchase of this iron church Mr. Clavering had at 
 first given a hundred pounds. Sir Hugh, in answer to 
 the fifth application, had very ungraciously, through 
 his steward, bestowed ten pounds. Among the farmers 
 one pound nine and eightpence had been collected. 
 Mr. Saul had given two pounds; Mrs. Clavering gave 
 five pounds-, the girls gave ten shillings each; Henry 
 Clavering gave five pounds; — and then the parson 
 made up the remainder. But Mr. Saul had journeyed 
 thrice painfully to Bristol, making the bargain for the 
 church, going and coming each time by third-class, 
 and he had written all the letters; but Mrs. Clavering 
 had paid the postage, and she and the girls between 
 them were making the covering for the little altar. 
 
 "Is it all settled, Harry?" said Fanny, stopping 
 with her brother, and hanging over his chair. She 
 was a pretty, gay-spirited girl, with bright eyes and 
 dark brown hair, which fell in two curls behind her 
 ears. 
 
 ''He has said nothing to unsettle it." 
 "I know it makes him very unhappy." 
 "No, Fanny, not very unhappy. He would rather 
 that I should go into the church, but that is about all." 
 
nAURY CLAVEHING CHOOSES HIS PHOFESSTON. 
 
 "I think you are quite right." 
 
 "And Mary thinks I am quite wrong." 
 
 ''Mary thinks so, of course. So should I too, per- 
 haps, if I were engaged to a clergyman. That's the 
 old story of the fox who had lost his tail." 
 
 ''And your tail isn't gone yet?" 
 
 "No, my tail isn't gone yet. Mary thinks that no 
 life is like a clergyman's life. But, Harry, though 
 mamma hasn't said so, I'm sure she thinks you are 
 right. She won't say so as long as it may seem to 
 interfere with anything papa may choose to say; but 
 I'm sure she's glad in her heart." 
 
 "And I am glad in my heart, Fanny. And as I'm 
 the person most concerned, I suppose that's the most 
 material thing." Then they followed their father into 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 "Couldn't you drive Mrs. Clavering over in the 
 I pony chair, and settle it between you," said Mr. Cla- 
 I vering to his curate. Mr. Saul looked disappointed, 
 i In the first place, he hated driving the pony, which 
 was a rapid- footed little beast, that had a will of his 
 own; and in the next place, he thought the rector 
 ought to visit the spot on such an occasion. "Or Mrs. 
 Clavering will drive you," said the rector, remember- 
 ing Mr. Saul's objection to the pony. Still Mr. Sau^ 
 looked unhappy. Mr. Saul was very tall and very 
 thin, with a tall thin head, and weak eyes, and a sharp, 
 well-cut nose, and, so to say, no lips, and very white 
 teeth, with no beard, and a well-cut chin. His face 
 was so thin that his cheekbones obtruded themselves 
 unpleasantly. He wore a long rusty black coat, and a 
 Lhigh rusty black waist-coat, and trousers that were 
 brown with dirty roads and general ill-usage. Never- 
 
 f The Claverings. 1. 3 
 
THE CLAVERINGS, 
 
 i 
 
 eless, it never occurred to any one that Mr. Saul 
 iid not look like a gentleman, not even to himself, to 
 whom no ideas whatever on that subject ever presented 
 themselves. But that he was a gentleman I think he 
 knew well enough, and was able to carry himself be- 
 fore Sir Hugh and his wife with quite as much ease as 
 he could do in the rectory. Once or twice he had 
 dined at the great house*, but Lady Clavering had 
 declared him to be a bore, and Sir Hugh had called 
 him "that most oflPensive of all animals, a clerical 
 prig." It had therefore been decided that he was not 
 to be asked to the great house any more. It may be 
 as well to state here, as elsewhere, that Mr. Clavering 
 very rarely went to his nephew's table. On certain 
 occasions he did do so, so that there might be no re- 
 cognized quarrel between him and Sir Hugh; but such 
 visits were few and far between. 
 
 After a few more words from Mr. Saul, and a 
 glance from his wife's eye, Mr. Clavering consented 
 to go to Cumberly Green, though there was nothing 
 he liked so little as a morning spent with his curate. 
 When he had started, Harry told his mother also of 
 his final decision. "I shall go to Stratton to-morrow 
 and settle it all." 
 
 "And what does papa say?" asked the mother. 
 
 "Just what he has said before. It is not so much 
 that he wishes me to be a clergyman, as that he does 
 not wish me to have lost all my time up to this." 
 
 "It is more than that, I think, Hany," said his 
 elder sister, a tall girl, less pretty than her sister, 
 apparently less careful of her prettiness, very quiet, 
 or, as some said, demure, but known to be good as 
 gold by all who knew her well. 
 
HARRY CLAVERING CHOOSES HIS PROFESSION. 35 
 
 '^I doubt it," said Harry stoutly. "But, however 
 that may be, a man must choose for himself." 
 
 "We all thought yoii had chosen," said Mary. 
 
 "If it is settled," said the mother, "I suppose we 
 shall do no good by opposing it." 
 
 "Would you wish to oppose it, mamma?" said 
 Harry. 
 
 "No, my dear. I think you should judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 "You see I could have no scope in the church for 
 that sort of ambition which would satisfy me. Look 
 at such men as Locke, and Stephenson, and Brassey. 
 They are the men who seem to me to do most in the 
 world. They were all self-educated, but surely a 
 man can't have a worse chance because he has 
 learned something. Look at old Beilby, with a seat 
 in Parliament, and a property worth two or three hun- 
 dred thousand pounds! When he was my age he had 
 nothing but his weekly wages." 
 
 "I don't know whether Mr. Beilby is a very happy 
 man or a very good man," said Mary. 
 
 "I don't know either," said Harry, "but I do know 
 that he has thrown a single arch over a wider span of 
 water than ever was done before, and that ought to 
 make him happy." After saying this in a tone of high 
 authority, befitting his dignity as a fellow of his col- 
 lege, Harry Clavering went out, leaving his mother 
 and sisters to discuss the subject, which to two of them 
 was all-important. As to Mary, she had hopes of her 
 own, vested in the clerical concerns of a neighbouring 
 parish. 
 
 3^ 
 
36 
 
 THE CLAVETJTNGS. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Lord Ongar. 
 
 On the next morning Harry Clavering rode over 
 to Stratton, thinking much of his misery as he went. 
 It was all very well for him, in the presence of his 
 own family to talk of his profession as the one subject 
 which was to him of any importance; but he knew 
 very well himself that he was only beguiling them in 
 doing so. This question of a profession was, after all, 
 but dead leaves to him, — to him who had a canker 
 at his heart, a perpetual thorn in his bosom, a misery 
 within him which no profession could mitigate! Those 
 dear ones at home guessed nothing of this, and he 
 would take care that they should guess nothing. Why 
 should they have the pain of knowing that he had 
 been made wretched for ever by blighted hopes? His 
 mother, indeed, had suspected something in those 
 sweet days of his roaming with Julia through the 
 park. She had once or twice said a word to warn 
 him. But of the very truth of his deep love, — so 
 he told himself, — she had been happily ignorant. 
 Let her be ignorant. Why should he make his mother 
 unhappy? As these thoughts passed through his mind, 
 I think that he revelled in his wretchedness , and made 
 much to himself of his misery. He sucked in his 
 sorrow greedily, and was somewhat proud to have had 
 occasion to break his heart. But not the less, iecanse 
 he was thus early blighted, would he struggle for suc- 
 cess in the world. He would show her that, as his 
 wife, she might have had a worthier position than Lord 
 Ongar could give her. He, too, might probably rise 
 the quicker in the world, as now he would have no 
 
LOKD ONGAR. 
 
 37 
 
 impediment of wife or family. Then , as he rode along, 
 he composed a sonnet, fitting to his case, the strength 
 and rhythm of which seemed to him, as he sat on 
 horseback, to be almost perfect. Unfortunately, when 
 he was back at Clavering, and sat in his room with 
 the pen in his hand, the turn of the words had es- 
 caped him. 
 
 He found Mr. Burton at home, and was not long 
 in concluding his business. Messrs. Beilby and Burton 
 were not only civil engineers, but were land surveyors 
 also, and land valuers on a great scale. They were 
 employed much by Government upon public buildings, 
 and if not architects themselves, were supposed to 
 know all that architects should do and should not do. 
 In the purchase of great properties Mr. Burton's opin- 
 ion was supposed to be, or to have been, as good as 
 any in the kingdom, and therefore there was very 
 much to be learned in the office at Stratton. But 
 Mr. Burton was not a rich man like his partner, Mr. 
 Beilby, nor an ambitious man. He had never soared 
 Parliamentwards , had never speculated, had never 
 invented, and never been great. He had been the 
 father of a very large family, all of whom were doing 
 as well in the world , and some of them perhaps better, 
 than their father. Indeed, there were many who said 
 that Mr. Burton would have been a richer man if he 
 had not joined himself in partnership with Mr. Beilby. 
 Mr. Beilby had the reputation of swallowing more than 
 his share wherever he went. 
 
 When the business part of the arrangement was 
 finished, Mr. Burton talked to his future pupil about 
 lodgings, and went out with him into the town to look 
 for rooms. The old man found that Harry Clavering 
 
38 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 was rather nice in this respect, and in his own mind 
 formed an idea that this new beginner might have 
 been a more auspicious pupil, had he not already be- 
 come a fellow of a college. Indeed, Harry talked to 
 him quite as though they two were on an equality 
 together; and, before they had parted, Mr. Burton was 
 not sure that Harry did not patronize him. He asked 
 the young man, however, to join them at their early 
 dinner, and then introduced him to Mrs. Burton, and 
 to their youngest daughter, the only child who was 
 still living with them. "All my other girls are mar- 
 ried, Mr. Clavering*, and all of them married to men 
 connected with my own profession." The colour came 
 slightly into Florence Burton's cheeks as she heard 
 her father's words, and Harry asked himself whether 
 the old man expected that he should go through the 
 same ordeal ; but Mr. Burton himself was quite unaware 
 that he had said anything wrong, and then went on 
 to speak of the successes of his sons. "But they began 
 early, Mr. Clavering-, and worked hard, — very hard 
 indeed." He was a good, kindly, garrulous old man; 
 but Harry began to doubt whether he would learn 
 much at Stratton. It was, however, too late to think 
 of that now, and everything was fixed. 
 
 Harry, when he looked at Florence Burton , at once 
 declared to himself that she was plain. Anything j 
 more unlike Julia Brabazon never appeared in the 1 
 guise of a young lady. Julia was tall, with a high 
 brow, a glorious complexion, a nos.e as finely modelled . 
 as though a Grecian sculptor had cut it, a small mouth, 
 but lovely in its curves, and a chin that finished and 
 made perfect the symmetry of her face. Her neck 
 was long, but graceful as a swan's, her bust was full, 
 
LORD ONaAK. 
 
 39 
 
 and her whole figure like that of a goddess. Added 
 ^ to this, when he had first known her, had been all 
 the charm of youth. When she had returned to Cla- 
 vering the other day, the affianced bride of Lord 
 Ongar, he had hardly known whether to admire or to 
 deplore the settled air of established womanhood which 
 she had assumed. Her large eyes had always lacked 
 something of rapid glancing sparkling brightness, l^hey 
 had been glorious eyes to him, and in those early 
 days he had not known that they lacked aught; but 
 he had perceived, or perhaps fancied, that now, in her 
 present condition they were often cold, and sometimes 
 almost cruel. Nevertheless he was ready to swear that 
 she was perfect in her beauty. 
 
 Poor Florence Burton was short of stature, was 
 brown, meagre, and poor-looking. So said Harry 
 Clavering to himself. Her small hand, though soft, 
 lacked that wondrous charm of touch which Julia's 
 possessed. Her face was short, and her forehead, 
 though it was broad and open, had none of that femi- 
 nine command which Julia's look conveyed. That 
 Florence's eyes were very bright, — bright and soft 
 as well, he allowed*, and her dark brown hair was 
 very glossy, but she was, on the whole, a mean-looking 
 little thing. He could not, as he said to himself on 
 his return home, avoid the comparison, as she was the 
 j first girl he had seen since he had parted from Julia 
 Brabazon. 
 
 ^'I hope you'll find yourself comfortable at Stratton, 
 I sir?" said old Mrs. Burton. 
 
 "Thank you," said Harry, "but I want very little 
 myself in that way. Anything does for me." 
 
 "One young gentleman we had took a bedroom 
 
40 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 at Mrs. Pott's , and did very nicely without any second 
 room at all. Don't you remember Mr. B.*, it was young 
 Granger." 
 
 ''Young Granger had a very short allowance," said 
 Mr. Burton. "He lived upon fifty pounds a year all 
 the time he was here." 
 
 '''And I don't think Scarness had more when he 
 began," said Mrs. Burton. "Mr. Scarness married one 
 of my girls, Mr. Clavering, when he started himself 
 at Liverpool. He has pretty nigh all the Liverpool 
 docks under him now. I have heard him say that 
 butcher's meat did not cost him four shillings a week 
 all the time he was here. I've always thought Stratton 
 one of the reasonablest places anywhere for a young 
 man to do for himself in." 
 
 "I don't know, my dear," said the husband, "that 
 Mr. Clavering will care very much for that." 
 
 "Perhaps not, Mr. B.*, but I do like to see young 
 men careful about their spendings. What's the use of 
 spending a shilling when sixpence will do as well? 
 And sixpence saved when a man has nothing but him- 
 self, becomes pounds and pounds by the time he has 
 a family about him." 
 
 During all this time Miss Burton said little or no- 
 thing, and Harry Clavering himself did not say much. 
 He could not express any intention of rivalling Mr. 
 Scarness's economy in the article of butcher's meat, nor 
 could he promise to content himself with Granger's 
 solitary bedroom. But as he rode home he almost be- 
 gan to fear that he had made a mistake. He was not 
 wedded to the joys of his college hall, or the college 
 common room. He did not like the narrowness of 
 
LORD ONGAR. 
 
 41 
 
 college life. But he doubted whether the change from 
 that to the oft-repeated hospitalities of Mrs. Burton 
 might not be too much for him. Scarness's four shil- 
 lings'-worth of butcher's meat had already made him 
 half sick of his new profession, and though Stratton 
 might be the "reasonablest place anywhere for a young 
 man," he could not look forward to living there for 
 a year with much delight. As for Miss Burton, it 
 might be quite as well that she was plain , as he wished for 
 none of the delights which beauty affords to young men. 
 
 On his return home, however, he made no complaint 
 of Stratton. He was too strong-willed to own that he 
 had been in any way wrong, and when early in the 
 following week he started for St. Cuthbert's, he was 
 able to speak with cheerful hope of his new prospects. 
 If ultimately he should find life in Stratton to be un- 
 endurable, he would cut that part of his career short, 
 and contrive to get up to London at an earlier time 
 than he had intended. 
 
 On the 31st of August Lord Ongar and Sir Hugh 
 Clavering reached Clavering Park, and, as has been 
 already told, a pretty little note was at once sent up 
 to Miss Brabazon in her bedroom. When she met 
 Lord Ongar in the drawing-room, about an hour after- 
 wards, she had instructed herself that it would be best 
 to say nothing of the note; but she could not refrain 
 from a word. "I am much obliged, my lord, by your 
 kindness and generosity," she said, as she gave him 
 her hand. He merely bowed and smiled, and muttered 
 something as to his hoping that he might always find 
 it as easy to gratify her. He was a little man, on 
 whose behalf it certainly appeared that the Peerage 
 must have told a falsehood*, it seemed so at least to 
 
42 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 those wlio judged of his years from his appearance. 
 The Peerage said that he was thirty-six, and that, no 
 doubt, was in truth his age, but any one would have 
 declared him to be ten years older. This look was 
 produced chiefly by the efiect of an elaborately dressed 
 jet black wig which he wore. What misfortune had 
 made him bald so early, — if to be bald early in life 
 be a misfortune, — I cannot say, but he had lost the 
 hair from the crown of his head, and had preferred 
 wiggery to baldness. 'No doubt an effort was made to 
 hide the wiggishness of his wigs, but what effect in 
 that direction was ever made successfully? He was, 
 moreover, weak, thin, and physically poor, and had, 
 no doubt, increased this weakness and poorness by 
 hard living. Though others thought him old, time had 
 gone swiftly with him, and he still thought himself a 
 young man. He hunted, though he could not ride. 
 He shot, though he could not walk. And, unfortun- 
 ately, he drank, though he had no capacity for drinking! 
 His friends at last had taught him to believe that his 
 only chance of saving himself lay in marriage, and 
 therefore he had engaged himself to Julia Brabazon, 
 purchasing her at the price of a brilliant settlement. If 
 Lord Ongar should die before her, Ongar Park was to 
 be hers for life, with thousands a year to maintain it. 
 Courto^i Castle, the great family seat, would of course 
 go to the heir; but Ongar Park was supposed to be 
 the most delightful small country-seat anywhere within 
 thirty miles of London. It lay among the Surrey 
 hills, and all the world had heard of the charms of 
 Ongar Park. If Julia were to survive her lord, Ongar 
 Park was to be hers*, and they who saw them both to- 
 gether had but little doubt that she would come to the 
 
LORD ONOAR 
 
 43 
 
 enjoyment of this clause in lier settlement. Lady 
 Clavering had been clever in arranging the match-, and 
 Sir Hugh, though he might have been unwilling to 
 give his sister-in-law money out of his own pocket, had 
 performed his duty as a brother-in-law in looking to 
 her future welfare. Julia Brabazon had no doubt that 
 she was doing well. Poor Harry Clavering! She had 
 loved him in the days of her romance. She, too, had 
 written her sonnets. But she had grown old earlier in 
 life than he had done, and had taught herself that 
 romance could not be allowed to a woman in her posi- 
 tion. She was highly born, the daughter of a peer, 
 without money, and even without a home to which she 
 had any claim. Of course she had accepted Lord 
 Ongar, but she had not put out her hand to take all 
 these good things without resolving that she would do 
 her duty to her future lord. The duty would be doubt- 
 less disagreeable, but she would do it with all the 
 more diligence on that account. 
 
 September passed by, hecatombs of partridges were 
 slaughtered, and the day of the wedding drew nigh. 
 It was pretty to see Lord Ongar and the self-satisfac- 
 tion which he enjoyed at this time. The world was 
 becoming young with him again, and he thought that 
 he rather liked the respectability of his present mode 
 of life. He gave himself but scanty allowances of 
 wine, and no allowance of anything stronger than 
 wine, and did not dislike his temperance. There was 
 about him at all hours an air which seemed to say, 
 "There*, I told you all that I could do it as soon as 
 there was any necessity." And in these halcyon days 
 he could shoot for an hour without his pony, and he 
 liked the gentle courteous badinage which was bestowed 
 
44 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 upon his courtship, and he liked also Julia's beauty. 
 Her conduct to him was perfect. She was never pert, 
 never exigeant, never romantic, and never humble. 
 She never bored him, and yet was always ready to be 
 with him when he wished it. She was never exalted; 
 and yet she bore her high place as became a woman 
 nobly born and acknowledged to be beautiful. 
 
 ''I declare you have quite made a lover of him," 
 said Lady Clavering to her sister. When a thought of 
 the match had first arisen in Sir Hugh's London house. 
 Lady Clavering had been eager in praise of Lord 
 Ongar, or eager in praise rather of the position which 
 the future Lady Ongar might hold; but since the prize 
 had been secured, since it had become plain that Julia 
 was to be the greater woman of the two, she had 
 harped sometimes on the other string. As a sister she 
 had striven for a sister's welfare, but as a woman she 
 could not keep herself from comparisons which might 
 tend to show that after all, well as Julia was doing, 
 she was not doing better than her elder sister had 
 done. Hermione had married simply a baronet, and 
 not the richest or the most amiable among baronets; 
 but she had married a man suitable in age and 
 wealth, with whom any girl might have been in love. 
 She had not sold herself to be the nurse, or not to be 
 the nurse, as it might turn out, of a worn-out debauch^. 
 She would have hinted nothing of this, perhaps have 
 thought nothing of this, had not Julia and Lord Ongar 
 walked together through the Clavering groves as though 
 they were two young people. She owed it as a duty 
 to her sister to point out that Lord Ongar could not 
 be a romantic young person, and ought not to be en- 
 couraged to play that part. 
 
LORD ONGAR. 
 
 45 
 
 ^'I don't know that I liave made any thing of him," 
 answered Julia. ''I suppose he's much like other men 
 when they're going to be married." Julia quite un- 
 derstood the ideas that were passing through her sister's 
 mind, and did not feel them to be unnatural. 
 
 ''What I mean is, that he has come out so strong 
 in the Romeo line, which we hardly expected, you 
 know. We shall have him under your bedroom win- 
 dow with a guitar, like Don Giovanni." 
 
 ''I hope not, because it's so cold. I don't think 
 it likely, as he seems fond of going to bed early." 
 
 "And it's the best thing for him," said Lady 
 Clavering, becoming serious and carefully benevolent. 
 ''It's quite a wonder what good hours and quiet living 
 have done for him in so short a time. I was observing 
 him as he walked yesterday, and he put his feet to the 
 ground as firmly almost as Hugh does." 
 
 "Did he indeed? I hope he won't have the habit 
 of putting his hand down firmly as Hugh does some- 
 times." 
 
 "As for that," said Lady Clavering, with a little 
 tremor, "I don't think there's much difference between 
 them. They all say that when Lord Ongar means a 
 thing he does mean it." 
 
 "I think a man ought to have a way of his own." 
 
 "And a woman also, don't you, my dear? But, as 
 I was saying, if Lord Ongar will continue to take care 
 of himself he may become quite a different man. Hugh 
 says that he drinks next to nothing now, and though 
 he sometimes lights a cigar in the smoking-room at 
 night, he hardly ever smokes it. You must do what 
 you can to keep him from tobacco. I happen to know 
 
46 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 that Sir Charles Poddy said that so many cigars were 
 worse for him even than brandy." 
 
 All this Julia bore with an even temper. She was 
 determined to bear everything till her time should 
 come. Indeed she had made herself understand that 
 the hearing of such things as these was a part of 
 the price which she was to be called upon to pay. 
 It was not pleasant for her to hear what Sir Charles 
 Poddy had said about the tobacco and brandy of the 
 man she was just going to marry. She would sooner 
 have heard of his riding sixty miles a day, or dancing 
 all night, as she might have heard had she been con- 
 tented to take Harry Clavering. But she had made 
 her selection with her eyes open, and was not disposed 
 to quarrel with her bargain because that which she 
 had bought was no better than the article which she 
 had known it to be when she was making her purchase. 
 Nor was she even angry with her sister. "I will do 
 the best I can, Hermy; you may be sure of that. 
 But there are some things which it is useless to talk 
 about." 
 
 "But it was as well you should know what Sir 
 Charles said." 
 
 "I know quite enough of what he says, Hermy, — 
 quite as much, I daresay, as you do. But, never mind. 
 If Lord Ongar has given up smoking, I quite agree 
 with you that it's a good thing. I wish they'd all 
 give it up, for I hate the smell of it. Hugh has got 
 worse and worse. He never cares about changing his 
 clothes now." 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is," said Sir Hugh to his 
 wife that night; "sixty thousand a year is a very fine 
 income, but Julia will find she has caught a Tartar." 
 
LORD ON GAR. 
 
 47 
 
 "I suppose he'll hardly live long; will he?'' 
 "I don't know or care when he lives or when he 
 dies; but, by heaven, he is the most overbearing fellow 
 I ever had in the house with me. I wouldn't stand 
 him here for another fortnight, — not even to make 
 her all safe." 
 
 "It will soon be over. They'll be gone on Thurs- 
 day." 
 
 "What do you think of his having the impudence 
 to tell Cunliffe," — Cunliffe was the head keeper; 
 — "before my face, that he didn't know anything 
 about pheasants! ^Well, my lord, I think we've got a 
 few about the place,' said Cunliffe. ^Very few,' said 
 Ongar, with a sneer. Now, if I haven't a better head 
 of game here than he has at Courton, I'll eat him. But 
 the impudence of his saying that before me!" 
 
 "Did you make him any answer?" 
 
 "'There's about enough to suit me,' I said. Then 
 he skulked away, knocked off his pins. I shouldn't 
 like to be his wife; I can tell Julia that." 
 
 "Julia is very clever," said the sister. 
 
 The day of the marriage came, and everything at 
 Clavering was done with much splendour. Four brides- 
 maids came down from London on the preceding day; 
 two were already staying in the house, and the two 
 cousins came as two more from the rectory. Julia 
 Brabazon had never been really intimate with Mary 
 and Fanny Clavering, but she had known them well 
 enough to make it odd if she did not ask them to 
 come to her wedding and to take a part in the 
 ceremony. And, moreover, she had thought of Harry 
 and her little romance of other days. Harry, perhaps, 
 
48 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 might be glad to know that she had shown this courtesy 
 to his sisters. Harry, she knew, would be away at his 
 school. Though she had asked him whether he meant 
 to come to her wedding, she had been better pleased 
 that he should be absent. She had not many regrets 
 herself, but it pleased her to think that he should have 
 them. So Mary and Fanny Clavering were asked to 
 attend her at the altar. Mary and Fanny would both 
 have preferred to decline, but their mother had told 
 them that they could not do so. "It would make ill- 
 feeling," said Mrs. Clavering; "and that is what your 
 papa particularly wishes to avoid." 
 
 "When you say papa particularly wishes anything, 
 mamma, you always mean that you wish it particularly 
 yourself," said Fanny. "But if it must be done, it 
 must; and then I shall know how to behave when 
 Mary's time comes." 
 
 The bells were rung lustily all the morning, and 
 all the parish was there, round about the church, to 
 see. There was no record of a lord ever having been 
 married in Clavering church before; and now this lord 
 was going to marry my lady's sister. It was all one 
 as though she were a Clavering herself But there 
 was no ecstatic joy in the parish. There were to be no 
 bonfires, and no eating and drinking at Sir Hugh's ex- 
 pense, — no comforts provided for any of the poor by 
 Lady Clavering on that special occasion. Indeed, 
 there was never much of such kindnesses between the 
 lord of the soil and his dependants. A certain stipulated 
 dole was given at Christmas for coals and blankets; 
 but even for that there was generally some wrangle be- 
 tween the rector and the steward. "If there's to be 
 all this row about it," the rector had said to the 
 
LORD ON GAR. 
 
 49 
 
 steward, '^ril never ask for it again.'' "I wish my 
 uncle would only be as good as Ms word,*" Sir Hugh 
 had said, when the rector's speech was repeated to him. 
 Therefore, there was not much of real rejoicing in the 
 parish on this occasion, though the bells were rung 
 loudly, and though the people, young and old, did 
 cluster round the churchyard to see the lord lead his 
 bride out of the church. ''A puir feckless thing, tot- 
 tering along like, — not half the makings of a man. 
 A stout lass like she could a'most blow him away wi' 
 a pu£F of her mouth." That was the verdict which an 
 old farmer's wife passed upon him, and that verdict 
 was made good by the general opinion of the parish. 
 
 But though the lord might be only half a man, 
 Julia Brabazon walked out from the church every inch 
 a countess. Whatever price she might have paid, she 
 had at any rate got the thing which she had intended 
 to buy. And as she stepped into the chariot which 
 carried her away to the railway station on her way to 
 Dover, she told herself that she had done right. She 
 had chosen her profession, as Harry Clavering had 
 chosen his*, and having so far succeeded, she would do 
 her best to make her success perfect. Mercenary! Of 
 course she had been mercenary. Were not all men 
 and women mercenary upon whom devolved the neces- 
 sity of earning their bread? 
 
 Then there was a great breakfast at the park, — 
 for the quality, — and the rector on this occasion sub- 
 mitted himself to become the guest of the nephew 
 whom he thoroughly disliked. 
 
 The Claverinffs. I. 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Florence Burton. 
 
 It was now Christinas time at Stratton, or rather 
 Christmas time was near at hand; not the Christmas 
 next after the autumn of Lord Ongar's marriage, but 
 the following Christmas, and Harry Clavering had 
 finished his studies in Mr. Burton's office. He flattered 
 himself that he had not been idle while he was there, 
 and was now about to commence his more advanced 
 stage of pupilage, under the great Mr. Beilby in Lon- 
 don, with hopes which were still good, if they were not 
 so magnificent as they once had been. When he first 
 saw Mr. Burton in his office, and beheld the dusty 
 pigeon-holes with dusty papers, and caught the first 
 glimpse of things as they really were in the workshop 
 of that man of business, he had, to say the truth, been 
 disgusted. And Mrs. Burton's early dinner, and Florence 
 Burton's ''plain face" and plain ways, had disconcerted 
 him. On that day he had repented of his intention 
 with regard to Stratton; but he had carried out his 
 purpose like a man, and now he rejoiced greatly that he 
 had done so. He rejoiced greatly, though his hopes 
 were somewhat sobered, and his views of life less 
 grand than they had been. He was to start for Claver- 
 ing early on the following morning, intending to spend 
 his Christmas at home, and we will see him and listen 
 to him as he bade farewell to one of the members of 
 Mr. Burton's family. 
 
 He was sitting in a small back parlour in Mr. 
 Burton's house, and on the table of the room there 
 was burning a single candle. It was a dull, dingy, 
 brown room, furnished with horsehair-covered chairs, 
 
FLORENCE BURTON- 
 
 51 
 
 an old liorselaair sofa, and heavy rusty curtains. I 
 don't know that there was in the room any attempt at 
 ornament, as certainly there was no evidence of wealth. 
 It was now about seven o'clock in the evening, and 
 tea was over in Mrs. Burton's establishment. Harry 
 Clavering had had his tea, and had eaten his hot 
 muffin, at the further side from the fire of the family 
 table, while Florence had poured out the tea, and Mrs. 
 Burton had sat by the fire on one side with a hand- 
 kerchief over her lap, and Mr. Burton had been com- 
 fortable with his arm-chair and his slippers on the 
 other side. When tea was over, Harry had made his 
 parting speech to Mrs. Burton, and that lady had 
 kissed him, and bade Grod bless him. "I'll see you 
 for a moment before you go, in my office, Harry," 
 Mr. Burton had said. Then Harry had gone down- 
 stairs, and some one else had gone boldly with him, 
 and they two were sitting together in the dingy brown 
 room. After that I need hardly tell my reader what 
 had become of Harry Clavering's perpetual life-endur- 
 ing heart's misery. 
 
 He and Florence were sitting on the old horsehair 
 sofa, and Florence's hand was in his. ''My darling," 
 he said, "how am I to live for the next two years?" 
 
 "You mean five years, Harry." 
 
 "No; I mean two, — that is two, unless I can 
 make the time less. I believe you'd be better pleased 
 to think it was ten." 
 
 "Much better pleased to think it was ten than to 
 have no such hope at all. Of course we shall see 
 each other. It's not as though you were going to New 
 Zealand." 
 
 4* 
 
52 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "I almost wish I were. One would agree then as 
 to the necessity of this cursed delay.'' 
 *'Harry, Harry!" 
 
 '*It is accursed. The prudence of the world in 
 these latter days seems to me to be more abominable 
 than all its other iniquities." 
 
 "But, Harry, we should have no income." 
 
 "Income is a word that I hate." 
 
 "Now you are getting on to your high horse, and 
 you know I always go out of the way when you begin 
 to prance on that beast. As for me, I don't want to 
 leave papa's house where I am sure of my bread and 
 butter, till I'm sure of it in another." 
 
 "You say that, Florence, on purpose to torment 
 me." 
 
 "Dear Harry, do you think I want to torment you 
 on your last night? The truth is, I love you so well 
 that I can afford to be patient for you." 
 
 "I hate patience, and always did. Patience is one 
 of the worst vices I know. It's almost as bad as 
 humility. You'll tell me you're 'umble next. If you'll 
 only add that you're contented, you'll describe your- 
 self as one of the lowest of God's creatures." 
 
 "I don't know about being 'umble, but I am con- 
 tented. Are not you contented with me, sir?" 
 
 "No, — because you're not in a hurry to be married." 
 
 "What a goose you are. Do you know I'm not 
 sure that if you really love a person, and are quite 
 confident about him, — as I am of you, — that having 
 to look forward to being married is not the best part 
 of it all. I suppose you'll like to get my letters now, 
 but I don't know that you'll care for them much when 
 we've been man and wife for ten years." 
 
TLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 53 
 
 "But one can't live upon letters." 
 
 "I shall expect you to live upon mine, and to 
 grow fat on them. There; — I heard papa's step 
 on the stairs. He said you were to go to him. Good- 
 by, Harry, dearest Harry! What a blessed wind it 
 was that blew you here." 
 
 "Stop a moment; — about your getting to Claver- 
 ing. I shall come for you on Easter-eve." 
 
 " Oh, no ; — why should you have so much trouble 
 and expense?" 
 
 "I tell you I shall come for you, — unless, indeed, 
 you decline to travel with me." 
 
 "It will be so nice! And then I shall be sure to 
 have you with me the first moment I see them. I 
 shall think it very awful when I first meet your 
 father." 
 
 "He's the most good-natured man, I should say, 
 in England." 
 
 "But he'll think me so plain. You did at first, 
 you know. But he won't be uncivil enough to tell 
 me so, as you did. And Mary is to be married in 
 Easter week? Oh, dear, oh, dear; I shall be so shy 
 among them all." 
 
 "You shy! I never saw you shy in my life. I 
 don't suppose you were ever really put out yet." 
 
 "But I must really put you out, because papa is 
 waiting for you. Dear, dear, dearest Harry. Though 
 I am so patient, I shall count the hours till you come 
 for me. Dearest Harry!" Then she bore with him, 
 as he pressed her close to his bosom, and kissed her 
 lips, and her forehead, and her glossy hair. When he 
 was gone she sat down alone for a few minutes on the 
 old sofa, and hugged herself in her happiness. What 
 
54 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 a liappy wind tliat had been wliicli had blov/n such a 
 lover as that for her to Stratton! 
 
 "I think he's a good young man," said Mrs. 
 Burton, as soon as she was left with her old husband 
 upstairs. 
 
 '^Yes, he's a good young man. He means very 
 welL" 
 
 ''But he is not idle; is he?" 
 
 "No — no; he's not idle. And he's very clever; 
 — too clever, I'm afraid. But I think he'll do well, 
 though it may take him some time to settle." 
 
 ''It seems so natural his taking to Flo; doesn't it? 
 They've all taken one when they went away, and 
 they've all done very well. Deary me; how sad the 
 house will be when Flo has gone." 
 
 "Yes, — it'll make a difference that way. But 
 what then? I wouldn't wish to keep one of 'em at 
 home for that reason." 
 
 "No, indeed. I think I'd feel ashamed of myself 
 to have a daughter not married, or not in the way to 
 be married afore she's thirty. I couldn't bear to think 
 that no young man should take a fancy to a girl of 
 mine. But Flo's not twenty yet, and Carry, who was 
 the oldest to go, wasn't four-and-twenty when Scamess 
 took her." Thereupon the old lady put her hand- 
 kerchief to the corner of her eyes, and wept gently. 
 
 "Flo isn't gone yet," said Mr. Burton. 
 
 "But I hope, B., it's not to be a long engagement. 
 I don't like long engagements. It ain't good, — not 
 for the girl; it ain't, indeed." 
 
 "We were engaged for seven years." 
 
 "People weren't so much in a hurry then at any- 
 thing; but I ain't sure it was very good for me. And 
 
FLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 55 
 
 though we weren't just married, we were living next 
 door and saw each other. What'll come to Flo if she's 
 to be here and he's to be up in London, pleasuring 
 himself?" 
 
 ^'Flo must bear it as other girls do," said the 
 father, as he got up from his chair. 
 
 ''I think he's a good young man; I think he is," 
 said the mother. ''But don't stand out for too much 
 for 'em to begin upon. What matters? Sure if they 
 were to be a little short you could help 'em." To 
 such a suggestion as this Mr. Burton thought it as 
 well to make no answer, but with ponderous steps 
 descended to his office. 
 
 "Well, Harry," said Mr. Burton, "so you're to be 
 ofip in the morning?" ^ 
 
 "Yes, sir; I shall breakfast at home to-morrow." 
 
 "Ah, — when I was your age I always used to 
 make an early start. Three hours before breakfast 
 never does any hurt. But it shouldn't be more than 
 that. The wind gets into the stomach." Harry had 
 no remark to make on this, and waited, therefore, till 
 Mr. Burton went on. "And youll be up in London 
 by the 10th of next month?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I intend to be at Mr. Beilby's office on 
 the 11th." 
 
 "That's right. Never lose a day. In losing a 
 day now, you don't lose what you might earn now in 
 a day, but what you might be earning when you're at 
 your best. A young man should always remember 
 that. You can't dispense with a round in the ladder 
 going up. You only make your time at the top so 
 much the shorter." 
 
56 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "1 hope you'll find that rm all right, sir. I don't 
 mean to be idle." 
 
 "Pray don't. Of course, you know, I speak to you 
 very differently from what I should do if you were 
 simply going away from my office. What I shall have 
 to give Florence will be very little, that is, compara- 
 tively little. She shall have a hundred a year, when she 
 marries, till I die*, and after my death and her mother's 
 she will share with the others. But a hundred a year 
 will be nothing to you." 
 
 "Won't it, sir? I think a very great deal of a 
 hundred a year. I'm to have a hundred and fifty from 
 the office; and I should be ready to marry on that to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "You couldn't live on such an income, — unless 
 you were to alter 'your habits very much." 
 "But I will alter them." 
 
 "We shall see. You are so placed that by mar- 
 rying you would lose a considerable income*, and I 
 would advise you to put off thinking of it for the next 
 two years." 
 
 "My belief is, that settling down would be the best 
 thing in the world to make me work." 
 
 "We'll try what a year will do. So Florence is 
 to go to your father's house at Easter?" 
 
 "Yes, sir: she has been good enough to promise to 
 come, if you have no objection." 
 
 "It is quite as well that they should know her 
 early. I only hope they mil like her as well as we 
 like you. Now I'll say good-night, — and good-by." 
 Then Harry went, and walking up and down the High 
 Street of Stratton, thought of all that he had done during 
 the past year. 
 
FLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 57 
 
 On Ms arrival at Stratton that idea of perpetual 
 misery arising from blighted affection was still strong 
 within his breast. He had given all his heart to a 
 false woman who had betrayed him. He had risked 
 all his fortune on one cast of the die , and , gambler- 
 like, had lost everything. On the day of Julia's mar- 
 riage he had shut himself up at the school, — luckily 
 it was a holiday, — and had flattered himself that ho 
 had gone through some hours of intense agony. No 
 doubt he did suffer somewhat, for in truth he had 
 loved the woman; but such sufferings are seldom per- 
 petual, and with him they had been as easy of cure 
 as with most others. A little more than a year had 
 passed, and now he was already engaged to another 
 woman. As he thought of this he did not by any 
 means accuse himself of inconstancy or of weakness of 
 heart. It appeared to him now the most natural thing 
 in the world that he should love Florence Burton. In 
 those old days he had never seen Florence, and had 
 hardly thought seriously of what qualities a man really 
 wants in a wife. As he walked up and down the hill 
 of Stratton Street with the kiss of the dear, modest, 
 affectionate girl still warm upon his lips, he told him- 
 self that a marriage with such a one as J ulia Brabazon 
 would have been altogether fatal to his chance of hap- 
 piness. 
 
 And things had occurred and rumours had reached 
 him which assisted him much in adopting this view of 
 the subject. It was known to all the Claverings, — 
 and even to all others who cared about such things, 
 — that Lord and Lady Ongar were not happy to- 
 gether, and it had been already said that Lady Ongar 
 had misconducted herself. There was a certain count 
 
58 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 whose name had come to be mingled with hers in a 
 way that was, to say the least of it, very unfortunate. 
 Sir Hugh Clavering had declared, in Mrs. Clavering's 
 hearing, though but little disposed in general to make 
 many revelations to any of the family at the rectory, 
 "that he did not intend to take his sister-in-law's part 
 She had made her own bed, and she must lie upon it. 
 She had known what Lord Ongar was before she had 
 married him, and the fault was her own." So much 
 Sir Hugh had said, and, in saying it, had done all 
 that in him lay to damn his sister-in-law's fair fame. 
 Harry Clavering, little as he had lived in the world 
 during the last twelve months, still knew that some 
 people told a different story. The earl too and his 
 wife had not been in England since their marriage; — 
 so that these rumours had been filtered to them at 
 home through a foreign medium. During most of 
 their time they had been in Italy, and now, as Harry 
 knew, they were at Florence. He had heard that 
 Lord Ongar had declared his intention of suing for a 
 divorce; but that he supposed to be erroneous, as the 
 two were still living under the same roof Then he 
 heard that Lord Ongar was ill; and whispers were 
 spread abroad darkly and doubtingly, as though great 
 misfortunes were apprehended. 
 
 Plarry could not fail to tell himself that had Julia 
 become his wife, as she had once promised, these 
 whispers and this darkness would hardly have come 
 to pass. But not on that account did he now regret 
 that her early vows had not been kept. Living at 
 Stratton, he had taught himself to think much of the 
 quiet domesticities of life, and to believe that Florence 
 Burton was fitter to be his wife than Julia Brabazon. 
 
FLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 59 
 
 He told himself that he had done well to find this out, 
 and that he had been wise to act npon it. His wisdom 
 had in truth consisted in his capacity to feel that 
 Florence was a nice girl, clever, well-minded, high- 
 principled, and full of spirit, — and in falling in love 
 with her as a consequence. All his regard for the 
 quiet domesticities had come from his love, and had 
 had no share in producing it. Florence was bright- 
 eyed. No eyes were ever brighter, either in tears or 
 in laughter. And when he came to look at her well 
 he found that he had been an idiot to think her plain. 
 "There are things that grow to beauty as you look at 
 them, — to exquisite beauty, and you are one of 
 them," he had said to her. "And there are men," 
 she had answered, "who grov/ to flattery as you listen 
 to them, — to impudent flattery; and you are one of 
 them." "I thought you plain the first day I saw you. 
 That's not flattery." "Yes, sir, it -is*, and you mean it 
 for flattery. But after all, Harry, it comes only to 
 this, that you want to tell me that you have learned 
 to love me." He repeated all this to himself as he 
 walked up and down Stratton, and declared to himself 
 that she was very lovely. It had been given to him 
 to ascertain this, and he was rather proud of himself. 
 But he was a little diffident about his father. He 
 thought that, perhaps, his father might see Florence as 
 he himself had first seen her, and might not have 
 discernment enough to ascertain his mistake as he had 
 done. But Florence was not going to Clavering at 
 once, and he would be able to give beforehand his own 
 account of her. He had not been home since his 
 engagement had been a thing settled; but his position 
 with regard to Florence had been declared by letter, 
 
60 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 and his mother had written to the young lady asking 
 her to come to Clavering. 
 
 When Harry got home all the family received him 
 with congratulations. ''I am so glad to think that 
 you should marry early," his mother said to him in a 
 whisper. "But I am not married yet, mother," he 
 answered. 
 
 "Do show me a lock of her hair," said Fanny, 
 laughing. "It's twice prettier hair than yours, though 
 she doesn't think half so much about it as you do," 
 said her brother, pinching Fanny's arm. "But you'll 
 show me a lock, won't you?" said Fanny. 
 
 "I'm so glad she's to be here at my marriage," 
 said Mary, "because then Edward will know her. I'm 
 so glad that he will see her." "Edward will have 
 other fish to fry, and won't care much about her," said 
 Harry. 
 
 "It seems you're going to do the regular thing," 
 said his father, "like all the good apprentices. Marry 
 your master's daughter, and then become Lord Mayor 
 of London." This was not the view in which it had 
 pleased Harry to regard his engagement. All the 
 other "young men" that had gone to Mr. Burton's had 
 married Mr. Burton's daughters, — or, at least, enough 
 had done so to justify the Stratton assertion that all 
 had fallen into the same trap. The Burtons, with 
 their five girls, were supposed in Stratton to have 
 managed their affairs very well, and something of 
 these hints had reached Harry's ears. He would have 
 preferred that the thing should not have been made so 
 common, but he was not fool enough to make himself 
 really unhappy on that head. "I don't know much 
 about becoming Lord Mayor," he replied. "That pro- 
 
FLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 motion doesn't lie exactly in our line." "But marry- 
 ing your master's daughter does, it seems," said the 
 Kector. Harry thought that this as coming from his 
 father was almost ill-natured, and therefore dropped 
 the conversation. 
 
 "I'm sure we shall like her," said Fanny. 
 
 "I think that I shall like Harry's choice," said 
 Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "I do hope Edward will like her," said Mary. 
 
 "Mary," said her sister, "I do wish you were once 
 married. When you are, you'll begin to have a self 
 of your own again. Now you're no better than an 
 unconscious echo." 
 
 "Wait for your own turn, my dear," said the 
 mother. 
 
 Harry had reached home on a Saturday, and the 
 following Monday was Christmas-day. Lady Claver- 
 ing, he was told, was at home at the park, and Sir 
 Hugh had been there lately. No one from the house 
 except the servants were seen at church either on the 
 Sunday or on Christmas-day. "But that shows no- 
 thing," said the rector, speaking in anger. "He very 
 rarely does come, and when he does, it would be better 
 that he should be away. I think that he likes to in- 
 sult me by misconducting himself. They say that she 
 is not well, and I can easily believe that all this about 
 her sister makes her unhappy. If I were you I would 
 go up and call. Your mother was there the other day, 
 but did not see them. I think you'll find that he's 
 away, hunting somewhere. I saw the groom going off 
 with three horses on Sunday afternoon. He always 
 sends them by the church gate just as we're coming 
 out." 
 
 J 
 
62 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 So Harry went up to tlio house, and found Lady 
 Clavering at home. She was looking old and careworn, 
 but she was glad to see him. Harry was the only one 
 of the rectory family who had been liked at the great 
 house since Sir Hugh's marriage, and he, had he cared 
 to do so, would have been made welcome there. But, 
 as he had once said to Sir Hugh's sister-in-law, if he 
 shot the Clavering gam^e, he would be expected to do 
 so in the guise of a head gamekeeper, and he did not 
 choose to play that part. It would not suit him to 
 drink Sir Hugh's claret, and be bidden to ring the bell, 
 and to be asked to step into the stable for this or that. 
 He was a fellow of his college, and quite as big a man, 
 he thought, as Sir Hugh, He would not be a hanger- 
 on at the park, and, to tell the truth, he disliked his 
 cousin quite as much as his father did. But there had 
 even been a sort of friendship, — nay, occasionally 
 almost a confidence, between him and Lady Clavering, 
 and he believed that by her he was really liked. 
 
 Lady Clavering had heard of his engagement, and 
 of course congratulated him. "Who told you?" he 
 asked, — '^was it my mother?" 
 
 "No; I have not seen your mother I don't know 
 when. I think it was my maid told me. Though we 
 somehow don't see much of you all at the rectory, our 
 servants are no doubt more gracious with the rectory 
 servants. I'm sure she must be nice, Harry, or you 
 would not have chosen her. I hope she has got some 
 money." 
 
 "Yes, I think she is nice. She is coming here at 
 Easter." 
 
 "Ah, we shall be away then, you know; and about 
 the money?" 
 
FLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 63 
 
 "She will have a little, hnt very little-, — a hundred 
 a year." 
 
 ^'Oh, Harry, is not that rash of you? Younger 
 brothers should always get money. You're the same 
 as a younger brother, you know." 
 
 "My idea is to earn my own bread. It's not very 
 aristocratic, but, after all, there are a great many more 
 in the same boat with me." 
 
 "Of course you will earn your bread, but having a 
 wife with money would not liinder that. A girl is not 
 the worse because she can bring some help. However, 
 I'm sure I hope you'll be happy." 
 
 "What I meant was that I think it best when the 
 money comes from the husband." 
 
 "I'm sure I ought to agree with you, because we 
 never had any." Then there w^as a pause. "I sup- 
 pose you've heard about Lord Ongar," she said. 
 
 "I have heard that he is very ill." 
 
 "Very ill. I believe there was no hope when we 
 heard last; but Julia never writes now." 
 
 "I'm sorry that it is so bad as that," said Harry, 
 not well knowing what else to say. 
 
 "As regards Julia, I do not know whether it may 
 not be for the best. It seems to be a cruel thing to 
 say, but of course I cannot but think most of her. 
 You have heard, perhaps, that they have not been 
 happy?" 
 
 "Yes; I had heard that." 
 
 "Of course; and what is the use of pretending any- 
 thing with you? You know what people have said of her." 
 "I have never believed it." 
 
 "You always loved her, Harry. Oh, dear, I re- 
 member how unhappy that made me once, and I was 
 
64 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 SO afraid tliat Hiigt would suspect it. Slie would never 
 have done for you; — would she, Harry?'' 
 
 "She did a great deal better for herself," said Harry. 
 
 "If you mean that ironically, you shouldn't say it 
 now. If he dies, she will be well off, of course, and 
 people will in time forget what has been said, — that 
 is, if she will live quietly. The worst of it is that she 
 fears nothing." 
 
 "But you speak as though you thought she had 
 been — been — " 
 
 "I think she was probably imprudent, but I believe 
 nothing worse than that. But v/ho can say what is 
 absolutely wrong, and what only imprudent? I think 
 she was too proud to go really astray. And then with 
 such a man as that, so difficult and so ill-tempered — ! 
 Sir Hugh thinks — " But at that moment the door was 
 opened and Sir Hugh came in. 
 
 "What does Sir Hugh think?" said he. 
 
 "We were speaking of Lord Ongar," said Harry, 
 sitting up and shaking hands with his cousin. 
 
 "Then, Harry, you were speaking on a subject 
 that I would rather not have discussed in this house. 
 Do you understand that, Hermione? I will have no 
 talking about Lord Ongar, or his wife. We know very 
 little, and what we hear is simply uncomfortable. Will 
 you dine here to-day, Harry?" 
 
 "Thank you, no-, I have only just come home." 
 
 "And I am just going away. That is, I go to- 
 morrow. I cannot stand this place. I think it the 
 dullest neighbourhood in all England, and the most 
 gloomy house I ever saw. Hermione likes it." 
 
 To this last assertion Lady Clavering expressed no 
 assent; nor did she venture to contradict him. 
 
LADY ONGAr's RETURN. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Lady Ongar's Return. 
 
 But Sir Hugli did not get away from Clavering 
 Park on the next morning as lie had intended. There 
 came to him that same afternoon a message by telegraph, 
 to say that Lord Ongar was dead. He had died at 
 Florence on the afternoon of Christmas- day, and Lady 
 Ongar had expressed her intention of coming at once 
 to England. 
 
 ''Why the devil doesn't she stay where she is?" 
 said Sir Hugh, to his wife. "People would forget her 
 there, and in twelve months' time the row would be 
 all over." 
 
 ''Perhaps she does not want to be forgotten," said 
 Lady Clavering. 
 
 "Then she should want it. I don't care whether 
 she has been guilty or not. When a woman gets her 
 name into such a mess as that, she should keep in the 
 background." 
 
 "I think you are unjust to her, Hugh." 
 
 "Of course you do. You don't suppose that I ex- 
 pect anything else. But if you mean to tell me that 
 there would have been all this row, if she had been 
 decently prudent, I tell you that you're mistaken." 
 
 "Only think what a man he was." 
 
 "She knew that when she took him, and should 
 have borne with him while he lasted. A woman isn't 
 to have seven thousand a year for nothing." 
 
 "But you forget that not a syllable has been proved 
 against her, or been attempted to be proved. She has 
 never left him, and now she has been with him in his 
 
 The Clam'ings. I. 5 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 last moments. I don't think you ought do he the first 
 to turn against her.'' 
 
 "If she would remain abroad, I would do the best 
 I could for her. She chooses to return home; and 
 as I think she's wrong, I won't have her here; — that's 
 all. You don't suppose that I go about the world ac- 
 cusing her?" 
 
 "I think you might do something to fight her battle 
 for her." 
 
 "I will do nothing, — unless she takes my advice 
 and remains abroad. You must write to her now, and 
 you will tell her what I say. It's an infernal bore, 
 his dying at this moment; but I suppose people won't 
 expect that I'm to shut myself up." 
 
 For one day only did the baronet shut himself up, 
 and on the following, he went whither he had before 
 intended. 
 
 Lady Clavering thought it proper to write a line 
 to the rectory, informing the family there that Lord 
 Ongar was no more. This she did in a note to Mrs. 
 Clavering; and when it was received, there came over 
 the faces of them all that lugubrious look, which is, as 
 a matter of course, assumed by decorous people when 
 tidings come of the death of any one who has been 
 known to them, even in the most distant way. With 
 the exception of Harry, all the rectory Claverings had 
 been introduced to Lord Ongar, and were now bound 
 to express something approaching to sorrow. Will any 
 one dare to call this hypocrisy? If it be so called, 
 who in the world is not a hypocrite? Where is the 
 man or woman who has not a special face for sorrow 
 before company? The man or woman who has no such 
 face, would at once be accused of heartless impropriety. 
 
LADY ONOAR's RETURN. 67 
 
 "It is very sad," said Mrs. Clavering; "only think, 
 it is but little more than a year since you married 
 them!" 
 
 "And twelve such months as they have been for 
 her!" said the rector, shaking his head. His face was 
 very lugubrious, for though as a parson he was essen- 
 tially a kindly, easy man, to whom humbug was odious, 
 and who dealt little in the austerities of clerical denun- 
 ciation, still he had his face of pulpit sorrow for the 
 sins of the people, — what I may perhaps call his 
 clerical knack of gentle condemnation, — and could 
 therefore assume a solemn look, and a little saddened 
 motion of his head, with more ease than people who 
 are not often called upon for such action. 
 
 "Poor woman!" said Fanny, thinking of the wo- 
 man's married sorrows, and her early widowhood. 
 
 "Poor man," said Mary, shuddering as she thought 
 of the husband's fate. 
 
 "I hope," said Harry, almost sententiously , "that 
 no one in this house will condemn her upon such mere 
 rumours as have been heard." 
 
 "Why should any one in this house condemn her," 
 said the rector, "even if there were more than rumours? 
 My dears, judge not, lest ye be judged. As regards 
 her, we are bound by close ties not to speak ill of her 
 — or even to think ill , unless we cannot avoid it. As 
 far as I know , we have not even any reason for think- 
 ing ill." Then he went out, changed the tone of his 
 countenance among the rectory stables, and lit his 
 cigar. 
 
 Three days after that a second note was brought 
 down from the great house to the rectory, and this 
 was from Lady Clavering to Harry. "Dear Harry," 
 
 5* 
 
68 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 ran the note, — "Could you find time to come up to 
 me this morning? Sir Hugh has gone to North 
 Priory. — Ever yours, H. C/' Harry, of course, went, 
 and as he went, he wondered how Sir Hugh could 
 have had the heart to go to North Priory at such a 
 moment. North Priory was a hunting seat some thirty 
 miles from Clavering, belonging to a great nobleman 
 with whom Sir Hugh much consorted. Harry was 
 grieved that his cousin had not resisted the temptation 
 of going at such a time, but he was quick enough to 
 perceive that Lady Clavering alluded to the absence 
 of her lord as a reason why Harry might pay his visit 
 to the house with satisfaction. 
 
 ''I'm so much obliged to you for coming," said 
 Lady Clavering. "I want to know if you can do some- 
 thing for me." As she spoke, she had a paper in her 
 hand which he immediately perceived to be a letter 
 from Italy. 
 
 "I'll do anything I can, of course, Lady Claver- 
 ing.". 
 
 "But I must tell you, that I hardly know whether 
 I ought to ask you. I'm doing what would make Hugh 
 very angry. But he is so unreasonable, and so cruel 
 about Julia. He condemns her simply because, as he 
 says, there is no smoke without fire. That is such 
 a cruel thing to say about a woman; — is it not?" 
 
 Harry thought that it was a cruel thing, but as he 
 did not wish to speak evil of Sir Hugh before Lady 
 Clavering, he held his tongue. 
 
 "When we got the first news by telegraph, Julia 
 said that she intended to come home at once. Hugh 
 thinks that she should remain abroad for some time, 
 and indeed I am not sure but that would be best. At 
 
LADY ONGAR'sS RETURN. 69 
 
 any rate lie made me write to her, and advise her to 
 stay. He declared that if she came at once he would 
 do nothing for her. The truth is, he does not want to 
 have her here, for if she were again in the house he 
 would have to take her part, if ill-natured things were 
 said." 
 
 "That's cowardly," said Harry, stoutly. 
 
 "Don't say that, Harry, till you have heard it all. 
 If he believes these things, he is right not to wish to 
 meddle. He is very hard, and always believes evil. 
 But he is not a coward. If she were here, living with 
 him as my sister, he would take her part, whatever he 
 might himself think." 
 
 "But why should he think ill of his own sister-in- 
 law? I have never thought ill of her." 
 
 "You loved her, and he never did; — though I 
 think he liked her too in his way. But that's what he 
 told me to do, and I did it. I wrote to her, advising 
 her to remain at Florence till the warm weather comes, 
 saying that as she could not specially wish to be in 
 London for the season, I thought she would be more 
 comfortable there than here; — and then I added that 
 Hugh also advised her to stay. Of course I did not 
 say that he would not have her here, — but that was 
 his threat." 
 
 "She is not likely to press herself where she is not 
 wanted." 
 
 "No, — and she will not forget her rank and her 
 money; for that must now be hers. Julia can be quite 
 as hard and as stubborn as he can. But I did write 
 as I say, and I think that if she had got my letter 
 before she had written herself, she would perhaps have 
 stayed. But here is a letter from her, declaring that 
 
70 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 she will come at once. She will be starting almost as 
 soon as my letter gets there, and I am sure she will 
 not alter her purpose now." 
 
 ''I don't see why she should not come if she likes 
 
 it." 
 
 ^^Only that she might be more comfortable there. 
 But read what she says. You need not read the first 
 part. Not that there is any secret; but it is about 
 him and his last moments, and it would only pain you." 
 
 Harry longed to read the whole, but he did as he 
 was bid, and began the letter at the spot which Lady 
 Clavering marked for him with her finger. "I have 
 to start on the third, and as I shall stay nowhere ex- 
 cept to sleep at Turin and Paris, I shall be home by 
 the eighth; — I think on the evening of the eighth. 
 I shall bring only my own maid, and one of his men 
 who desires to come back with me. I wish to have 
 apartments taken for me in London. I suppose Hugh 
 will do as much as this for me?" 
 
 "I am quite sure Hugh won't," said Lady Claver- 
 ing, who was watching his eye as he read. 
 
 Harry said nothing, but went on reading. "I shall 
 only want two sitting-rooms and two bedrooms, — one 
 for myself and one for Clara, and should like to have 
 them somewhere near Piccadilly, — in Clarges Street, 
 or about there. You can write me a line, or send me 
 a message to the Hotel Bristol, at Paris. If anything 
 fails, so that I should not hear, I shall go to the Palace 
 Hotel; and in that case, should telegraph for rooms 
 from Paris." 
 
 "Is that all Pm to read?" Harry asked. 
 
 "You can go on and see what she says as to her 
 reason for coming." So Harry went on reading. "I 
 
LADY ONGAR's RETURN. 
 
 have suffered much, and of course I know that I must 
 suffer more; but I am determined that I will face the 
 worst of it at once. It has been hinted to me that an 
 attempt will be made to interfere with the settle- 
 ment — " ''Who can have hinted that?" said Harry. 
 Lady Clavering suspected who might have done so, 
 but she made no answer. ''I can hardly think it pos- 
 sible; but if it is done, I will not be out of the way. 
 I Lave done my duty as best I could, and have done 
 it under circumstances that I may truly say were ter- 
 rible; — and I will go on doing it. No one shall say 
 that I am ashamed to show my face and claim my 
 own. You will be surprised when you see me. I have 
 aged so much; — " 
 
 ''You need not go on," said Lady Clavering. "The 
 rest is about nothing that signifies." 
 
 Then Harry refolded the letter and gave it back to 
 his companion. 
 
 " Sir Hugh is gone, and therefore I could not show 
 him that in time to do anything; but if I were to do 
 so, he would simply do nothing, and let her go to the 
 hotel in London. Now that would be unkind; — 
 would it not?" 
 
 "Very unkind, I think." 
 
 "It would seem so cold to her on her return." 
 
 "Very cold. Will you not go and meet her?" 
 
 Lady Clavering blushed as she answered. Though 
 Sir Hugh was a tyrant to his wife, and known to be 
 such, and though she knew that this was known, she 
 had never said that it was so to any of the Claver- 
 ings; but now she was driven to confess it. "He 
 would not let me go, Harry. I could not go without 
 telling him, and if I told him he would forbid it." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "And she is to be all alone in London, without 
 any friend?" 
 
 "I shall go to her as soon as he will let me. I 
 don't think he will forbid my going to her, perliaps 
 after a day or two; but I know he would not let me 
 go on purpose to meet her." 
 
 "It does seem hard." 
 
 "But about the apartments, Harry? I thought that 
 perhaps you would see about them. After all that has 
 passed I could not have asked you, only that now, as 
 you are engaged yourself, it is nearly the same as 
 though you were married. I would ask Archibald, 
 only then there would be a fuss between Archibald 
 and Hugh; and somehow I look on you more as a 
 brother-in-law than I do Archibald." 
 
 "Is Archie in London?" 
 
 "His address is at his club, but I daresay he is at 
 North Priory also. At any rate, I shall say nothing to 
 him." 
 
 "I was thinking he might have met her." 
 
 "Julia never liked him. And, indeed, I don't think 
 she will care so much about being met. She was al^ 
 ways independent in that way, and would go over the 
 world alone better than many men. But couldn't you 
 run up and manage about the apartments? A woman 
 coming home as a widow, — and in her position, — 
 feels an hotel to be so public." 
 
 "I will see about the apartments." 
 
 "I knew you would. And there will be time for 
 you to send to me, so that I can write to Paris; — 
 will there not? There is more than a week, you 
 know." 
 
 But Henry did not wish to go to London on this 
 
LADY ONGAR'S RETURN. 
 
 73 
 
 business immediately. He had made up his mind that 
 he would not only take the rooms, but that he would 
 also meet Lady Ongar at the station. He said nothing 
 of this to Lady Clavering, as, perhaps, she might not 
 approve; but such was his intention. He was wrong 
 no doubt. A man in such cases should do what he is 
 asked to do, and do no more. But he repeated to him- 
 self the excuse that Lady Clavering had made, — 
 namely, that he was already the same as a married 
 man, and that, therefore, no harm could come of his 
 courtesy to his cousin's wife's sister. But he did not 
 wish to make two journeys to London, nor did he de- 
 sire to be away for a full week out of his holidays. 
 Lady Clavering could not press him to go at once, 
 and, therefore, it was settled as he proposed. She 
 would write to Paris immediately, and he would go up 
 to London after three or four days. "If we only knew 
 of any apartments, we could write,'' said Lady Claver- 
 ing. "You could not know that they were comfort- 
 able," said Harry; "and you will find that I will do it 
 in plenty of time." Then he took his leave; but Lady 
 Clavering had still one other word to say to him. 
 "You had better not say anything about all this at the 
 rectory; had you?" Harry, without considering much 
 about it, said that he would not mention it. 
 
 Then he went away and walked again about the 
 park, thinking of it all. He had not seen her since he 
 had walked round the park, in his misery, after part- 
 ing with her in the garden. How much had happened 
 since then! She had been married in her glory, had 
 become a countess, and then a widow, and was now 
 returning with a tarnished name, almost repudiated by 
 those who had been her dearest friends; but with rank 
 
74 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 and fortune at her command, — and again a free 
 woman. He could not but think what might have 
 been his chance were it not for Florence Burton! But 
 much had happened to him also. He had almost 
 perished in his misery; — so he told himself; — but 
 had once more "tricked his beams," — that was his 
 expression to himself, — and was now " flaming in the 
 forehead" of a glorious love. And even if there had 
 been no such love, would a widowed countess with a 
 damaged name have suited his ambition, simply be- 
 cause she had the rich dower of the poor wretch to 
 whom she had sold herself? No, indeed. There could 
 be no question of renewed vows between them now, — ■ 
 there could have been no such question even had there 
 been no "glorious love," which had accrued to him al- 
 most as his normal privilege in right of his pupilage in 
 Mr. Burton's office. No; — there could be, there 
 could have been, nothing now between him and the 
 widowed Countess of Ongar. But, nevertheless, he 
 liked the idea of meeting her in London. He felt 
 some triumph in the thought that he should be the 
 first to touch her hand on her return after all that she 
 had suffered. He would be very courteous to her, and 
 would spare no trouble that would give her any ease. 
 As for her rooms, he would see to everything of which 
 he could think that might add to her comfort; and a 
 wish crept upon him, uninvited, that she might be con- 
 scious of what he had done for her. 
 
 Would she be aware, he wondered, that he was 
 engaged? Lady Clavering had known it for the last 
 three months, and would probably have mentioned the 
 circumstance in a letter. But perhaps not. The sisters, 
 he knew, had not been good correspondents; and he 
 
( LADY ONGAR^S RETURN. 75 
 
 I 
 
 I almost wished tliat she might not know it. "I should 
 not care to be talking to her about Florence,'' he said 
 to himself. 
 
 It was very strange that they should come to meet 
 in such a way, after all that had passed between them 
 in former days. Would it occur to her that he was 
 the only man she had ever loved? — for, of course, 
 as he well knew, she had never loved her husband. 
 Or would she now be too callous to everything but the 
 outer world to think at all of such a subject? She had 
 said that she was aged, and he could well believe it. 
 Then he pictured her to himself in her weeds, worn, 
 sad, thin, but still proud and handsome. He had told 
 Florence of his early love for the woman whom Lord 
 Ongar had married, and had described with rapture his 
 joy that that early passion had come to nothing. Now he 
 would have to tell Florence of this meeting; and he 
 thought of the comparison he would make between her 
 bright young charms and the shipwrecked beauty of 
 the widow. On the whole, he was proud that he had 
 been selected for the commission, as he liked to think 
 of himself as one to whom things happened which were 
 out of the ordinary course. His only objection to 
 Florence was that she had come to him so much in the 
 ordinary course. 
 
 ^'I suppose the truth is you are tired of our dul- 
 ness?'' said his father to him, when he declared his 
 purpose of going up to London, and, in answer to 
 certain questions that were asked him, had hesitated 
 to tell his business. 
 
 ^'Lideed, it is not so," said Harry, earnestly, "but 
 I have a commission to execute for a certain person, 
 and I cannot explain what it is." 
 
76 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "Another secret; — eh, Harry?" 
 
 "I am very sorry, — but it is a secret. It is not 
 one of my own seeking; that is all I can say.'^ His 
 mother and sisters also asked him a question or two; 
 but when he became mysterious, they did not persevere. 
 
 Of course it is something about Florence," said Fanny. 
 "I'll be bound he is going to meet her. What will 
 you bet me, Harry, you don't go to the play with 
 Florence before you come home?" To this Henry 
 deigned no answer; and after that no more questions 
 were asked. 
 
 He went up to London and took rooms in Bolton 
 Street. There was a pretty fresh-looking light drawing- 
 room, or, indeed, two drawing-rooms, and a small 
 dining-room, and a large bed-room looking over upon 
 the trees of some great nobleman's garden. As Harry 
 stood at the window it seemed so odd to him that he 
 should be there. And he was busy about everything 
 in the chamber, seeing that all things were clean and 
 well ordered. Was the woman of the house sure of 
 her cook? Sure; of course she was sure. Had not 
 old Lady Dimdaff lived there for two years, and 
 nobody ever was so particular about her victuals as 
 Lady Dimdaff. "And would Lady Ongar keep her 
 own carriage?" As to this Harry could say nothing. 
 Then came the question of price, and Harry found his 
 commission very difficult. The sum asked seemed to 
 be enormous. "Seven guineas a week at that time 
 of the year!" Lady Dimdaff had always paid seven 
 guineas. "But that was in the season," suggested 
 Harry. To this the woman replied that it was the 
 season now. Harry felt that he did not like to drive 
 a bargain for the Countess, who would probably care 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 } LADY ONGAr's RETURN. 77 
 
 very little wliat she paid, and therefore assented. But 
 a guinea a day for lodgings did seem a great deal of 
 money. He was prepared to marry and commence 
 housekeeping upon a less sum for all his expenses. 
 However, he had done his commission, had written to 
 Lady Clavering, and had telegraphed to Paris. He 
 had almost brought himself to write to Lady Ongar, 
 but when the moment came he abstained. He had 
 sent the telegram as from H. Clavering. She might 
 think that it came from Hugh if she pleased. 
 
 He was unable not to attend specially to his dress 
 when he went to meet her at the Victoria Station. He 
 told himself that he was an ass, — but still he went 
 on being an ass. During the whole afternoon he could 
 do nothing but think of what he had in hand. He 
 was to tell Florence everything, but had Florence 
 known the actual state of his mind, I doubt whether 
 she would have been satisfied with him. The train 
 was due at 8 p.m. He dined at the Oxford and 
 Cambridge Club at six, and then went to his lodgings 
 to take one last look at his outer man. The evening 
 was very fine, but he went down to the station in a 
 cab, because he w^ould not meet Lady Ongar in soiled 
 boots. He told himself again that he was an ass; 
 and then tried to console himself by thinking that 
 such an occasion as this seldom happened once to any 
 man, — could hardly happen more than once to any 
 man. He had hired a carriage for her, not thinking it 
 fit that Lady Ongar should be taken to her new home 
 in a cab; and when he was at the station, half an hour 
 before the proper time, was very fidgety because it 
 had not come. Ten minutes before eight he might 
 have been seen standing at the entrance to the station 
 
78 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 looking out anxiously for the vehicle. The man was 
 there, of course, in time, but Harry made himself 
 angry because he could not get the carriage so placed 
 that Lady Ongar might be sure of stepping into i^ 
 without leaving the platform. Punctually to the moment 
 the coming train announced itself by its whistle, and 
 Harry Clavering felt himself to be in a flutter. 
 
 The train came up along the platform, and Harry 
 stood there expecting to see Julia Brabazon's head 
 projected from the first window that caught his eye. 
 It was of Julia Brabazon's head, and not of Lady 
 Ongar's, that he was thinking. But he saw no sign 
 of her presence while the carriages were coming to a 
 stand-still, and the platform was covered with pas- 
 sengers before he discovered her whom he was seeking. 
 At last he encountered in the crowd a man in livery, 
 and found from him that he was Lady Ongar's servant. 
 "I have come to meet Lady Ongar," said Harry, 
 "and have got a carriage for her." Then the servant 
 found his mistress, and Harry offered his hand to a 
 tall woman in black. She wore a black straw hat 
 with a veil, but the veil was so thick that Harry could 
 not at all see her face. 
 
 ''Is that Mr. Clavering?" said she. 
 
 ''Yes," said Harry, "it is I. Your sister asked me 
 to take rooms for you, and as I was in town I thought 
 I might as well meet you to see if you wanted any- 
 thing. Can I get the luggage?" 
 
 "Thank you; — the man will do that. He knows 
 where the things are." 
 
 "I ordered a carriage; — shall I show him where 
 it is? Perhaps you will let me take you to it? They 
 
LADY ONGAr's RETURN. 
 
 are so stupid here. Tliey would not let me bring 
 it up." 
 
 "It will do very well I'm sure. It's very kind of 
 you. The rooms are in Bolton Street. I have the 
 number here. Oh! thank you." But she would not 
 take his arm. So he led the way, and stood at the 
 door while she got into the carriage with her maid. 
 "I'd better show the man where you are now." This 
 he did, and afterwards shook hands with her through 
 the carriage window. This was all he saw of her, and 
 the words which have been repeated were all that were 
 spoken. Of her face he had not caught a glimpse. 
 
 As he went home to his lodgings he was conscious 
 that the interview had not been satistactory. He could 
 not say what more he wanted, but he felt that there 
 M^as something amiss. He consoled himself, however, 
 by reminding himself that Florence Burton was the 
 girl whom he had really loved, and not Julia Brabazon. 
 Lady Ongar had given him no invitation to come and 
 see her, and therefore he determined that he would 
 return home on the following day without going near 
 Bolton Street. He had pictured to himself beforehand 
 the sort of description he would give to Lady Clavering 
 of her sister; but, seeing how things had turned out, 
 he made up his mind that he would say nothing of 
 the meeting. Indeed, he would not go up to the 
 great house at all. He had done Lady Clavering's 
 commission, — at some little trouble and expense to 
 himself, and there should be an end of it. Lady 
 Ongar would not mention that she had seen him. He 
 doubted, indeed, whether she would remember whom 
 she had seen. For any good that he had done, or for 
 any sentiment that there had been, his cousin Hugh's 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 butler might as well have gone to tlie train. In this 
 mood he returned home, consoling himself with the 
 fitness of things which had given him Florence Burton 
 instead of Julia Brabazon for a wife. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Rev. Samuel Saul. 
 
 During Harry's absence in London, a circumstance 
 had occurred at the rectory which had surprised some 
 of them and annoyed others a good deal. Mr. Saul, 
 the curate, had made an offer to Fanny. The Rector 
 and Fanny declared themselves to be both surprised 
 and annoyed. That the Rector was in truth troubled 
 by the thing was very evident. Mrs. Clavering said 
 that she had almost suspected it, — that she was at 
 any rate not surprised; as to the offer itself, of course 
 she was sorry that it should have been made, as it 
 could not suit Fanny to accept it. Mary was surprised, 
 as she had thought Mr. Saul to be wholly intent on 
 other things ; but she could not see any reason why the 
 offer should be regarded as being on his part unreason- 
 able. 
 
 "How can you say so, mamma?" Such had been 
 Fanny's indignant exclamation when Mrs. Clavering 
 had hinted that Mr. Saul's proceeding had been ex- 
 pected by her. 
 
 "Simply because I saw that he liked you, my dear. 
 Men under such circumstances have different ways of 
 showing their liking." 
 
 Fanny, who had seen all of Mary's love-affair from 
 the beginning to the end, and who had watched the 
 Reverend Edward Fielding in all his very conspicuous 
 
THE KEY. SAMUEL SAUL. 
 
 81 
 
 manoeuvres, would not agree to this. Edward Fielding 
 from the first moment of his intimate acquaintance with 
 Mary had left no doubt of his intentions on the mind 
 of any one. He had talked to Mary and walked with 
 Mary whenever he was allowed or found it possible to 
 do so. When driven to talk to Fanny, he had always 
 talked about Mary. He had been a lover of the good, 
 old, plainspoken stamp, about whom there had been 
 no mistake. From the first moment of his coming much 
 about Clavering Eectory the only question had been 
 about his income. ^'I don't think Mr. Saul ever said 
 a word to me except about the poor people and the 
 church services," said Fanny. "That was merely his 
 way," said Mrs. Clavering. "Then he must be a 
 goose," said Fanny. "I am very sorry if I have made 
 him unhappy, but he had no business to come to me 
 in that way." 
 
 "I suppose I shall have to look for another curate," 
 said the Rector. But this was said in private to his 
 wife. 
 
 "I don't see that at all," said Mrs. Clavering. "With 
 many men it would be so; but I think you will find 
 that he will take an answer, and that there will be an 
 end of it." 
 
 Fanny, perhaps, had a right to be indignant, for 
 certainly Mr. Saul had given her no fair warning of 
 his intention. Mary had for some months been intent 
 rather on Mr. Fielding's church matters than on those 
 going on in her own parish, and therefore there had 
 been nothing singular in the fact that Mr. Saul had 
 said more on such matters to Fanny than to her sister. 
 Fanny was eager and active, and as Mr. Saul was very 
 eager and very active, it was natural that they should 
 
 The Claverings, I. 6 
 
82 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 have had some mterests in common. But there had 
 been no private walkings, and no talkings that could 
 properly be called private. There was a certain book 
 which Fanny kept, containing the names of all the 
 poor people in the parish, to which Mr. Saul had access 
 equally with herself*, but its contents were of a most 
 prosaic nature, and when she had sat over it in the 
 rectory drawing-room, with Mr. Saul by her side, striv- 
 ing to extract more than twelve pennies out of charity 
 shillings, she had never thought that it would lead to 
 a declaration of love. 
 
 He had never called her Fanny in his life, — not 
 up to the moment when she declined the honour of 
 becoming Mrs. Saul. The offer itself was made in this 
 wise. She had been at the house of old Widow Tubb, 
 half-way between Cumberly Green and the little village 
 of Clavering, striving to make that rheumatic old woman 
 believe that she had not been cheated by a general con- 
 spiracy of the parish in the matter of a distribution of 
 coal, when, just as she was about to leave the cottage, 
 Mr. Saul came up. It was then past four, and the 
 evening was becoming dark, and there was, moreover, 
 a slight drizzle of rain. It was not a tempting evening 
 for a walk of a mile and a half through a very dirty 
 lane*, but Fanny Clavering did not care much for such 
 things, and was just stepping out into the mud and 
 moisture, with her dress well looped up, when Mr. Saul 
 accosted her. 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll be very wet. Miss Clavering." 
 
 "That will be better than going without my cup of 
 tea, Mr. Saul, which I should have to do if I stayed 
 any longer with Mrs. Tubb. And I have got an um- 
 brella." 
 
THE KEV. SAMUEL SAUL. 
 
 83 
 
 "But it is so dark and dirty," said lie. 
 
 "I'm used to that, as you ouglit to know." 
 
 "Yes; I do know it," said lie, walking on with her. 
 "I do know that nothing ever turns you away from 
 the good work." 
 
 There was something in the tone of his voice which 
 Fanny did not like. He had never complimented her 
 before. They had been very intimate and had often 
 scolded each other. Fanny would accuse him of exact- 
 ing too much from the people, and he would retort 
 upon her that she coddled them. Fanny would often 
 decline to obey him, and he would make angry hints 
 as to his clerical authority. In this way they had 
 worked together pleasantly, without any of the awkward- 
 ness which on other terms would have arisen between 
 a young man and a young woman. But now that he 
 began to praise her with some peculiar intention of 
 meaning in his tone, she was confounded. She had 
 made no immediate answer to him, but walked on 
 rapidly through the mud and slush. 
 
 "You are veiy constant," said he*, "I have not been 
 two years at Clavering without finding that out." It 
 was becoming worse and worse. It was not so much 
 his words which provoked her as the tone in which 
 they were uttered. And yet she had not the slightest 
 idea of what was coming. If, thoroughly admiring her 
 devotion and mistaken as to her character, he were to 
 ask her to become a Protestant nun, or suggest to her 
 that she should leave her home and go as nurse into a 
 hospital, then there would have occurred the sort of 
 folly of which she believed him to be capable. Of the 
 folly which he now committed, she had not believed 
 him to be capable. 
 
 6* 
 
84 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 It liad come on to rain hard, and she held her 
 umbrella low over her head. He also was walking 
 with an open umbrella in his hand, so that they were 
 not very close to each other. Fanny, as she stepped 
 on impetuously, put her foot into the depth of a pool, 
 and splashed herself thoroughly. 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear," said she; "this is very disagree- 
 able." 
 
 "Miss Clavering," said he, "I have been looking 
 for an opportunity to speak to you, and I do not know 
 when I may find another so suitable as this." She still 
 believed that some proposition was to be made to her 
 which would be disagreeable, and perhaps impertinent, 
 
 — but it never occurred to her that Mr. Saul was in 
 want of a wife. 
 
 "Doesn't it rain too hard for talking!" she said. 
 
 "As I have begun I must go on with it now," he 
 replied, raising his voice a little, as though it were 
 necessary that he should do so to make her hear him 
 through the rain and darkness. She moved a little 
 further away from him with unthinking irritation; but 
 still he went on with his purpose. "Miss Clavering, I 
 know that I am ill-suited to play the part of a lover; 
 
 — very ill-suited." Then she gave a start and again 
 splashed herself sadly. "I have never read how it is 
 done in books, and have not allowed my imagination 
 to dwell much on such things." 
 
 "Mr. Saul, don't go on; pray don't." Now she did 
 understand what was coming. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Clavering, I must go on now; but not 
 on that account would I press you to give me an an- 
 swer to-day. I have learned to love you, and if you 
 can love me in return, I will take you by the hand, 
 
THE REV. SAMUEL SAUL. 
 
 85 
 
 and you shall be my wife. I have found that in you 
 which I have been unable not to love, — not to covet 
 that I may bind it to myself as my own for ever. Will 
 you think of this, and give me an answer when you 
 have considered it fully?" 
 
 He had not spoken altogether amiss, and Fanny, 
 though she was very angry with him, was conscious of 
 this. The time he had chosen might not be considered 
 suitable for a declaration of love, nor the place; but 
 having chosen them, he had, perhaps, made the best 
 of them. There had been no hesitation in his voice, 
 and his words had been perfectly audible. 
 
 ''Oh, Mr. Saul, of course I can assure you at once," 
 said Fanny. "There need not be any consideration. 
 
 I really have never thought " Fanny, who knew 
 
 her own mind on the matter thoroughly, was hardly 
 able to express herself plainly and without incivility. 
 As soon as that phrase "of course" had passed her lips, 
 she felt that it should not have been spoken. There 
 was no need that she should insult him by telling him 
 that such a proposition from him could have but one 
 answer. 
 
 "No, Miss Clavering-, I know you have never 
 thought of it, and therefore it would be well that you 
 should take time. I have not been able to make mani- 
 fest to you by little signs, as men do who are less 
 awkward, all the love that I have felt for you. Indeed, 
 could I have done so, I should still have hesitated till 
 I had thoroughly resolved that I might be better with 
 a wife than without one; and had resolved also, as far 
 as that might be possible for me, that you also would 
 be better with a husband." 
 
 "Mr. Saul, really that should be for me to think of." 
 
86 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "And for me also. Can any man offer to marry a 
 woman, — to bind a woman for life to certain duties, 
 and to so close an obligation, without thinking whether 
 such bonds would be good for her as well as for him- 
 self? Of course you must think for yourself; — and 
 so have I thought for you. You should think for your- 
 self, and you should think also for me." 
 
 Fanny was quite aware that as regarded herself, 
 the matter was one which required no more thinking. 
 Mr. Saul was not a m.an with whom she could bring 
 herself to be in love. She had her own ideas as to 
 what was loveable in men, and the eager curate, splash- 
 ing through the rain by her side, by no means came 
 up to her standard of excellence. She was uncon- 
 sciously aware that he had altogether mistaken her 
 character, and given her credit for more abnegation of 
 the world than she pretended to possess, or was desirous 
 of possessing. Fanny Clavering was in no hurry to get 
 married. 1 do not know that she had even made up 
 her mind that marriage would be a good thing for her; 
 but she had an untroubled conviction that if she did 
 marry, her husband should have a house and an in- 
 come. She had no reliance on her own power of living 
 on a potato, and with one new dress every year. A 
 comfortable home, with nice, comfortable things around 
 her, ease in money matters, and elegance in life, were 
 charms with which she had not quarrelled, and though 
 she did not wish to be hard upon Mr. Saul on account 
 of his mistake, she did feel that in making his proposi- 
 tion he had blundered. Because she chose to do her 
 duty as a parish clergyman's daughter, he thought him- 
 self entitled to regard her as a devotee, who would be 
 willing to resign everything to become the wife of a 
 
THE REV. SAMUEL SAUL. 
 
 87 
 
 clergyman, who was active, indeed, but who had not 
 one shilling of income beyond his curacy. "Mr. Saul," 
 she said, "I can assure you I need take no time for 
 further thinking. It cannot be as you would have it." 
 
 "Perhaps I have been abrupt. Indeed, I feel that 
 it is so, though I did not know how to avoid it." 
 
 "It would have made no difference. Indeed, in- 
 deed, Mr. Saul, nothing of that kind could have made 
 a difference." 
 
 "Will you grant me this*, — that I may speak to 
 you again on the same subject after six months?" 
 
 "It cannot do any good." 
 
 "It will do this good; — that for so much time 
 you will have had the idea before you." Fanny 
 thought that she would have Mr. Saul himself before 
 her, and that that would be enough. Mr. Saul, with 
 his rusty clothes and his thick, dirty shoes, and his 
 weak, blinking eyes, and his mind always set upon 
 the one wish of his life, could not be made to present 
 himself to her in the guise of a lover. He was one 
 of those men of whom women become very fond with 
 the fondness of friendship, but from whom young 
 women seem to be as far removed in the way of love 
 as though they belonged to some other species. "I 
 will not press you further," said he, "as I gather by 
 your tone that it distresses you." 
 
 "I am so sorry if I distress you, but really, Mr, 
 Saul, I could give you, — I never could give you 
 any other answer." 
 
 Then they walked on silently through the rain, — 
 silently, without a single word, ■ — for more than half 
 a mile, till they reached the rectory gate. Here it 
 was necessary that they should, at any rate, speak to 
 
88 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 each other, and for the last three hundred yards Fanny 
 had been trying to find the words which would be 
 suitable. But he was the first to break the silence. 
 "Good-night, Miss Clavering," he said, stopping and 
 putting out his hand. 
 
 "Good-night, Mr. Saul." 
 
 "I hope that there may be no difference in our 
 bearing to each other, because of what I have to-day 
 said to you?" 
 
 "Not on my part; — that is, if you will forget it." 
 
 "ISTo, Miss Clavering*, I shall not forget it. If it 
 had been a thing to be forgotten, I should not have 
 spoken. I certainly shall not forget it." 
 
 "You know what I mean, Mr. Saul." 
 
 "I shall not forget it even in the way that you 
 mean. But still I think you need not fear me, because 
 you know that I love you. I think I can promise that 
 you need not withdraw yourself from me, because of 
 what has passed. But you will tell your father and 
 your mother, and of course will be guided by them. 
 And now, good-night." Then he went, and she was 
 astonished at finding that he had had much the best of 
 it in his manner of speaking and conducting himself. 
 She had refused him very curtly, and he had borne it 
 well. He had not been abashed, nor had he become 
 sulky, nor had he tried to melt her by mention of his 
 own misery. In truth he had done it very well, — 
 only that he should have known better than to make 
 any such attempt at all. 
 
 Mr. Saul had been right in one thing. Of course 
 she told her mother, and of course her mother told her 
 father. Before dinner that evening the whole affair 
 was being debated in the family conclave. They all 
 
/ 
 
 THE REV. SAMUEL SAUL. 89 
 
 agreed that Fanny had had no alternative hut to reject 
 the proposition at once. That, indeed, was so thor- 
 oughly taken for granted, that the point was not dis- 
 cussed. But there came to be a difference between the 
 Rector and Fanny on one side, and Mrs. Clavering and 
 Mary on the other. "Upon my word," said the Rector, 
 "I think it was very impertinent." Fanny would not 
 have liked to use that word herself, but she loved her 
 father for using it. 
 
 ''I do not see that," said Mrs. Clavering. "He could 
 not know what Fanny's views in life might be. Curates 
 very often marry out of the houses of the clergymen 
 with whom they are placed, and I do not see why Mr. 
 Saul should be debarred from the privilege of trying." 
 
 "If he had got to like Fanny what else was he to 
 do?" said Mary. 
 
 "Oh, Mary, don't talk such nonsense," said Fanny. 
 "Got to like! People shouldn't get to like people un- 
 less there's some reason for it." 
 
 "What on earth did he intend to live on?" de- 
 manded the rector. 
 
 "Edward had nothing to live on, when you first 
 allowed him to come here," said Mary. 
 
 "But Edward had prospects, and Saul, as far as I 
 know, has none. He had given no one the slightest 
 notice. If the man in the moon had come to Fanny I 
 don't suppose she would have been more surprised." 
 
 "Not half so much, papa." 
 
 Then it was that Mrs. Clavering had declared that 
 she was not surprised, — that she had suspected it, 
 and had almost made Fanny angry by saying so. When 
 Harry came back two days afterwards, the family 
 news was imparted to him, and he immediately ranged 
 
90 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 liimself on liis father's side. "Upon my word I think 
 that he ought to be forbidden the house," said Harry. 
 "He has forgotten himself in making such a proposi- 
 tion." 
 
 "That's nonsense, Harry," said his mother. "If he 
 can be comfortable coming here, there can be no reason 
 why he should be uncomfortable. It would be an in- 
 justice to him to ask him to go, and a great trouble to 
 your father to find, another curate that would suit him 
 so well." There could be no doubt whatever as to the 
 latter proposition, and therefore it was quietly argued 
 that Mr. Saul's fault, if there had been a fault, should 
 be condoned. On the next day he came to the rectory, 
 and they were all astonished at the ease with which 
 lie bore himself. It was not that he affected any spe- 
 cial freedom of manner, or that he altogether avoided 
 any change in his mode of speaking to them. A slight 
 blush came upon his sallow face as he first spoke to 
 Mrs. Clavering, and he hardly did more than say a 
 single word to Fanny. But he carried himself as 
 though conscious of what he had done, but in no de- 
 gree ashamed of the doing it. The rector's manner to 
 }iim was stiff and formal*, — seeing which Mrs. Claver- 
 ing spoke to him gently, and with a smile. "I saw 
 you were a little hard on him, and therefore I tried to 
 make up for it," said she afterwards. "You were quite 
 right," said the husband. "You always are. But I 
 wish he had not made such a fool of himself It will 
 never be the same thing with him again." Harry 
 hardly spoke to Mr. Saul the first time he met him, all 
 of which Mr. Saul understood perfectly. . 
 
 "Clavering," he said to Harry, a day or two after 
 
I 
 
 THE REV. SAMUEL SAUL. 91 
 
 this, "I hope there is to be no difference between you 
 and me."* 
 
 "Difference! I don't know what you mean by 
 difference." 
 
 "We were good friends, and I hope that we are to 
 remain so. No doubt you know what has taken place 
 between me and your sister." 
 
 "Oh, yes-, — I have been told, of course." 
 
 "What I mean is, that I hope you are not going 
 to quarrel with me on that account? What I did, is 
 it not what you would have done in my position? — 
 only you would have done it successfully?" 
 
 "I think a fellow should have some income, you 
 know." 
 
 "Can you say that you would have waited for in- 
 come before you spoke of marriage?" 
 
 "I think it might have been better that you should 
 have gone to my father." 
 
 "It may be that that is the rule in such things, 
 but if so I do not know it. Would she have liked 
 that better?" 
 
 "Well 5 — I can't say." 
 
 "You are engaged? Did you go to the young 
 lady's family first?" 
 
 "I can't say I did; but I think I had given them 
 some ground to expect it. I fancy they all knew what 
 I was about. But it's over now, and I don't know 
 that we need say anything more about it." 
 
 "Certainly not. Nothing can be said that would 
 be of any use; but I do not think I have done any- 
 thing that you should resent." 
 
 "Resent is a strong word. I don't resent it, or, at 
 any rate, I won't; and there may be an end of it." 
 
92 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 After this, Harry was more gracious with Mr. Saul, 
 having an idea that the curate had made some sort of 
 apology for what he had done. But that, I fancy, was 
 by no means Mr. Saul's view of the case. Had he 
 offered to marry the daughter of the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, instead of the daughter of the Kector of 
 Clavering, he would not have imagined that his doing so 
 needed an apology. 
 
 The day after his return from London Lady Cla- 
 vering sent for Harry up to the house. "So you saw 
 my sister in London?" she said. 
 
 "Yes," said Harry blushing; "as I was in town, I 
 thought that I might as well meet her. But, as you 
 said. Lady Ongar is able to do without much assistance 
 of that kind. I only just saw her." 
 
 "Julia took it so kindly of you; but she seems sur- 
 prised that you did not come to her the following day. 
 She thought you would have called." 
 
 "Oh, dear, no. I fancied that she would be too 
 tired and too busy to wish to see any mere acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 "Ah, Harry, I see that she has angered you," said 
 Lady Clavering; "otherwise you would not talk about 
 mere acquaintance." 
 
 "Not in the least. Angered me! How could she 
 anger me? What I meant was that at such a time she 
 would probably wish to see no one but people on busi- 
 ness, — unless it was some one near to her, like your- 
 self or Hugh." 
 
 "Hugh will not go to her." 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. 
 
 CHAPTEE yil. 
 
 Some Scenes in the Life of a Countess. 
 
 About tlie middle of January Harry Clavering 
 went up to London, and settled himself to work at Mr. 
 Beilby's office. Mr. Beilby's office consisted of four 
 or five large chambers, overlooking the river from the 
 bottom of Adam Street in the Adelphi, and here Harry 
 found a table for himself in the same apartment with 
 three other pupils. It was a fine old room, lofty, and 
 with large windows, ornamented on the ceiling with 
 Italian scroll-work, and a flying goddess in the centre. 
 In days gone by the house had been the habitation of 
 some great rich man, who had there enjoyed the sweet 
 breezes from the river before London had become the 
 London of the present days, and when no embankment 
 had been needed for the Thames. Nothing could be 
 nicer than his room, or more pleasant than the table 
 and seat which he was to occupy near a window; but 
 there was something in the tone of the other men 
 towards him which did not quite satisfy him. They 
 probably did not know that he was a fellow of a col- 
 lege, and treated him almost as they might have done 
 had he come to them direct from Kiirg's College, in 
 the Strand, or from the London University. Down at 
 Stratton, a certain amount of honour had been paid to 
 him. They had known there who he was, and had 
 felt some deference for him. They had not slapped 
 him on the back, or poked him in the ribs, or even 
 called him old fellow, before some length of acquaint- 
 ance justified such appellation. But up at Mr. Beilby's, 
 in the Adelphi, one young man, who was certainly his 
 junior in age, and who did not seem as yet to have 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 attained any high position in the science of engineer- 
 ing, manifestly thought that he was acting in a friendly 
 and becoming way by declaring the stranger to be a 
 lad of wax on the second day of his appearance. 
 Harry Clavering was not disinclined to believe that he 
 was a "lad of wax," or "a brick," or "a trump," or 
 *'no small beer." But he desired that such com- 
 plimentary and endearing appellations should be used 
 to him only by those who had known him long enough 
 to be aware that he deserved them. Mr. Josepli 
 Walliker certainly was not as yet among this number. 
 
 There was a man at Mr. Beilby's, who was entitled 
 to greet him with endearing terms, and to be so 
 greeted himself, although Harry had never seen him 
 till he attended for the first time at the Adelphi. This 
 was Theodore Burton, his future brotlier-in-law, who 
 was now the leading man in the London house : — the 
 leading man as regarded business, though he was not 
 as yet a partner. It was understood that this Mr. 
 Burton was to come in when his father went out; and 
 in the meantime he received a salary of a thousand a 
 year as managing clerk. A very hard-working, steady, 
 intelligent man was Mr. Theodore Burton, with a bald 
 head, a high forehead, and that look of constant work 
 about him which such men obtain. Harry Clavering 
 could not bring himself to take a liking to him, be- 
 cause he wore cotton gloves and had an odious habit 
 of dusting his shoes with his pocket-handkerchief. 
 Twice Harry saw him do this on the first day of their 
 acquaintance, and he regretted it exceedingly. The 
 cotton gloves too were offensive, as were also the thick 
 shoes which had been dusted; but the dusting was the 
 great sin. 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. 95 
 
 And there was sometliing which did not quite please 
 Harry in Mr. Theodore Burton's manner, though the 
 gentleman had manifestly intended to be very kind to 
 him. When Burton had been speaking to him for a 
 minute or two, it flashed across Harry's mind that he 
 had not bound himself to marry the whole Burton 
 family, and that, perhaps, he must take some means to 
 let that fact be known. "Theodore," as he had so 
 often heard the younger Mr. Burton called by loving lips, 
 seemed to claim him as his own, called him Harry, 
 and upbraided him with friendly warmth for not having 
 come direct to his — Mr. Burton's — house in Onslow 
 Crescent. "Pray feel yourself at home there," said 
 Mr. Burton. "I hope you'll like my wife. You needn't 
 be afraid of being made to be idle if you spend your 
 evenings there, for we are all reading people. Will 
 you come and dine to-day?" Florence had told him 
 that she was her brother Theodore's favourite sister, 
 and that Theodore, as a husband and a brother, and a 
 man, was perfect. But Theodore had dusted his boots 
 with his handkerchief, and Harry Clavering would not 
 dine with him on that day. 
 
 And then it was painfully manifest to him that 
 every one in the office knew his destiny with reference 
 to old Burton's daughter. He had been one of the 
 Stratton men, and no more than any other had he gone 
 unscathed through the Stratton fire. He had been 
 made to do the regular thing, as Granger, Scarness, 
 and others had done it. Stratton would be safer ground 
 now, as Clavering had taken the last. That was the 
 feeling on the matter which seemed to belong to others. 
 It was not that Harry thought in this way of his own 
 Florence. He knew well enough what a lucky fellow 
 
96 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 lie was to have won such a girl. He was well aware 
 how widely his Florence differed from Carry Scarness. 
 He denied to himself -indignantly that he had any no- 
 tion of repenting what he had done. But he did wish 
 that these private matters might have remained private, 
 and that all the men at Beilby's had not known of his 
 engagement. When Walliker, on the fourth day of 
 their acquaintance, asked him if it was all right at 
 Stratton, he made up his mind that he hated Walliker, 
 and that he would hate Walliker to the last day of his 
 life. He had declined the first invitation given to him 
 by Theodore Burton; but he could not altogether avoid 
 his future broth er-in law, and had agreed to dine with 
 him on this day. 
 
 On that same afternoon Harry, when he left Mr. 
 Beilby's office, went direct to Bolton Street, that he 
 might call on Lady Ongar. As he went thither he 
 bethought himself that these Wallikers and the like 
 had had no such events in life as had befallen him! 
 They laughed at him about Florence Burton, little 
 guessing that it had been his lot to love and to be 
 loved by such a one as Julia Brabazon had been, — • 
 such a one as Lady Ongar now was. But things had 
 gone well with him. Julia Brabazon could have made 
 no man happy, but Florence Burton would be the 
 sweetest, dearest, truest little wife that ever man took 
 to his home. He was thinking of this, and determined 
 to think of it more and more daily, as he knocked at 
 Lady Ongar's door. "Yes; her ladyship was at home,'' 
 said the servant whom he had seen on the railway 
 platform; and in a few moments' time he found himself 
 in the drawing-room which he had criticized so carefully 
 when he was taking it for its present occupant. 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. 9? 
 
 He was left in the room for five or six minutes, 
 and was able to make a full mental inventory of its 
 contents. It was very different in its present aspect 
 from the room which he had seen not yet a month 
 since. She had told him that the apartments had been 
 all that she desired; but since then everything had 
 been altered, at least in appearance. A new piano had 
 been brought in, and the chintz on the furniture was 
 surely new. And the room was crowded with small 
 feminine belongings, indicative of wealth and luxury. 
 There were ornaments about, and pretty toys, and a 
 thousand knick-knacks which none but the rich can 
 possess, and which none can possess even among the 
 rich unless they can give taste as well as money to 
 their acquisition. Then he heard a light step; the door 
 opened, and Lady Ongar was there. 
 
 He expected to see the same figure that he had 
 seen on the railway platform , the same gloomy drapery, 
 the same quiet, almost deathlike demeanour, nay, 
 almost the same veil over her features; but the Lady 
 Ongar whom he now saw was as unlike that Lady 
 Ongar as she was unlike that Julia Brabazon whom 
 he had known in old days at Clavering Park. She 
 was dressed, no doubt, in black; nay, no doubt, she 
 was dressed in weeds; but in spite of the black and 
 in spite of the weeds there was nothing about her of 
 the weariness or of the solemnity of woe. He hardly 
 saw that her dress was made of crape, or that long 
 white pendants were hanging down from the cap which 
 sat so prettily upon her head. But it was her face at 
 which he gazed. At first he thought that she could 
 hardly be. the same woman, she was to his eyes so 
 much older than she had been! And yet as he looked 
 
 The Clavermgs. L 1 
 
9§ 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 at her, he found that she was as handsome as ever, 
 — more handsome than she had ever been before. 
 There was a dignity about her face and figure which 
 became her well, and which she carried as though she 
 knew herself to be in very truth a countess. It was 
 a face which bore well such signs of age as those 
 which had come upon it. She seemed to be a woman 
 fitter for womanhood than for girlhood. Her eyes 
 were brighter than of yore, and, as Harry thought, 
 larger; and her high forehead and noble stamp of coun- 
 tenance seemed fitted for the dress and headgear which 
 she wore. 
 
 ''I have been expecting you," said she, stepping 
 up to him. ''Hermione wrote me word that you were 
 to come up on Monday. Why did you not come 
 sooner?" There was a smile on her face as she spoke, 
 and a confidence in her tone which almost confounded 
 him. 
 
 "I have had so many things to do," said he 
 lamely. 
 
 "About your new profession? Yes, I can under- 
 stand that. And so you are settled in London now? 
 Where are you living; — that is, if you are settled 
 yet?" In answer to this, Harry told her that he had 
 taken lodgings in Bloomsbury Square, blushing some- 
 what as he named so unfashionable a locality. Old 
 Mrs. Burton had recommended him to the house in 
 which he was located, but he did not find it necessary 
 to explain that fact to Lady Ongar. 
 
 "I have to thank you for what you did for me," 
 continued she. "You ran away from me in such a 
 hurry on that night that I was unable to speak to you. 
 But to tell the truth, Harry, I was in no mood then to 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A GOUNTESS. 99 
 
 speak to any one. Of course you thought that I treated 
 you ill." 
 
 ''Oh, no," said he. 
 
 " Of course you did. If I thought you did not, 
 I should be angry with you now. But had it been to 
 save my life I could not have helped it. Why did not 
 Sir Hugh Clavering come to meet me? Why did not 
 my sister's husband come to me?" To this question 
 Harry could make no answer. He was still standing 
 with his hat in his hand, and now turned his face away 
 from her and shook his head. 
 
 "Sit down, Harry," she said, "and let me talk to 
 you like a friend; — unless you are in a hurry to go 
 away?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said he, seating himself. 
 
 "Or unless you, too, are afraid of me." 
 
 "Afraid of you, LadyOngar?" 
 
 "Yes, afraid; but I don't mean you. I don't 
 believe that you are coward enough to desert a woman 
 who was once your friend because misfortune has 
 overtaken her, and calumny has been at work with 
 her name." 
 
 "I hope not," said he. 
 
 "No, Harry; I do not think it of you. But if Sir 
 Hugh be not a coward, why did he not come and 
 meet me? Why has he left me to stand alone, now 
 that he could be of service to me? I knew that money 
 was his god, but I have never asked him for a shilling 
 and should not have done so now. Oh, Harry, how 
 wicked you were about that cheque! Do you remember?" 
 
 "Yes; I remember." 
 
 "So shall I; always, always. If I had taken that 
 money how often should I have heard of it since?" 
 
 7* 
 
100 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Heard of it?" he asked. "Do you mean from 
 me?" 
 
 "Yes; how often from 7011? Would you have 
 dunned me, and told me of it once a week? Upon 
 my word, Harry, I was told of it more nearly every 
 day. Is it not wonderful that men should be so 
 mean?" 
 
 It was clear to him now that she was talking of 
 her husband who was dead, and on that subject he 
 felt himself at present unable to speak a word. He 
 little dreamed at that moment how openly she would 
 soon speak to him of Lord Ongar and of LordOngar's 
 faults! 
 
 "Oh, how I have wished that I had taken your 
 money! But never mind about that now, Harry. 
 Wretched as such taunts were, they soon became a 
 small thing. But it has been cowardly in your cousin, 
 Hugh; has it not? If I had not lived with him as one 
 of his family, it would not have mattered. People 
 would not have expected it. It was as though my own 
 brother had cast me forth." 
 
 " Lady Clavering has been with you; has she not?" 
 
 "Once, for half-an-hour. She came up for one 
 day, and came here by herself, cowering as though 
 she were afraid of me. Poor Hermy! She has not 
 a good time of it either. You lords of creation lead 
 your slaves sad lives when it pleases you to change 
 your billing and cooing for matter-of-fact masterdom 
 and rule. I don't blame Hermy. I suppose she did 
 all she could , and I did not utter one word of reproach 
 of her. No^* should I to him. Indeed, if he came 
 now the servant would deny me to him. He has in- 
 sulted me, and I shall remember the insult." 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. Z. 
 
 Hany Clavering did not clearly understand what 
 it was that Lady Ongar had desired of her brother-in- 
 law, — what aid she had required; nor did he know 
 whether it would be fitting for him to offer to act in 
 Sir Hugh's place. Anything that he could do, he felt 
 himself at that moment willing to do, even though the 
 necessary service should demand some sacrifice greater 
 than prudence could approve. ''If I had thought that 
 anything was wanted, I should have come to you sooner," 
 said he. 
 
 "Everything is wanted, Harry. Everything is 
 wanted-, — except that cheque for six hundred pounds 
 which you sent me so treacherously. Did you ever 
 think what might have happened if a certain person 
 had heard of that? All the world would have de- 
 clared that you had done it for your own private pur- 
 poses; — all the world, except one." 
 
 Harry, as he heard this, felt that he was blushing. 
 Did Lady Ongar know of his engagement with Florence 
 Burton? Lady Clavering knew it, and might proba- 
 bly have told the tidings; but then, again, she might 
 not have told them. Harry at this moment wished 
 that he knew how it was. All that Lady Ongar said 
 to him would come with so different a meaning accord- 
 ing as she did, or did not know that fact. But he had 
 no mind to tell her of the fact himself. He declared 
 to himself that he hoped she knew it, as it would 
 serve to make them both more comfortable together; 
 but he did not think that it would do for him to bring 
 forward the subject, neck and heels as it were. The 
 proper thing would be that she should congratulate him, 
 but this she did not do. "I certainly meant no ill," 
 he said, in answer to the last words she had spoken. 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "You have never meant ill to me, Harry; though 
 you know you have abused me dreadfully before now. 
 I daresay you forget the hard names you have called 
 me. You men do forget such things." 
 
 remember calling you one name." 
 
 "Do not repeat it now, if you please. If I deserved 
 it, it would shame me; and if I did not, it should 
 shame you." 
 
 "No; I will not repeat it." 
 
 "Does it not seem odd, Harry, that you and I 
 should be sitting, talking together in this way?" She 
 was leaning now towards him, across the table, and 
 one hand was raised to her forehead while her eyes 
 were fixed intently upon his. The attitude was one 
 which he felt to express extreme intimacy. She would 
 not have sat in that way, pressing back her hair from 
 her brow, with all appearance of widowhood banished 
 from her face, in the presence of any but a dear and 
 close friend. He did not think of this, but he felt 
 that it was so, almost by instinct. "I have such a 
 tale to tell you," she said; "such a tale!" 
 
 Why should she tell it to him? Of course he 
 asked himself this question. Then he remembered 
 that she had no brother, — remembered also that her 
 brother-in-law had deserted her, and he declared to 
 himself that, if necessary, he would be her brother. 
 "I fear that you have not been happy," said he, 
 "since I saw you last." 
 
 "Happy!" she replied. "I have lived such a life 
 as I did not think any man or woman could be made 
 to live on this side the grave. I will *be honest with 
 you, Harry. Nothing but the convigtion that it could 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. lUo 
 
 not be for long, has saved me from destroying myself. 
 I knew that lie must die!" 
 ''Oh, Lady Ongar!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed; that is the name he gave me: and 
 because I consented to take it from him, he treated 
 me; — 0 heavens! how am I to find words to tell you 
 what he did, and the way in which he treated me! 
 A woman could not tell it to a man. Harry, I have 
 no friend that I trust but you, but to you I cannot 
 tell it. When he found that he had been wrong in 
 marrying me, that he did not want the thing which 
 he had thouglit would suit him, that I was a drag 
 upon him rather than a comfort, — what was his 
 mode, do you think, of ridding himself of the burden?" 
 Clavering sat silent, looking at her. Both her hands 
 were now up to her forehead, and her large eyes were 
 gazing at him till he found himself unable to with- 
 draw his own for a moment from her face. "He strove 
 to get another man to take me off his hands; and when \ 
 he found that he was failing, — he charged me with 
 the guilt which he himself had contrived for me." 
 
 "Lady Ongar!" 
 
 "Yes; you may well stare at me. You may well 
 speak hoarsely and look like that. It may be that 
 even you will not believe me; — but by the God in 
 whom we both believe, I tell you nothing but the 
 truth. He attempted that and he failed, — and then 
 he accused me of the crime which he could not bring 
 me to commit." 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 "Yes; what then? Harry, I had a thing to do, 
 and a life to live, that would have tried the bravest; 
 but I went through it. I stuck to him to the last! 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 He told me before lie was dying, — before that last 
 frightful illness, that I was staying with him for his 
 money. 'For your money, my lord,' I said, *and for 
 my own name.' And so it was. Would it have been 
 wise in me, after all that I had gone through, to have 
 given up that for which I had sold myself? I had 
 been very poor, and had been so placed that poverty, 
 even such poverty as mine, was a curse to me. You 
 know what I gave up because I feared that curse. 
 Was I to be foiled at last, because such a creature as 
 that wanted to ^hirk out of his bargain? I knew there 
 were some who would say I had been false. Hugh 
 Clavering says so now, I suppose. But they never 
 should say I had left him to die alone in a foreign 
 land." 
 
 "Did he ask you to leave him?" 
 
 "No; — but he called me that name which no 
 woman should hear and stay. No woman should do 
 so unless she had a purpose such as mine. He wanted 
 back the price that he had paid, and I was determined 
 to do nothing that should assist him in his meanness! 
 And then, Harry, his last illness! Oh, Harry, you 
 would pity me if you could know all!" 
 
 "It was his own intemperance!" 
 
 "Intemperance! It was brandy, — sheer brandy. 
 He brought himself to such a state that nothing but 
 brandy would keep him alive, and in which brandy 
 was sure to kill him; — and it did kill him. Did 
 you ever hear of the horrors of drink?" 
 
 "Yes; I have heard of such a state." 
 
 "I hope you may never live to see it. It is a 
 sight that would stick by you for ever. But I saw it, 
 and tended him through the whole, as though I had 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. 105 
 
 been his servant. I remained with him when that 
 man who opened the door for you could no longer 
 endure the room. I was with him when the strong 
 woman from the hospital, though she could not under- 
 stand his words, almost fainted at what she saw and 
 heard. He was punished, Harry. I need wish no 
 farther vengeance on him, even for all his cruelty, his 
 injustice, his unmanly treachery. Is it not fearful to 
 think that any man should have the power of bringing 
 himself to such an end as that?" 
 
 Harry was thinking rather how fearful it was that 
 a man should have it in his power to drag any woman 
 through such a Gehenna as that which this lord had 
 created. He felt that had Julia Brabazon been his, as 
 she had once promised him, he never would have 
 allowed himself to speak a harsh word to her, to have 
 looked at her except with loving eyes. But she had 
 chosen to join herself to a man who had treated her 
 with a cruelty exceeding all that his imagination could 
 have conceived. ''It is a mercy that he has gone," 
 said he at last. 
 
 "It is a mercy for both. Perhaps you can under- 
 stand now something of my married life. And through 
 it all I had but one friend*, — if I may call him a 
 friend who had come to terms with my husband, and 
 was to have been his agent in destroying me. But 
 when this man understood from me that I was not 
 what he had been taught to think me, — which my 
 husband had told him I was, — he relented." 
 
 "May I ask what was that man's name?" 
 
 "His name is PaterofiP. He is a Pole, but he 
 speaks English like an Englishman. In my presence 
 he told Lord Ongar that he was false and brutal. 
 
lOG 
 
 THE CL.AVEKXIMGS. 
 
 Lord Ongar laughed, with that little, low, sneering 
 laughter which was his nearest approach to merriment, 
 and told Count Patero£P that that was of course his 
 game before me. There, Harry, — I will tell you 
 nothing more of it. You will understand enough to 
 know what I have suffered; and if you can believe 
 that I have not sinned — " 
 ''Oh, Lady Ongar!" 
 
 "Weil, I will not doubt you again. But as far as 
 I can learn you are nearly alone in your belief. What 
 Hermy thinks I cannot tell, but she will soon come to 
 think as Hugh may bid her. And I shall not blame 
 her. What else can she do, poor creature?" 
 
 "I am sure she believes no ill of you." 
 
 "I have one advantage, Harry, — one advantage 
 over her and some others. I am free. The chains 
 have hurt me sorely during my slavery; but I am free, 
 and the price of my servitude remains. He had written 
 home, — would you believe that? — while I was 
 living with him he had written home to say that evi- 
 dence should be collected for getting rid of me. And 
 yet he would sometimes be civil, hoping to cheat me 
 into inadvertencies. He would ask that man to dine, 
 and then of a sudden would be absent; and during 
 this he was ordering that evidence should be collected! 
 Evidence, indeed! The same servants have lived with 
 me through it all. If I could now bring forvvard evi- 
 dence I could make it all clear s the day. But there 
 needs no care for a woman's honour, though a man 
 may have to guard his by collecting evidence!" 
 
 "But what he did cannot injure you." 
 
 "Yes, Harry, it has injured me; it has all but 
 
SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. 1*^0 
 
 destroyed me. Have not reports reached even you? 
 Speak out like a man, and say whether it is not so?" 
 "I have heard something." 
 
 "Yes, you have heard something! If you heard 
 something of your sister where would you be? All 
 the world would be a chaos to you till you had pulled 
 out somebody's tongue by the roots. Not injured me! 
 For two years your cousin Hugh's house was my home. 
 I met Lord Ongar in his house. I was married from 
 his house. He is my brother-in-law, and it so happens 
 that of all men he is the nearest to me. He stands 
 well before the world, and at this time could have 
 done me real service. How is it that he did not wel- 
 come me home*, — that I am not now at his house 
 with my sister*, that he did not meet me so that the 
 world might know that I was received back among 
 my own people? Why is it, Harry, that I am telling 
 this to you; — to you, who are nothing to me-, my 
 sister's husband's cousin; a young man, from your posi- 
 tion not fit to be my confidant? Why am I telling 
 this to you, Harry?" 
 
 "Because we are old friends," said he, wondering 
 again at this moment whether she knew of his engage- 
 ment with Florence Burton. 
 
 "Yes, we are old friends, and we have always 
 liked each other; but you must know that, as the 
 world judges, I am wrong to tell all this to you. 1 
 should be wrong, — only that the world has cast me 
 out, so that I am no longer bound to regard it. I 
 am Lady Ongar, and I have my share of that man's 
 money. They have given me up Ongar Park, having 
 satisfied themselves that it is mine by right, and must 
 be mine by law. But he has robbed me of every 
 
THE CliAVERlNGS. 
 
 friend I had in the world, and yet you tell me he has 
 not injured me!" 
 
 "Not every friend." 
 
 "No, Harry, I will not forget you, though I spoke 
 so slightingly of you just now. But your vanity need 
 not be hurt. It is only the world, — Mrs. Grundy, 
 you know, — that would deny me such friendship as 
 yours; not my own taste or choice. Mrs. Grundy 
 always denies us exactly those things which we our- 
 selves like best. You are clever enough to understand 
 that." 
 
 He smiled and looked foolish, and declared that he 
 only offered his assistance because perhaps it might be 
 convenient at the present moment. What could he do 
 for her? How could he show his friendship for her 
 now at once? 
 
 "You have done it, Harry, in listening to me and 
 giving me your sympathy. It is seldom that we want 
 any great thing from our friends. I want nothing of 
 that kind. No one can hurt me much further now. 
 My money and my rank are safe; and, perhaps, by 
 degrees, acquaintances, if not friends, will form them- 
 selves round me again. At present, of course, I see 
 no one; but because I see no one, I wanted some one 
 to whom I could speak. Poor Hermy is worse than 
 no one. Good-by, Harry; you look surprised and be- 
 wildered now, but you will soon get over that. Don't 
 be long before I see you again." 
 
 Then feeling that he was bidden to go, he wished 
 her good-by, and went. 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 
 
 109 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 The House in Onslow Crescent. 
 
 Harry, as lie walked away from the house in 
 Bolton Street, hardly knew whether he was on his 
 heels or his head. Burton had told him not to dress 
 — "We don't give dress dinner parties, you know. 
 It's all in the family way with us," — and Harry, 
 therefore, went direct from Bolton Street to Onslow 
 Crescent. But, though he managed to keep the proper 
 course down Piccadilly, he was in such confusion of 
 mind that he hardly knew whither he was going. It 
 seemed as though a new form of life had been opened 
 to him, and that it had been opened in such a way as 
 almost necessarily to engulf him. It was not only 
 that Lady Ongar's history was so terrible, and her life 
 so strange, but that he himself was called upon to form 
 a part of that history, and to join himself in some sort 
 to that life. This countess with her wealth, her rank, 
 her beauty, and her bright intellect had called him to 
 her, and told him that he was her only friend. Of 
 course he had promised his friendship. How could he 
 have failed to give such a promise to one whom he had 
 loved so well? But to what must such a promise lead, 
 or rather to what must it not have led had it not been 
 for Florence Burton? She was young, free, and rich. 
 She made no pretence of regret for the husband she 
 had lost, speaking of him as though in truth she hardly 
 regarded herself as his wife. And she was the same 
 Julia whom he had loved, who had loved him, who 
 had jilted him, and in regret for whom he had once 
 resolved to lead a wretched, lonely life! Of course 
 she must expect that he would renew it all; — unless, 
 
110 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 indeed, she knew of his engagement. But if she knew 
 it, why had she not spoken of it? 
 
 And could it be that she had no friends, — that 
 everybody had deserted her, that she was all alone in 
 the world? As he thought of it all, the whole thing 
 seemed to him to be too terrible for reality. What a 
 tragedy was that she had told him! He thought of 
 the man's insolence to the woman whom he had married 
 and sworn to love, then of his cruelty, his fiendish, 
 hellish cruelty, — and lastly of his terrible punish- 
 ment. "I stuck to him through it all," she had said 
 to him; and then he endeavoured to picture to himself 
 that bedside by which Julia Brabazon, his Julia 
 Brabazon, had remained firm, when hospital attendants 
 had been scared by the horrors they had witnessed, 
 and the nerves of a strong man, — of a man paid for 
 such work, — had failed him! 
 
 The truth of her word throughout he never doubted; 
 and, indeed, no man or woman who heard her could 
 have doubted. One hears stories told that to oneself, 
 the hearer, are manifestly false; and one hears stories 
 as to the truth or falsehood of which one is in doubt; 
 and stories again which seem to be partly true and 
 partly untrue. But one also hears that of the truth of 
 which no doubt seems to be possible. So it had been 
 with the tale which Lady Ongar had told. It had 
 been all as she had said; and had Sir Hugh heard it, 
 — even Sir Hugh, who doubted all men and regarded 
 all women as being false beyond doubt, — even he, I 
 think, would have believed it. 
 
 But she had deserved the sufferings which had 
 come upon her. Even Harry, whose heart was very 
 tender towards her, owned as much as that. She had 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 
 
 Ill 
 
 sold herself, as she had said of herself more than once. 
 She had given herself to a man whom she regarded 
 not at all, even when her heart belonged to another, 
 — to a man whom she must have loathed and despised 
 when she was putting her hand into his before the 
 altar. What scorn had there been upon her face when 
 she spoke of the beginning of their married miseries! 
 With what eloquence of expression had she pronounced 
 him to be vile, worthless, unmanly, a thing from 
 which a woman must turn with speechless contempt! 
 She had now his name, his rank, and his money, but 
 she was friendless and alone. Harry Clavering de- 
 clared to himself that she had deserved it, — and 
 having so declared, forgave her all her faults. She 
 had sinned, and then had suffered; and, therefore, 
 should now be forgiven. If he could do aught to ease 
 her troubles, he would do it, — as a brother would for 
 a sister. 
 
 But it would be well that she should know of his 
 engagement. Then he thought of the whole interview, 
 and felt sure that she must know it. At any rate he 
 told himself that he was sure. She could hardly have 
 spoken to him as she had done, unless she had known. 
 When last tliey had been together, sauntering round 
 the gardens at Clavering, he had rebuked her for her 
 treachery to him. Now she came to him almost open- 
 armed, free, full of her cares, swearing to him that he 
 was her only friend! All this could mean but one 
 thing, — unless she knew that that one thing was 
 barred by his altered position. ' 
 
 But it gratified him to think that she had chosen 
 him for the repository of her tale; that she had told 
 her terrible history to him. I fear that some small 
 
112 
 
 THE CLAVERTNGS/ 
 
 part of ttis gratification was owing to ter rank and 
 wealth. To be the one friend of a widowed countess, 
 young, rich, and beautiful, was something much out of 
 the common way. Such confidence lifted him far above 
 the Wallikers of the world. That he was pleased to 
 be so trusted by one that was beautiful, was, I think, 
 no disgrace to him; — although I bear in mind his 
 condition as a man engaged. It might be dangerous, 
 but that danger in such case it would be his duty to 
 overcome. But in order that it might be overcome, 
 it would certainly be well that she should know his 
 position. 
 
 I fear he speculated as he went along as to what 
 might have been his condition in the world had he 
 never seen Florence Burton. First he asked himself, 
 whether under any circumstances, he would have wished 
 to marry a widow, and especially a widow by whom he 
 had already been jilted. Yes; he thought that he could 
 have forgiven her even that, if his own heart had not 
 changed; but he did not forget to tell himself again 
 how lucky it was for him that his heart was changed. 
 What countess in the world, let her have what park 
 she might, and any imaginable number of thousands a 
 year, could be so sweet, so nice, so good, so fitting for 
 him as his own Florence Burton? Then he endeavoured 
 to reflect what happened when a commoner married 
 the widow of a peer. She was still called, he be- 
 lieved, by her old title, unless she should choose to 
 abandon it. Any such arrangement was now out of 
 the question; but he thought that he would prefer that 
 she should have been called Mrs. Clavering, if such a 
 state of things had come about. I do not know that 
 he pictured to himself any necessity, either on her 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 
 
 113 
 
 part or on his, of abandoning anything else that came 
 to her from her late husband. 
 
 At half-past six, the time named by Theodore 
 Burton, he found himself at the door in Onslow Crescent, 
 and was at once shown up into the drawing-room. He 
 knew that Mr. Burton had a family, and he had pic- 
 tured to himself an untidy, ugly house, with an untidy, 
 motherly woman going about with a baby in her arms. 
 Such would naturally be the home of a man who 
 dusted his shoes with his pocket-handkerchief. But to 
 his surprise he found himself in as pretty a drawing- 
 room as he remembered to have seen; and seated on a 
 sofa, was almost as pretty a woman as he remembered. 
 She was tall and slight, with large brown eyes and 
 well-defined eyebrows, with an oval face, and the 
 sweetest, kindest mouth that ever graced a woman. 
 Her dark brown hair was quite plain, having been 
 brushed simply smooth across the forehead, and then 
 collected in a knot behind. Close beside her, on a 
 low chair, sat a little fair-haired girl, about seven years 
 old, who was going through some pretence at needle- 
 work; and kneeling on a higher chair, while she 
 sprawled over the drawing-room table, was another 
 girl, some three years younger, who was engaged with 
 a puzzle-box. 
 
 "Mr. Clavering," said she, rising from her chair; 
 "I am so glad to see you, though I am almost angry 
 with you for not coming to us sooner. I have heard 
 so much about you; of course you know that." Harry 
 explained that he had only been a few days in town, 
 and declared that he was happy to learn that he had 
 been considered worth talking about. 
 The Clav&iings. I. 8 
 
114 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "If you were worth accepting you were worth talk- 
 ing about." 
 
 "Perhaps I was neither," said he. 
 
 "Well; I am not going to flatter you yet. Only 
 as I think our Flo is without exception the most per- 
 fect girl I ever saw, I don't suppose she would be 
 guilty of making a bad choice. Cissy, dear, this is Mr. 
 Clavering." 
 
 Cissy got up from her chair, and came up to him. 
 "Mammy says I am to love you very much," said 
 Cissy, putting up her face to be kissed. 
 
 "But I did not tell you to say I had told you," 
 said Mrs. Burton, laughing. 
 
 "And I will love you very much," said Harry, tak- 
 ing her up in his arms. 
 
 "But not so much as Aunt Florence, — will 
 you?" 
 
 They all knew it. It was clear to him that every- 
 body connected with the Burtons had been told of the 
 engagement, and that they all spoke of it openly, as 
 they did of any other everyday family occurrence. 
 There was not much reticence among the Burtons. 
 He could not but feel this, though now, at the present 
 moment, he was disposed to think specially well of 
 the family because Mrs. Burton and her children were 
 so nice. 
 
 "And this is another daughter?" 
 
 "Yes; another future niece, Mr. Clavering. But I 
 suppose I may call you Harry; may I not? My name 
 is Cecilia. Yes, that is Miss Pert." 
 
 "I'm not Miss Pert," said the little soft round ball 
 of a girl from the chair. "Pm Sophy Burton. Oh! 
 you musn't tittle." 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 
 
 115 
 
 Harry found himself quite at home in ten minutes; 
 and before Mr. Burton had returned, had been taken 
 upstairs into the nursery to see Theodore Burton Junior 
 in his cradle, Theodore Burton Junior being as yet 
 only some few months old. "Now youVe seen us all," 
 said Mrs. Burton, "and we'll go downstairs and wait 
 for my husband. I mi^^ let you into a secret, too. 
 We don't dine till past seven*, you may as well re- 
 member that for the future. But I wanted to have 
 you for half-an-hour to myself before dinner, so that 
 I might look at you, and make up my mind about 
 Flo's choice. I hope you won't be angry with me?" 
 
 "And how have you made up your mind?" 
 
 "If you want to find that out, you must get it 
 through Florence. You may be quite sure I shall tell 
 her; and, I suppose, I may be quite sure she will tell 
 you. Does she tell you everything?" 
 
 "I tell her everything," said Harry, feeling him- 
 self, however, to be a little conscience-smitten at the 
 moment, as he remembered his interview wdth Lady 
 Ongar. Things had occurred this very day which he 
 certainly could not tell her. 
 
 "Do; — do; always do that," said Mrs. Burton, 
 laying her hand affectionately on his arm. "There is 
 no way so certain to bind a woman to you, heart and 
 soul, as to show her that you trust her in everything. 
 Theodore tells me everything. I don't think there's a 
 drain planned under a railway-bank, but that he 
 shows it me in some way; and I feel so grateful for 
 it. It makes me know that I can never do enough 
 for him. I hope you'll be as good to Flo as he is 
 to me," 
 
 8* 
 
116 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "We can't both be perfect, you know." 
 
 ''Ah, well! of course you'll laugh at me. Theo- 
 dore always laughs at me when I get on what he calls 
 a high horse. I wonder whether you are as sensible 
 as he is?" 
 
 Harry reflected that he never wore cotton gloves. 
 "I don't think I am very sensible," said he. ''I do a 
 great many foolish things, and the worst is, that I like 
 them." 
 
 "So do 1. I like so many foolish things!" 
 "Oh, mamma!" said Cissy. 
 
 "I shall have that quoted against me, now, for 
 the next six months, whenever I am preaching wisdom 
 in the nursery. But Florence is nearly as sensible 
 as her brother." 
 
 "Much more so than I am." 
 
 "All the Burtons are full up to their eyes with 
 good sense. And what a good thing it is! Who ever 
 heard of any of them coming to sorrow? Whatever 
 they have to live on, they always have enough. Did 
 you ever know a woman who has done better with her 
 children, or has known how to do better, than Theodore's 
 mother? She is the dearest old woman!" Harry had 
 heard her called a very clever old woman by certain 
 persons in Stratton, and could not but think of her 
 matrimonial successes as her praises were thus sung by 
 her daughter-in-law. 
 
 They went on talking, while Sophy sat in Harry's 
 lap, till there was heard the sound of the key in the 
 latch of the front-door, and the master of the house 
 was known to be there. "It's Theodore," said his 
 wife, jumping up and going out to meet him. 'Tm 
 so glad that you have been here a little before him, 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 117 
 
 because now I feel tliat I know you. When lie's here 
 I shan't get in a word." Then she went down to her 
 husband, and Harry was left to speculate how so very 
 charming a woman could ever have been brought to love 
 a man who cleaned his boots with his pocket-handker- 
 chief. 
 
 There were soon steps again upon the stairs, and 
 Burton returned bringing with him another man whom 
 he introduced to Harry as Mr. Jones. "I didn't know 
 my brother was coming," said Mrs. Burton, ''but it 
 will be very pleasant, as of course I shall want you 
 to know him." Harry became a little perplexed. How 
 far might these family ramifications be supposed to 
 go? Would he be welcomed, as one of the household, 
 to the hearth of Mrs. Jones; and if of Mrs. Jones, 
 then of Mrs. Jones's brother? His mental inquiries, 
 however, in this direction, were soon ended by his 
 finding that Mr. Jones was a bachelor. 
 
 Jones, it appeared, was the editor, or sub-editor, 
 or co-editor, of some influential daily newspaper. "He 
 is a night bird, Harry — ," said Mrs. Burton. She had 
 fallen into the way of calling him Harry at once, but 
 he could not on that occasion bring himself to call her 
 Cecilia. He might have done so had not her husband 
 been present, but he was ashamed to do it before him. 
 "He is a night bird, Harry," said she, speaking of her 
 brother, "and flies away at nine o'clock, that he may 
 go and hoot like an owl in some dark city haunt that 
 he has. Then, when he is himself asleep at breakfast- 
 time, his hootings are being heard round the town." 
 
 Harry rather liked the idea of knowing an editor. 
 Editors were, he thought, influential people, who had 
 the world very much under their feet, — being, as he 
 
118 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 conceived, afraid of no men, while other men are very 
 much afraid of them. He was glad enough to shake 
 Jones by the hand, when he found that Jones was an 
 editor. But Jones, though he had the face and fore- 
 head of a clever man, was very quiet, and seemed al- 
 most submissive to his sister and brother-in-law. 
 
 The dinner was plain, but good, and Harry after 
 a while became happy and satisfied, although he had 
 come to the house with something almost like a resolu- 
 tion to find fault. Men, and women also, do frequently 
 go about in such a mood, having unconscionably, from 
 some small circumstance, prejudged their acquaintances, 
 and made up their mind that their acquaintances should 
 be condemned. Influenced in this way, Harry had not 
 intended to pass a pleasant evening, and would have 
 stood aloof and been cold, had it been possible to him; 
 but he found that it was not possible; and after a little 
 while he was friendly and joyous, and the dinner went 
 off very well. There was some wild-fowl, and he was 
 agreeably surprised as he watched the mental anxiety 
 and gastronomic skill with which Burton went through 
 the process of preparing the gravy, with lemon and 
 pepper, having in the room a little silver-pot and an 
 apparatus of fire for the occasion. He would as soon 
 have expected the Archbishop of Canterbury himself 
 to go through such an operation in the dining-room at 
 Lambeth as the hard-working man of business whom 
 he had known in the chambers at the Adelphi. 
 
 "Does he always do that, Mrs. Burton?" Harry 
 asked. 
 
 "Always," said Burton, "when I can get the 
 materials. One doesn't bother oneself about a cold leg 
 of mutton, you know, which is my usual dinner when 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 
 
 119 
 
 we are alone. The children have it hot in the middle 
 of the day.'' 
 
 ^'Such a thing never happened to him yet, Harry," 
 said Mrs. Burton. 
 
 Gently with the pepper," said the editor. It was 
 the first word he had spoken for some time. 
 
 *'Be good enough to remember that, yourself, when 
 you are writing your article to-night.*' 
 
 *'No, none for me, Theodore," said Mrs. Burton. 
 
 ''Cissy!" 
 
 "I have dined, really. If I had remembered that 
 you were going to display your cookery, I would have 
 kept some of my energy, but I forgot it." 
 
 ''As a rule," said Burton, "I don't think women 
 recognize any difference in flavours. I believe wild 
 duck and hashed mutton would be quite the same to 
 my wife if her eyes were blinded. I should not mind 
 this, if it were not that they are generally proud of the 
 deficiency. They think it grand." 
 
 "Just as men think it grand not to know one tune 
 from another," said his wife. 
 
 When dinner was over. Burton got up from his 
 seat. "Harry," said he, "do you like good wine?" 
 Harry said that he did. Whatever women may say 
 about wild-fowl, men never profess an indifference to 
 good wine, although there is a theory about the world, 
 quite as incorrect as it is general, that they have given 
 up drinking it. "Indeed, I do," said Harry. "Then 
 I'll give you a bottle of port," said Burton, and so 
 saying he left the room. 
 
 ''Tm very glad you have come to-day," said Jones, 
 with much gravity. "He never gives me any of that 
 
120 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 when rm alone with him; and he never, by any means, 
 brings it out for company." 
 
 ''You don't mean to accuse him of drinking it alone, 
 Tom?" said his sister, laughing. 
 
 "I don't know when he drinks; I only know when 
 he doesn't." 
 
 The wine was decanted with as much care as had 
 been given to the concoction of the gravy, and the 
 clearness of the dark liquid was scrutinized with an 
 eye that was full of anxious care. "Now, Cissy, what 
 do you think of that? She knows a glass of good 
 wine when she gets it, as well as you do, Harry; in 
 spite of her contempt for the duck." 
 
 As they sipped the old port they sat round the 
 dining-room fire, and Harry Clavering was forced to 
 own to himself that he had never been more com- 
 fortable. 
 
 "Ah," said Burton, stretching out his slippered feet, 
 "why can't it all be after-dinner, instead of that weary 
 room at the Adelphi?" 
 
 "And all old port?" said Jones. 
 
 "Yes, and all old port. You are not such an ass 
 as to suppose that a man in suggesting to himself a 
 continuance of pleasure suggests to himself also the 
 evils which are supposed to accompany such pleasure. 
 If I took much of the stuff I should get cross and sick, 
 and make a beast of myself; but then what a pity it 
 is that it should be so." 
 
 "You wouldn't like much of it, I think," said his 
 wife. 
 
 "That is it," said he. "We are driven to work 
 because work never palls on us, whereas pleasure al- 
 ways does. What a wonderful scheme it is when one 
 
THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CKESCENT. 
 
 121 
 
 looks at it all. No man can follow pleasure long con- 
 tinually. When a man strives to do so, he turns his 
 pleasure at once into business, and works at that. Come, 
 Harry, we mustn't have another bottle, as J ones would 
 go to sleep among the type." Then they all went up- 
 stairs together. Harry, before he went away, was taken 
 again up into the nursery, and there kissed the two 
 little girls in their cots. When he was outside the 
 nursery door, on the top of the stairs, Mrs. Burton 
 took him by the hand. "You'll come to us often," 
 said she, "and make yourself at home here, will you 
 not?" Harry could not but say that he would. Indeed 
 he did so without hesitation, almost with eagerness, for 
 he had liked her and had liked her house. "We think 
 of you, you know," she continued, "quite as one of 
 ourselves. How could it be otherwise when Flo is the 
 dearest to us of all beyond our own?" 
 
 "It makes me so happy to hear you say so," 
 said he. 
 
 "Then come here and talk about her. I want 
 Theodore to feel that you are his brother; it will be so 
 important to you in the business that it should be so." 
 After that he went away, and as he walked back along 
 Piccadilly, and then up through the regions of St. 
 Giles to his home in Bloomsbury Square, he satisfied 
 himself that the life of Onslow Crescent was a better 
 manner of life than was likely to prevail in Bolton 
 Street. 
 
 When he was gone his character was of course dis- 
 cussed between the husband and wife in Onslow 
 Crescent. "What do you think of him?" said the 
 husband. 
 
 "I like him so much! He is so much nicer thau 
 
122 
 
 THE CLAVERIKGS. 
 
 you told me, — so much pleasanter and easier; and I 
 have no doubt he is as clever, though I don't think he 
 shows that at once." 
 
 "He is clever enough; there's no doubt about 
 that." 
 
 "And did you not think he was pleasant?" 
 
 "Yes; he was pleasant here. He is one of those 
 men who get on best with women. You'll make much 
 more of him for awhile than I shall. He'll gossip 
 with you and sit idling with you for the hour together, 
 if you'll let him. There's nothing wrong about him, 
 and he'd like nothing better than that." 
 
 "You don't believe that he's idle by disposition? 
 Think of all that he has done already." 
 
 "That's jusft what is most against him. He might 
 do very well with us if he had not got that confounded 
 fellowship; but having got that, he thinks the hard 
 work of life is pretty well over with him." 
 
 "I don't suppose he can be so foolish as that, 
 Theodore." 
 
 "I know well what such men are, and I know the 
 evil that is done to them by the cramming they en- 
 dure. They learn many names of things, — high- 
 sounding names, and they come to understand a great 
 deal about words. It is a knowledge that requires no 
 experience and very little real thought. But it de- 
 mands much memory; and when they have loaded 
 themselves in this way, they think that they are in- 
 structed in all things. After all, what can they do 
 that is of real use to mankind? What can they 
 create?" 
 
 "I suppose they are of use." 
 
 "I don't know it. A man will tell you, or pre- 
 
TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 
 
 123 
 
 tend to tell you, — for the chances are ten to one 
 that he is wrong, — what sort of lingo was spoken in 
 some particular island or province six hundred years 
 before Christ. What good will that do any one, even 
 if he were right? And then see the effect upon the 
 men themselves. At four-and-twenty a young fellow 
 has achieved some wonderful success, and calls himself 
 by some outlandish and conceited name — a ^double 
 first,' or something of the kind. Then he thinks he 
 has completed everything, and is too vain to learn any- 
 thing afterwards. The truth is, that at twenty-four no 
 man has done more than acquire the rudiments of his 
 education. The system is bad from beginning to end. 
 All that competition makes false and imperfect growth. 
 Come, ni go to bed.'' 
 
 What would Harry have said if he had heard all 
 this from the man who dusted his boots with his hand- 
 kerchief? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Too Prudent by Half. 
 
 Florence Burton thought herself the happiest girl 
 in the world. There was nothing wanting to the per- 
 fection of her bliss. She could perceive, though she 
 never allowed her mind to dwell upon the fact, that 
 her lover was superior in many respects to the men 
 whom her sisters had married. He was better educated, 
 better looking, in fact more fully a gentleman at all 
 points, than either Scarness or any of the others. She 
 liked her sisters' husbands very well, and in former 
 days, before Harry Clavering had come to Stratton, 
 she had never taught herself to think that she, if she 
 
124 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 married, would want anything different from that which 
 Providence had given to them. She had never thrown 
 up her head, or even thrown up her nose, and told 
 herself that she would demand something better than 
 that. But not the less was she alive to the knowledge 
 that something better had come in her way, and that 
 that something better was now her own. She was very 
 proud of her lover, and no doubt, in some gently 
 feminine way showed that she was so as she made her 
 way about among her friends at Stratton. Any idea 
 that she herself was better educated, better looking, or 
 more clever than her elder sisters, and that, therefore, 
 she was deserving of a higher order of husband, had 
 never entered her mind. The Burtons in London, — 
 Theodore Burton and his wife, — who knew her well, 
 and who, of all the family, were best able to appreciate 
 her worth, had long been of opinion that she deserved 
 some specially favoured lot in life. The question with 
 them would be, whether Harry Clavering was good 
 enough for her. 
 
 Everybody at Stratton knew that she was engaged, 
 and when they wished her joy she made no coy de- 
 nials. Her sisters had all been engaged in the same 
 way, and their marriages had gone off in regular 
 sequence to their engagements. There had never been 
 any secret with them about their affairs. On this 
 matter the practice is very various among different 
 people. There are families who think it almost inde- 
 licate to talk about marriage, as a thing actually in 
 prospect for any of their own community. An ordinary 
 acquaintance would be considered to be impertinent in 
 even hinting at such a thing, although the thing were 
 an established fact. The engaged young ladies only 
 
TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 
 
 125 
 
 whisper the news through the very depths of their 
 pink note-paper, and are supposed to blush as they 
 communicate the tidings by their pens, even in the re- 
 tirement of their own rooms. But there are other 
 ffimilies in which there is no vestige of such mystery, 
 in which an engaged couple are spoken of together as 
 openly as though they were already bound in some 
 sort of public partnership. In these families the young 
 ladies talk openly of their lovers, and generally prefer 
 that subject of conversation to any other. Such a 
 family, — so little mysterious, — so open in their ar- 
 rangements, was that of the Burtons at Stratton. The 
 reserve in the reserved families is usually atoned for 
 by the magnificence of the bridal arrangements when 
 the marriage is at last solemnized; whereas, among the 
 other set, ' — the people who have no reserve, — the 
 marriage when it comes, is customarily an affair of 
 much less outward ceremony. They are married with- 
 out blast of trumpet, with very little profit to the con- 
 fectioner, and do their honeymoon, if they do it at all, 
 with prosaic simplicity. 
 
 Florence had made up her mind that she would be 
 in no hurry about it. Harry was in a hurry; but that 
 was a matter of course. He was a quick-blooded, im- 
 patient, restless being. She was slower, and more 
 given to consideration. It would be better that they 
 should wait, even if it were for five or six years. She 
 had no fear of poverty for herself. She had lived al- 
 ways in a house in which money was much regarded, 
 and among people who were of inexpensive habits. 
 But such had not been his lot, and it was her duty to 
 think of the mode of life which might suit him. He 
 would not be happy as a poor man, — without com- 
 
126 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 forts around Lim, which would simply be comforts to 
 him though they would be luxuries to her. When her 
 mother told her, shaking her head rather sorrowfully 
 as she heard Florence talk, that she did not like long 
 engagements, Florence would shake hers too, in play- 
 ful derision, and tell her mother not to be so suspicious. 
 "It is not you that are going to marry him, mamma." 
 
 "No, my dear*, I know that. But long engage- 
 ments never are good. And I can't think why young 
 people should want so many things, now, that they 
 used to do without very well when I was married. 
 When I went into housekeeping, we only had one girl 
 of fifteen to do everything; and we hadn't a nursemaid 
 regular till Theodore was born; and there were three 
 before him." 
 
 Florence could not say how many maid-servants 
 Harry might wish to have under similar circumstances, 
 but she was very confident that he would want much 
 more attendance than her father and mother had done, 
 or even than some of her brothers and sisters. Her 
 father, when he first married, would not have objected, 
 on returning home, to find his wife in the kitchen, 
 looking after the progress of the dinner; nor even 
 would her brother Theodore have been made unhappy 
 by such a circumstance. But Harry, she knew, would 
 not like it; and therefore Harry must wait. "It will 
 do him good, mamma," said Florence. "You can't 
 think that I mean to find fault with him; but I know 
 that he is young in his ways. He is one of those men 
 who should not marry till they are twenty- eight , or 
 thereabouts." 
 
 "You mean that he is unsteady?" 
 
 "No, — not unsteady. I don't think him a bit 
 
TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 
 
 127 
 
 unsteady ^ but he will be happier single for a year or 
 two. He hasn't settled down to like his tea and toast 
 when he is tired of his work, as a married man should 
 do. Do you know that I am not sure that a little flir- 
 tation would not be very good for him?'' 
 ''Oh, my dear." 
 
 "It should be very moderate, you know." 
 
 "But then, suppose it wasn't moderate. I don't 
 like to see engaged young men going on in that way. 
 I suppose I'm very old-fashioned; but I think when a 
 young man is engaged, he ought to remember it and 
 to show it. It ought to make him a little serious, and 
 he shouldn't be going about like a butterfly, that may 
 do just as it pleases in the sunshine " 
 
 During the three months which Henry remained in 
 town before the Easter holidays he wrote more than 
 once to Florence, pressing her to name an early day 
 for their marriage. These letters were written, I think, 
 after certain evenings spent under favourable circum- 
 stances in Onslow Crescent, when he was full of the 
 merits of domestic comfort, and perhaps also owed 
 some of their inspiration to the fact that Lady Ongar 
 had left London without seeing him. He had called 
 repeatedly in Bolton Street, having been specially 
 pressed to do so by Lady Ongar, but he had only 
 once found her at home, and then a third person had 
 been present. This third person had been a lady who 
 was not introduced to him , but he had learned from her 
 speech that she was a foreigner. On that occasion 
 Lady Ongar had made herself gracious and pleasant, 
 but nothing had passed which interested him, and, 
 most unreasonably, he had felt himself to be provoked. 
 When next he went to Bolton Street he found that 
 
128 
 
 tHE CLAVERTNGS. 
 
 Lady Ongar had left London. She had gone down 
 to Ongar Park, and, as far as the woman at the house 
 knew, intended to remain there till after Easter. Harry- 
 had some undefined idea that she should not have 
 taken such a step without telling him. Had she not 
 declared to him that he was her only friend? When 
 a friend is going out of town, leaving an only friend 
 behind, that friend ought to tell her only friend what 
 she is going to do, otherwise such a declaration of 
 only-friendship means nothing. Such was Harry Cla- 
 vering's reasoning, and having so reasoned, he de- 
 clared to himself that it did mean nothing, and was 
 very pressing to Florence Burton to name an early 
 day. He had been with Cecilia, he told her, — he 
 had learned to call Mrs. Burton Cecilia in his letters, 
 — and she quite agreed with him that their income 
 would be enough. He was to have two hundred a 
 year from his father, having brought himself to aban- 
 don that high-toned resolve which he had made some 
 time since that he would never draw any part of his 
 income from the parental coffers. His father had 
 again offered it, and he had accepted it. Old Mr. 
 Burton was to add a hundred, and Harry was of 
 opinion that they could do very well. Cecilia thought 
 the same, he said, and therefore Florence surely would 
 not refuse. But Florence received, direct from Onslow 
 Crescent, Cecilia's own version of her thoughts, and 
 did refuse. It may be surmised that she would have 
 refused even without assistance from Cecilia, for she 
 was a young lady not of a fickle or changing disposi- 
 tion. So she wrote to Harry with much care, and as 
 her letter had some influence on the story to be told, 
 the reader shall read it, — if the reader so pleases. 
 
TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 
 
 129 
 
 Stratton. Marchj 186—. 
 
 Dear Harry, — 
 
 I BBCErvED your letter this morning , and answer it at once , because I 
 know you will be impatient for an answer. You are impatient about 
 things , — are you not ? But it was a kind , sweet , dear, generous letter, 
 and I need not tell you now that I love the writer of it with all my heart. 
 I am so glad you like Cecilia. I think she is the perfection of a woman. 
 And Theodore is every bit as good as Cecilia , though I know you don't 
 think so, because you don't say so. I am always happy when I am in 
 Onslow Crescent. I should have been there this spring, only that a certain 
 person who chooses to think that his claims on me are stronger than those 
 of any other person wishes me to go elsewhere. Mamma wishes me to go 
 to London also for a week , but I don't want to be away from the old house 
 too much before the final parting comes at last. 
 
 And now about the final parting; for I may as well rush at it at once. 
 I need hardly tell you that no care for father or mother shall make me put 
 off my marriage. Of course I owe everything to you now ; and as they 
 have approved it, I have no right to think of them in opposition to you. 
 And you must not suppose that they ask me to stay. On the contrary, 
 mamma is always telling me that early marriages are best. She has sent 
 all the birds out of the nest but one ; and is impatient to see that one fly 
 away, that she may be sure that there is no lame one in the brood. You 
 must not therefore think thai it is mamma; nor is it papa, as regards him- 
 self, — though papa agrees with me in thinking that we ought to wait a 
 little. 
 
 Dear Harry, you must not be angry, but I am sure that we ought to 
 wait. We are, both of us, young, and why should we be in a hurry? I 
 know what you will say, and of course I love you the more because you 
 love me so well ; but I fancy that I can be quite happy if I can see you two 
 or three times in the year, and hear from you constantly. It is so good of 
 you to write such nice letters, and the longer they are the better I like 
 them. Whatever you put in them , I like them to be full. I know I can't 
 write nice letters myself, and it makes me unhappy. Unless I have got 
 something special to say, I am dumb. 
 
 But now I have something special to say. In spite of all that you tell 
 me about Cecilia , I do not think it would do for us to venture upon marry- 
 ing yet. I know that you are willing to sacrifice everything, but I ought 
 not on that account to accept a sacrifice. I could not bear to see you poor 
 and uncomfortable; and we should be very poor in London now-a-days 
 with such an income as we should have. If we were going to live here at 
 Stratton perhaps we might manage, but I feel sure that it would be impru- 
 dent in London. You ought not to be angry with me for saying this, for I 
 am quite as anxious to be with you as you can possibly be to be with me ; 
 only I can bear to look forward , and have a pleasure in feeling that all my 
 happiness is to come. I know I am right in this. Do write me one little 
 line to say that you are not angry with your little girl. 
 
 I shall be quite ready for you by the 29th. I got such a dear little note 
 The Clavermgs. I. 9 
 
130 
 
 THE! CLAVERINGS. 
 
 from Fanny the other day. She says that you never write to them, and she 
 supposes that I have the advantage of all your energy in that way. I have 
 told her that I do get a good deal. My brother writes to me very seldom 
 I know; and I get twenty letters from Cecilia for one scrap that Theodore 
 ever sends me. Perhaps some of these days I shall be the chief correspon- 
 dent with the rectory. Fanny told me all about the dresses , and I have 
 my own quite ready. I've been bridesmaid to four of my own sisters, so I 
 ought to know what, I'm about. I'll never be bridesmaid to anybody again, 
 afler Fanny; but whom on earth shall I have for myself? I think we must 
 wait till Cissy and Sophy are ready. Cissy wrote me word that you were a 
 darling man. I don't know how much of that came directly from Cissy, or 
 how much from Cecilia. 
 
 Grod bless you, dear, dearest Harry. Let me have one letter before 
 you come to fetch me , and acknowledge that I am right , even if you say 
 that I am disagreeable. Of course I like to think that you want to have 
 me ; but , you see , one has to pay the penalty of being civilized. — Ever 
 and always your own affectionate 
 
 Florence Burton. 
 
 Harry Clavering was very angry wlien he got this 
 letter. The primary cause of his anger was the fact 
 that Florence should pretend to know what was better 
 for him than he knew himself. If he was willing to 
 encounter life in London on less than four hundred a 
 year, surely she might be contented to try the same 
 experiment. He did not for a moment suspect that 
 she feared for herself, but he was indignant with her 
 because of her fear for him. What right had she to 
 accuse him of wanting to be comfortable? Had he 
 not for her sake consented to be very uncomfortable at 
 that old house at Stratton? Was he not willing to 
 give up his fellowship , and the society of Lady Ongar, 
 and everything else, for her sake? Had he not shown 
 himself to be such a lover as there is not one in a 
 hundred? And yet she Avrote and told him that it 
 wouldn't do for him to be poor and uncomfortable! 
 After all that he had done in the world, after all that 
 he had gone through, it would be odd if, at this time 
 
TOO PliUDENT BY HALF. 
 
 131 
 
 of day, he did not know what was good for himself! 
 It was in that way that he regarded Florence's per- 
 tinacity. 
 
 He was rather unhappy at this period. It seemed 
 to him that he was somewhat slighted on both sides, 
 — or, if I may say so, less thought of on both sides 
 than he deserved. Had Lady On gar remained in town, 
 as she ought to have done, he would have solaced 
 himself, and at the same time have revenged himself 
 upon Florence, by devoting some of his spare hours 
 to that lady. It was Lady Ongar's sudden departure 
 that had made him feel that he ought to rush at once 
 into marriage. Now he had no consolation, except 
 that of complaining to Mrs. Burton, and going fre- 
 quently to the theatre. To Mrs. Burton he did com- 
 plain a great deal, pulling her worsteds and threads 
 about the while, sitting in idleness while she was 
 working, just as Theodore Burton had predicted that 
 he would do. 
 
 ''I won't have you so idle, Harry," Mrs. Burton 
 said to him one day. "You know you ought to be at 
 your office now." It must be admitted on behalf of 
 Harry Clavering, that they who liked him, especially 
 women, were able to become intimate with him very 
 easily. He had comfortable, homely ways about him, 
 and did not habitually give himself airs. He had 
 become quite domesticated at the Burtons' house during 
 the ten weeks that he had been in London, and knew 
 his way to Onslow Crescent almost too well. It may, 
 perhaps, be surmised correctly that he would not have 
 gone there so frequently if Mrs. Theodore Burton had 
 been an ugly woman. 
 
 "It's all her fault," said he, continuing to snip a 
 
 9* 
 
132 
 
 THK CLAVERINGS. 
 
 piece of worsted with a pair of scissors as he spoke. 
 She's too prudent by half.'' 
 'Toor Florence!" 
 
 *'You can't but know that I should work three 
 times as much if she had given me a different answer. 
 It stands to reason any man would work under such 
 circumstances as that. Not that I am idle. I believe 
 I do as much as any other man about the place." 
 
 "I won't have my worsted destroyed, all the same. 
 Theodore says that Florence is right." 
 
 "Of course he does; of course he'll say I'm wrong. 
 I won't ask her again, — that's all." 
 
 "Oh, Harry! don't say that. You know you'll ask 
 her. You would to-morrow, if she were here." 
 
 "You don't know me, Cecilia, or you would not 
 say so. When I have made up my mind to a thing, 
 I am generally firm about it. She said something 
 about two years, and I will not say a word to alter 
 that decision. If it be altered, it shall be altered by 
 her." 
 
 In the meantime he punished Florence by sending 
 her no special answer to her letter. He wrote to her 
 as usual; but he made no reference to his last pro- 
 posal, nor to her refusal. She had asked him to tell 
 her that he was not angry, but he would tell her 
 nothing of the kind. He told her when and where 
 and how he would meet her, and convey her from 
 Stratton to Clavering; gave her some account of a 
 play he had seen; described a little dinner-party in 
 Onslow Crescent; and told her a funny story about 
 Mr. Walliker and the office at the Adelphi. But he 
 said no word, even in rebuke, as to her decision about 
 their marria^^e. He intended that this should be felt 
 
TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 
 
 133 
 
 to be severe, and took pleasure in the pain that he 
 would be giving. Florence, when she received her 
 letter, knew that he was sore, and understood 
 thoroughly the working of his mind. "I will comfort 
 him when we are together,'' she said to herself. "I 
 will make him reasonable when I see him." It was 
 not the way in which he expected that his anger would 
 be received. 
 
 One day on his return home he found a card on 
 his table which surprised him very much. It contained 
 a name but no address, but over the name there was 
 a pencil memorandum, stating that the owner of the 
 card would call again on his return to London after 
 Easter. The name on the card was that of Count 
 Pateroflf. He remembered the name well as soon as 
 he saw it, though he had never thought of it since the 
 solitary occasion on which it had been mentioned to 
 him. Count Pateroff was the man who had been Lord 
 Ongar's friend, and respecting whom Lord Ongar had 
 brought a false charge against his wife. Why should 
 Count Pateroff call on him? Why was he in England? 
 Whence had he learned the address in Bloomsbury 
 Square? To that last question he had no difficulty in 
 finding an answer. Of course he must have heard it 
 from Lady Ongar. Count Pateroff had now left Lon- 
 don! Had he gone to Ongar Park? Harry Claver- 
 ing's mind was instantly filled with suspicion , and he 
 became jealous in spite of Florence Burton. Could it 
 be that Lady Ongar, not yet four months a widow, 
 was receiving at her house in the country this man 
 with whose name her own had been so fatally joined? 
 If so, what could he think of such behaviour? He 
 was very angry. He knew that he was angry, but he 
 
134 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 did not at all know that lie was jealous. Was lie not, 
 by her own declaration to him, her only friend; and 
 as such could he entertain such a suspicion without 
 anger? "Her friend!" he said to himself "Not if 
 she has any dealings whatever with that man after 
 what she has told me of him!" He remembered at 
 last that perhaps the count might not be at Ongar 
 Park; but he must, at any rate, have had some deal- 
 ing with Lady Ongar, or he would not have known 
 the address in Bloomsbury Square. "Count Pateroff!" 
 he said, repeating the name, "I shouldn't wonder if I 
 have to quarrel with that man." During the whole of 
 that night he was thinking of Lady Ongar. As re- 
 garded himself, he knew that he had nothing to offer 
 to Lady Ongar but a brotherly friendship; but, never- 
 theless, it was an injury to him that she should be 
 acquainted intimately with any unmarried man but 
 himself. 
 
 On the next day he was to go to Stratton, and in 
 the morning a letter was brought to him by the post- 
 man; a letter, or rather a very short note. Guildford 
 was the pastmark, and he knew at once that it was 
 from Lady Ongar. 
 
 Dear Mr. Clavering (the note said) , — 
 
 I WAS so sorry to leave London without seeing you; I shall be back by 
 the end of April , and am keeping on the same rooms. Come to me , if you 
 can , on the evening of the 30th , after dinner. He at last bade Hermy to 
 write and ask me to go to Clavering for the Easter week. Such a note ! I'll 
 show it you when we meet. Of course I declined. 
 
 But I write on purpose to tell you that I have begged Count Pateroff to 
 see you. I have not seen him , but I have had to write to him about things 
 that happened in Florence. He has come to England chiefly with reference 
 to the affairs of Lord Ongar. I want you to hear his story. As far as I 
 have known him he is a truth -telling man , thongh I do not know that I am 
 able to say much more in his favour. 
 
 Hver yours, J. O. 
 
FLOTIENCE BTXRTON AT THE RECTORY. 135 
 
 When lie had read this he was quite an altered 
 man. See Count Pateroff! Of course he would see 
 him. What task could be more fitting for a friend 
 than this , of seeing such a man under such circum- 
 ' stances. Before he left London he wrote a note for 
 Count Pateroff, to be given to the count by the people 
 at the lodgings should he call during Harry's absence 
 from London. In this he explained that he would be 
 at Clavering for a fortnight, but expressed himself 
 ready to come up to London at a day's notice should 
 Count Pateroff be necessitated again to leave London 
 before the day named. 
 
 As he went about his business that day, and as he 
 journeyed down to Stratton, he entertained much kinder 
 ideas about Lady Ongar than he had previously done 
 since seeing Count Pateroff's card. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Florence Burton at the Rectory. 
 
 Harry Clavering went down to Stratton, slept 
 one night at old Mr. Burton's house, and drove Florence 
 over to Clavering, — twenty miles across the country, — 
 on the following day. This journey together had been 
 looked forward to with great delight by both of them, 
 and Florence, in spite of the snubbing which she had 
 received from her lover because of her prudence, was 
 very happy as she seated herself alongside of him in 
 the vehicle which had been sent over from the rectory, 
 and which he called a trap. Not a word had as yet 
 been said between them as to that snubbing, nor was 
 Harry minded that anything should be said. He meant 
 to carry on his revenge by being dumb on that subject. 
 
136 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 But such was not Florence's intention. Slie desired 
 not only to have her own way in this matter, but 
 desired also that he should assent to her arrangements. 
 
 It was a charming day for such a journey. It was 
 cold, but not cold enough to make them uncomfortable. 
 There was a wind, but not wind enough to torment 
 them. Once there came on a little shower, which just 
 sufficed to give Harry an opportunity of wrapping his 
 companion very closely, but he had hardly completed 
 the ceremony before the necessity for it was over. 
 They both agreed that this mode of travelling was in- 
 finitely preferable to a journey by railroad, and I 
 myself should be of the same opinion if one could 
 always make one's journeys under the same circum- 
 stances. And it must be understood that Harry, though 
 no doubt he was still taking his reve'nge on Florence 
 by abstaining from all allusion to her letter, was not 
 disposed to make himself otherwise disagreeable. He 
 played his part of lover very well, and Florence was 
 supremely happy. 
 
 "Harry," she said, when the journey was more 
 than half completed, "you never told me what you 
 thought of my letter." 
 
 "Which letter?" But he knew very well which 
 was the letter in question. 
 
 "My prudent letter, — wi^tten in answer to yours 
 that was very imprudent." 
 
 "I thought there was nothing more to be said 
 about it." 
 
 "Come, Harry, don't let there be any subject 
 between us that we don't care to think about and dis- 
 cuss. I know what you meant by not answering me. 
 You meant to punish me, did you not, for having 
 
FLORENCE BURTON AT THE RECTORY. 137 
 
 an opinion different from yours? Is not that true, 
 Harry?" 
 
 "Punisli you, — no; I did not want to punish you. 
 It was I that was punished, I think." 
 
 "But you know I was right. Was I not right?" 
 
 ''I think you were wrong, but I don't want to say 
 anytjiing more about it now." 
 
 *^Ah, but, Harry, I want you to talk about it. Is 
 it not everything to me, — everything in this world, — 
 that you and I should agree about this ! I have nothing 
 else to think of but you. I have nothing to hope for 
 but that I may live to be your wife. My only care 
 in the world is my care for you! Come, Harry, don't 
 be glum with me." 
 
 "I am not glum." 
 
 "Speak a nice word to me. Tell me that you be- 
 lieve me when I say that it is not of myself I am 
 thinking, but of you." 
 
 "Why can't you let me think for myself in this?" 
 
 "Because you have got to think for me." 
 
 "And I think you'd do very well on the income 
 we've got. If you'll consent to marry, this summer, 
 I won't be glum, as you call it, a moment longer." 
 
 "No, Harry, I must not do that. I should be 
 false to my duty to you if I did." 
 
 "Then it's no use saying anything more about it." 
 
 "Look here, Harry, if an engagement for two 
 years is tedious to you " 
 
 "Of course it is tedious. Is not waiting for any- 
 thing always tedious? There's nothing I hate so much 
 as waiting." 
 
 "But listen to me," said she, gravely. "If it is 
 too tedious, if it is more than you think you can bear 
 
138 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 without being unhappy, I will release you from youf 
 engagement." 
 
 "Florence!" 
 
 "Hear me to the end. It will make no change in 
 me; and then if you like to come to me again at the 
 end of the two years, you may be sure of the way in 
 which I shall receive you." 
 
 "And what good would that do?" 
 
 "Simply this good, that you would not be bound 
 in a manner that makes you unhappy. If you did not 
 
 intend that when you asked me to be your wife 
 
 Oh, Harry, all I want is to make you happy. That 
 is all that I care for, all that I think about!" 
 
 Harry swore to her with ten thousand oaths that 
 he would not release her from any part of her engage- 
 ment with him, that he would give her no loophole of 
 escape from him, that he intended to hold her so 
 firmly that if she divided herself from him, she should 
 be accounted among women a paragon of falseness. 
 He was ready, he said, to marry her to-morrow. That 
 was his wish, his idea of what would be best for both 
 of them; — and after that, if not to-morrow, then on 
 the next day, and so on till the day should come on 
 which she should consent to become his wife. He 
 went on also to say that he should continue to torment 
 her on the subject about once a week till he had in- 
 duced her to give way; and then he quoted a Latin 
 line to show that a constant dropping of water will 
 hollow a stone. This was somewhat at variance with 
 a declaration he had made to Mrs. Burton, in Onslow 
 Crescent, to the effect that he would never speak to 
 Florence again upon the subject; but then men do 
 
FLORENCE BURTON AT THE RECTORY. 139 
 
 occasionally change their minds, and Harry Clavering 
 was a man who often changed his. 
 
 Florence , as he made the declaration above de- 
 scribed, thought that he played his part of lover very 
 well, and drew herself a little closer to him as she 
 thanked him for his warmth. "Dear Harry, you are 
 so good and so kind, and I do love you so truly!" 
 In this way the journey was made very pleasantly, 
 and when Florence was driven up to the rectory door 
 she was quite contented with her coachman. 
 
 Harry Clavering, who is the hero of our story, 
 will not, I fear, have hitherto presented himself to the 
 reader as having much of the heroic nature in his 
 character. It will, perhaps, be complained of him that 
 he is fickle, vain, easily led, and almost as easily led 
 to evil as to good. But it should be remembered that 
 hitherto he has been rather hardly dealt with in these 
 pages, and that his faults and weaknesses have been 
 exposed almost unfairly. That he had such faults and 
 was subject to such weaknesses may be believed of 
 him; but there may be a question whether as much 
 evil would not be known of most men, let them be 
 heroes or not be heroes, if their characters were, so to 
 say, turned inside out before our eyes. Harry Clavering, 
 fellow of his college, six feet high, with handsome face 
 and person, and with plenty to say for himself on all 
 subjects, was esteemed highly and regarded much by 
 those who knew him, in spite of those little foibles 
 which marred his character; and I must beg the reader 
 to take the world's opinion about him, and not to 
 estimate him too meanly thus early in this history of 
 his adventures. 
 
 If this tale should ever be read by any lady who, 
 
140 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 in the course of her career , has entered a house under 
 circumstances similar to those which had brought 
 Florence Burton to Clavering rectory, she will under- 
 stand how anxious must have been that young lady 
 when she encountered the whole Clavering family in 
 the hall. She had been blown about by the wind, and 
 her cloaks and shawls were heavy on her, and her hat 
 was a little out of shape, — from some fault on the 
 part of Harry, as I believe, — and she felt herself to 
 be a dowdy as she appeared among them. What 
 would they think of her, and what would they think 
 of Harry in that he had chosen such an one to be his 
 wife? Mrs. Clavering had kissed her before she had 
 seen that lady's face; and Mary and Fanny had kissed 
 her before she knew which was which; and then a 
 stout, clerical gentleman kissed her who, no doubt, 
 was Mr. Clavering, senior. After that, another clerical 
 gentleman, very much younger and very much slighter, 
 shook hands with her. He might have kissed her, too, 
 had he been so minded, for Florence was too confused 
 to be capable of making any exact reckoning in the 
 matter. He might have done so — that is, as far as 
 Florence was concerned. It may be a question whether 
 Mary Clavering would not have objected; for this 
 clerical gentleman was the Rev. Edward Fielding, who 
 was to become her husband in three days' time. 
 
 ''Now, Florence," said Fanny, "come upstairs into 
 mamma's room and have some tea, and we'll look at 
 you. Harry, you needn't come. You've had her to 
 yourself for a long time, and can have her again in 
 the evening." 
 
 Florence, in this way, was taken upstairs and found 
 herself seated by a fire, while three pairs of hands 
 
fLOHENCE BURTON AT THE RECTORY. 141 
 
 were taking from her her shawls and hat and cloak, 
 almost before she knew where she was. 
 
 "It is so odd to have you here," said Fanny. "We 
 have only one brother, so, of course, we shall maiie 
 very much of you. Isn't she nice, mamma?" 
 
 "I'm sure she is-, very nice. But I shouldn't have 
 told her so before her face, if you hadn't asked the 
 question." 
 
 "That's nonsense, mamma. You mustn't believe 
 mamma when she pretends to be grand and senten- 
 tious. It's only put on as a sort of company air, but 
 we don't mean to make company of you." 
 
 "Pray don't," said Florence. 
 
 "I'm so glad you are come just at this time," said 
 Mary. "I think so much of having Harry's future 
 wife at my wedding. I wish we were both going to 
 be married the same day." 
 
 "But we are not going to be married for ever so 
 long. Two years hence has been the shortest time 
 named." 
 
 "Don't be sure of that, Florence," said Fanny. 
 "We have all of us received a special commission 
 from Harry to talk you out of that heresy, have we 
 not, mamma?" 
 
 "I think you had better not tease Florence about 
 that immediately on her arrival. It's hardly fair." 
 Then, when they had drunk their tea, Florence was 
 taken away to her own room, and before she was 
 allowed to go downstairs she was intimate with both 
 the girls, and had so far overcome her awe of Harry's 
 mother as to be able to answer her without confusion. 
 
 "Well, sir, what do you think of her?" said Harry 
 to his father, as soon as they were alone. 
 
142 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 ''I have not had time to think much of her yet 
 She seems to be very pretty. She isn't so tall as I 
 thought she would be." 
 
 "No; she's not tall," said Harry, in a voice of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 "I've no doubt we shall like her very much. What 
 money is she to have?" 
 
 "A hundred a year while her father lives." 
 "That's not much." 
 
 "Much or little, it made no difference with me. I 
 should never have thought of marrying a girl for her 
 money. It's a kind of thing that I hate. I almost 
 wish she was to have nothing." 
 
 "I shouldn't refuse it if I were you." 
 
 "Of course, I shan't refuse it-, but what I mean is 
 that I never thought about it when I asked her to 
 have me-, and I shouldn't have been a bit more likely 
 to ask her if she had ten times as much." 
 
 "A fortune with one's wife isn't a bad thing for a 
 poor man, Harry." 
 
 "But a poor man must be poor in more senses 
 than one when he looks about to get a fortune in that 
 way." 
 
 "I suppose you won't marry just yet," said the 
 father. "Including everything, you would not have 
 five hundred a year, and that would be very close 
 work in London." 
 
 "It's not quite decided yet, sir. As far as I am 
 myself concerned, I think that people are a great deal 
 too prudent about money. I believe I could live as a 
 married man on a hundred a year, if I had no more; 
 and as for London, I don't see wLy London should be 
 more expensive than any other place. You can get 
 
FLORENCE BURTON AT THE RECTORY. 143 
 
 exactly what you want in London, and make your 
 halfpence go farther there than anywhere else.'' 
 
 ''And your sovereigns go quicker," said the rector. 
 
 ''AH that is wanted," said Harry, "is the will to 
 live on your income, and a little firmness in carrying 
 out your plans." 
 
 The rector of Clavering, as he heard all this wisdom 
 fall from his son's lips, looked at Harry's expensive 
 clothes, at the ring on his finger, at the gold chain on 
 his waistcoat, at the studs in his shirt, and smiled 
 gently. He was by no means so clever a man as his 
 son, but he knew something more of the world, and 
 though not much given to general reading, he had 
 read his son's character. "A great deal of firmness 
 and of fortitude also is wanted for that kind of life," 
 he said. "There are men who can go through it with- 
 out suffering, but I would not advise any young man 
 to commence it in a hurry. If I were you I should 
 wait a year or two. Come, let's have a walk; that is, 
 if you can tear yourself away from your lady-love for 
 an hour. If there is not Saul coming up the avenue! 
 Take your hat, Harry, and we'll get out the other 
 way. He only wants to see the girls about the school, 
 but if he catches us he'll keep us for an hour." Then 
 Harry asked after Mr. Saul's love-affairs. "I've not 
 heard one single word about it since you went away," 
 said the rector. "It seems to have passed off like a 
 dream. He and Fanny go on the same as ever, and 
 I suppose he knows that he made a fool of himself." 
 But in this matter the rector of Clavering was mistaken. 
 Mr. Saul did not by any means think that he had made 
 a fool of himself. 
 
 "He has never spoken a word to me since," said 
 
144 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Fanny to her brother that evening; "that is, not a 
 word as to what occurred then. Of course it was very 
 embarrassing at first, though I don't think he minded 
 it much. He came after a day or two just the same 
 as ever, and he almost made me think that he had 
 forgotten it.'* 
 
 "And he wasn't confused?" 
 
 "Not at all. He never is. The only difference is 
 that I think he scolds me more than he used to do." 
 "Scold you!" 
 
 "Oh dear, yes; he always scolded me if he thought 
 there was anything wrong, especially about giving 
 the children holidays. But he does it now more than 
 ever." 
 
 "And how do you bear it?" 
 
 "In a half-and-half sort of way. I laugh at him, 
 and then do as I'm bid. He makes everybody do 
 what he bids them at Clavering, — except papa, some- 
 times. But he scolds him, too. I heard him the other 
 day in the library." 
 
 "And did my father take it from him?" 
 
 "He did in a sort of a way. I don't think papa 
 likes him; but then he knows, and we all know, that 
 he is so good. He never spares himself in anything. 
 He has nothing but his curacy, and what he gives 
 away is wonderful." 
 
 "I hope he won't take to scolding me," said Harry, 
 proudly, 
 
 "As you don't concern yourself about the parish, I 
 should say that you're safe. I suppose he thinks 
 mamma does everything right, for he never scolds 
 her." 
 
 "There is no talk of his going away." 
 
PLOHENCE BURTON AT THE RECTOi 
 
 "None at all. I think we should, all be l 
 cause lie does so much good." 
 
 Florence reigned supreme in the estimation 
 rectory family all the evening of her arrival an 
 after breakfast the next morning, but then the bi. 
 elect was restored to her natural pre-eminence. This, 
 however, lasted only for two days, after which the 
 bride was taken away. The wedding was very nice, 
 and pretty, and comfortable; and the people of Claver- 
 ing were much better satisfied with it than they had 
 been with that other marriage which has been men- 
 tioned as having been celebrated in Clavering Church. 
 The rectory family was generally popular, and every- 
 body wished well to the daughter who was being given 
 away. When they were gone, there was a breakfast 
 at the rectory, and speeches were made with much 
 volubility. On such an occasion the rector was a 
 great man, and Harry also shone in conspicuous rivalry 
 with his father. But Mr. SauFs spirit was not so well 
 tuned to the occasion as that of the rector or his son, 
 and when he got upon his legs, and mournfully ex- 
 pressed a hope that his friend Mr. Fielding might be 
 enabled to bear the trials of this life with fortitude, it 
 was felt by them aK that the speaking had better be 
 brought to an end. 
 
 "You shouldn't laugh at him, Harry," Fanny said 
 to her brother afterwards, almost seriously. "One man 
 can do one thing and one another. You can make a 
 speech better than he can, but I don't think you could 
 preach so good a sermon." 
 
 "I declare I think you're getting fond of him after 
 all," said Harry. Upon hearing this Fanny turned 
 away with a look of great offence. "No one but a 
 
 The Claverings. I. 10 
 
THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 said she, "would say sucli a thing as that to 
 ecause I don't like to hear the poor man ridi- 
 . without cause." That evening, when they were 
 .e, Fanny told Florence the whole story about Mr. 
 dul. "I tell you, you know, because you're like one 
 of ourselves now. It has never been mentioned to any 
 one out of the family." 
 
 Florence declared that the story would be sacred 
 with her. 
 
 "I'm sure of that, dear, and therefore I like you 
 to know it. Of course such a thing was quite out of 
 the question. The poor fellow has no means at all, — 
 literally none. And then, independently of that — " 
 
 "I don't think I should ever bring myself to think 
 of that as the first thing," said Florence. 
 
 "No, nor would I. If I really were attached to a 
 man, I think I would tell him so, and agree to wait, 
 either with hope or without it." 
 
 "Just so, Fanny." 
 
 "But there was nothing of that kind; and, indeed, 
 he's the sort of man that no girl would think of being 
 in love with, — isn't he? You see he will hardly 
 take the trouble to dress himself decently." 
 
 "I have only seen him at a wedding, you know." 
 
 "And for him he was quite bright. But you will 
 see plenty of him if you will go to the schools with 
 me. And indeed he comes here a great deal, quite as 
 much as he did before that happened. He is so good, 
 Florence!" 
 
 "Poor man!" 
 
 "I can't in the least make out from his manner 
 whether he has given up thinking about it. I suppose 
 he has. Indeed, of course he has, because he must 
 
FLORENCE BURTON AT THE RECTORY. 147 
 
 know that it would be of no sort of use. But he is 
 one of those men of whom you can never say whether 
 they are happy or not; and you never can be quite 
 sure what may be in his mind." 
 
 "He is not bound to the place at all, — not like 
 your father?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Fanny, thinking perhaps that Mr. 
 Saul might find himself to be bound to the place, 
 though not exactly with bonds similar to those which 
 kept her father there. 
 
 "If he found himself to be unhappy, he could go," 
 said Florence. 
 
 "Oh, yes; he could go if he were unhappy," said 
 Fanny. "That is, he could go if he pleased." 
 
 Lady Clavering had come to the wedding; but no 
 one else had been present from the great house. Sir 
 Hugh, indeed, was not at home; but, as the rector 
 truly observed, he might have been at home if he had 
 so pleased. "But he is a man," said the father to the 
 son, who always does a rude thing if it be in his 
 power. For myself, I care nothing for him, as he 
 knows. But he thinks that Mary would have liked to 
 have seen him as the head of the family, and therefore 
 he does not come. He has greater skill in making 
 himself odious than any man I ever knew. As for 
 her, they say he's leading her a terrible life. And 
 he's becoming so stingy about money, too!" 
 
 "I hear that Archie is very heavy on him." 
 
 "I don't believe that he would allow any man to 
 be heavy on him, as you call it. Archie has means 
 of his own, and I suppose has not run through them 
 yet. If Hugh has advanced him money , you may be 
 sure that he has security. As for Archie, he will 
 
 10^ 
 
148 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 come to an end very soon, if what I hear is true. They 
 tell me he is always at Newmarket, and that he always 
 loses." 
 
 But though Sir Hugh was thus uncourteous to the 
 rector and to the rector's daughter, he was so far pre- 
 pared to be civil to his cousin Harry, that he allowed 
 his wife to ask all the rectory family to dine up at the 
 house, in honour of Harry's sweetheart. Florence 
 Burton was specially invited with Lady Ciavering's 
 sweetest smile. Florence, of course, referred the 
 matter to her hostess, but it was decided that they 
 should all accept the invitation. It was given, per- 
 sonally, after the breakfast, and it is not always easy 
 to decline invitations so given. It may, I think, be 
 doubted whether any man or woman has a right to 
 give an invitation in this way, and whether all invita- 
 tions so given should not be null and void, from the 
 fact of the unfair advantage that has been taken. The 
 man who fires at a sitting bird is known to be no 
 sportsman. Now, the dinner- giver who catches his 
 guest in an unguarded moment, and bags him when he 
 has had no chance to rise upon his wing, does fire at 
 a sitting bird. In this instance, however. Lady Cia- 
 vering's little speeches were made only to Mrs. Claver- 
 ing and to Florence. She said nothing personally to 
 the rector, and he therefore might have escaped. But 
 his wife talked him over. 
 
 "I think you should go, for Harry's sake," said 
 Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "I don't see what good it will do Harry." 
 
 "It will show that you approve of the match." 
 
 "I don't approve or disapprove of it. He's his 
 own master." 
 
FLORENCE BURTON AT THE RECTORY. 
 
 149 
 
 "But you do approve, you know, as you coun- 
 tenance it; and there cannot possibly be a sweeter girl 
 than Florence Burton. We all like her, and I'm sure 
 you seem to take to her thoroughly." 
 
 "Take to her; yes, I take to her very well. She's 
 lady-like, and though she's no beauty, she looks 
 pretty, and is spirited. And I daresay she's clever." 
 
 "And so good." 
 
 "If she's good, that's better than all. Only I don't 
 see what they're to live on." 
 
 "But as she is here, you will go with us to the 
 great house?" 
 
 Mrs. Clavering never asked her husband anything 
 in vain, and the rector agreed to go. He apologized 
 for this afterwards to his son by explaining that he 
 did it as a duty. "It will serve for six months," he 
 said. "If I did not go there about once in six months, 
 there would be supposed to be a family quarrel, and 
 that would be bad for the parish." 
 
 Harry was to remain only a week at Clavering, 
 and the dinner was to take place the evening before he 
 went away. On that morning he walked all round the 
 park with Florence, as he had before often walked 
 with Julia, — and took that occasion of giving her a 
 full history of the Clavering family. "We none of us 
 like my cousin Hugh," he had said. "But she is at 
 least harmless, and she means to be good-natured. She 
 is very unlike her sister, Lady Ongar." 
 
 "So I should suppose, from what you have told me." 
 
 "Altogether an inferior being." 
 
 "And she has only one child." 
 
 "Only one, — a boy now two years old. They 
 say he's anything but strong." 
 
150 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "And Sir Hugh has one brother." 
 
 "Yes; Archie Clavering. I think Archie is a 
 worse fellow even than Hugh. He makes more at- 
 tempts to be agreeable, but there is something in his 
 eye which I always distrust. And then he is a man 
 who does no good in the world to anybody." 
 
 "He's not married?" 
 
 "No; he's not married, and I don't suppose he 
 ever will marry. It's on the cards, Florence, that the 
 future baronet may be — " Then she frowned on him, 
 walked on quickly, and changed the conversation. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Sir Hugh and his Brother Archie. 
 
 There was a numerous gathering of Claverings in 
 the drawing-room of the Great House when the family 
 from the rectory arrived, comprising three generations; 
 for the nurse was in the room holding the heir in her 
 arms. Mrs. Clavering and Fanny of course inspected 
 the child at once, as they were bound to do, while 
 Lady Clavering welcomed Florence Burton. Archie 
 spoke a word or two to his uncle, and Sir Hugh 
 vouchsafed to give one finger to his cousin Hariy by 
 way of shaking hands with him. Then there came a 
 feeble squeak from the infant, and there was a cloud 
 at once upon Sir Hugh's brow. "Hermione," he said, 
 "I wish you wouldn't have the child in here. It's not 
 the place for him. He's always cross. I've said a 
 dozen times I wouldn't have him down here just before 
 dinner." Then a sign was made to the nurse, and she 
 walked off with her burden. It was a poor, rickety, 
 unalluring bairn, but it was all that Lady Clavering 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE. 
 
 151 
 
 had, and she would fain have been allowed to show 
 it to her relatives, as other mothers are allowed to do. 
 
 ''Hugh,'' said his wife, "shall I introduce you to 
 Miss Burton?" 
 
 Then Sir Hugh came forward and shook hands 
 with his new guest, with some sort of apology for his 
 remissness, while Harry stood by, glowering at him, 
 with offence in his eye. "My father is right," he had 
 said to himself when his cousin failed to notice 
 Florence on her first entrance into the room; "he is 
 impertinent as well as disagreeable i don't care for 
 quarrels in the parish, and so I shall let him know." 
 
 "Upon my word she's a doosed good-looking little 
 thing," said Archie, coming up to him, after having 
 also shaken hands with her*, — "doosed good-looking, 
 I call her." 
 
 "I'm glad you think so," said Harry, drily. 
 
 "Let's see; where was it you picked her up? I did 
 hear, but I forget." 
 
 "I picked her up, as you call it, at Stratton, where 
 her father lives." 
 
 "Oh, yes; I know. He's the fellow that coached 
 you in your new business, isn't he? By-the-by, Harry, 
 I think you've made a mess of it in changing your 
 line. I'd have stuck to my governor's shop if I'd 
 been you. You'd got through all the d — d fag of it, 
 and there's the living, that has always belonged to a 
 Clavering." 
 
 "What would your brother have said if I had asked 
 him to give it to me?" 
 
 "He wouldn't have given it, of course. Nobody 
 does give anything to anybody now-a-days. Livings 
 
152 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 are a sort of thing that people buy. But you'd have 
 got it under favourable circumstances." 
 
 "The fact is, Archie, I'm not very fond of the 
 church, as a profession." 
 
 should have thought it easy work. Look at 
 your father. He keeps a curate and doesn't take any 
 trouble himself. Upon my word, if I'd known as much 
 then as I do now, I'd have had a shy for it myself. 
 Hugh couldn't have refused it to me." 
 
 "But Hugh can't give it while his uncle holds it." 
 
 "That would have been against me to be sure, 
 and your governor's life is pretty nearly as good as 
 mine. I shouldn't have liked waiting; so I suppose 
 it's as well as it is." 
 
 There may perhaps have been other reasons why 
 Archie Clavering's regrets that he did not take holy 
 orders were needless. He had never succeeded in 
 learning anything that any master had ever attempted 
 to teach him, although he had shown considerable 
 aptitude in picking up acquirements for which no re- 
 gular masters are appointed. He knew the fathers and 
 mothers, — sires and dams I ought perhaps to say, 
 — and grandfathers and grandmothers, and so back 
 for some generations, of all the horses of note living 
 in his day. He knew also the circumstances of all 
 races, — what horses would run at them, and at what 
 ages, what were the stakes, the periods of running, and 
 the special interests of each affair. But not, on that 
 account, should it be thought tha^ the turf had been 
 profitable to him. That it might become profitable at 
 some future time, was possible; but Captain Archibald 
 Clavering had not yet reached the profitable stage in 
 the career of a betting man, though perhaps he was 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BR0THI:R ARCHIE. 
 
 153 
 
 beginning to qualify himself for it. He was not bad- 
 looking, tliough his face was unprepossessing to a 
 judge of character. He was slight and well made, 
 about five feet nine in height, with light brown hair, 
 which had already left the top of his head bald, with 
 slight whiskers, and a well-formed moustache. But 
 the peculiarity of his face was in his eyes. His eye- 
 brows were light-coloured and very slight, and this 
 was made more apparent by the skin above the eyes, 
 which was loose and hung down over the outside 
 corners of them, giving him a look of cunning which 
 was disagreeable. He seemed always to be speculat- 
 ing, counting up the odds, and calculating whether 
 anything could be done with the events then present 
 before him. And he was always ready to make a bet, 
 being ever provided with a book for that purpose. He 
 would take the odds that the sun did not rise on the 
 morrow, and would either wiu the bet or wrangle in 
 the losing of it. He would wrangle, but would do so 
 noiselessly, never on such occasions damaging his cause 
 by a loud voice. He was now about thirty-three years 
 of age, and was two years younger than the baronet. 
 Sir Hugh was not a gambler like his brother, but I do 
 not know that he was therefore a more estimable man. 
 He was greedy and anxious to increase his store, 
 never willing to lose that which he possessed, fond of 
 pleasure, but very careful of himself in the enjoyment 
 of it, handsome, every inch an English gentleman in 
 appearance, and therefore popular mth men and women 
 of his own class who were not near enough to him to 
 know him well, given to but few words, proud of his 
 name, and rank, and place, well versed in the busi- 
 ness of the world, a match for most men in money 
 
154 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 matters, not ignorant, though he rarely opened a book, 
 selfish, and utterly regardless of the feelings of all 
 those with whom he came in contact. Such were Sir 
 Hugh Clavering, and his brother the captain. 
 
 Sir Hugh took Florence in to dinner, and when 
 the soup had been eaten made an attempt to talk to 
 her. "How long have you been here. Miss Burton?" 
 
 "Kearly a week," said Florence. 
 
 ''Ah-, — you came to the wedding; I was sorry I 
 couldn't be here. It went off very well, I suppose?" 
 
 "Very well indeed, I think." 
 
 "They're tiresome things in general, — weddings. 
 Don't you think so?" 
 
 "Oh dear, no, — except that some person one 
 loves is always being taken away." 
 
 "You'll be the next person to be taken away your- 
 self, I suppose?" 
 
 "I must be the next person at home, because I am 
 the last that is left. All my sisters are married." 
 
 "And how many are there?" 
 
 "There are five married." 
 
 "Good heavens! Five!" 
 
 "And they are all married to men in the same pro- 
 fession as Harry." 
 
 "Quite a family affair," said Sir Hugh. Harry, 
 who was sitting on the other side of Florence, heard 
 this, and would have preferred that Florence should 
 have said nothing about her sisters. "Why, Harry," 
 said the baronet, "if you will go into partnership with 
 your father-in-law and all your brothers-in-law you 
 could stand against the world." 
 
 "You might add my four brothers," said Florence, 
 
SIR mJGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE. 155 
 
 wlio saw no shame in tlie fact that they were all en- 
 gaged in the same business. 
 
 "Good heaven!" exclaimed Sir Hugh, and after 
 that he did not say much more to Florence. 
 
 The rector had taken Lady Clavering into dinner, 
 and they two did manage to carry on between them 
 some conversation respecting the parish afPairs. Lady 
 Clavering was not active among the poor, — nor was 
 the rector himself, and perhaps neither of them knew 
 how little the other did; but they could talk Clavering 
 talk, and the parson was willing to take for granted 
 his neighbour's good will to make herself agreeable. 
 But Mrs. Clavering, who sat between Sir Hugh and 
 Archie, had a very bad time of it. Sir Hugh spoke 
 to her once during the dinner, saying that he hoped 
 she was satisfied with her daughter's marriage; but 
 even this he said in a tone that seemed to imply that 
 any such satisfaction must rest on very poor grounds. 
 ''Thoroughly satisfied," said Mrs. Clavering, drawing 
 herself up and looking very unlike the usual Mrs. 
 Clavering of the rectory. After that there was no further 
 conversation between her and Sir Hugh. ''The worst of 
 him to me is always this," she said that evening to her 
 husband, "that he puts me so much out of conceit with 
 myself. If I were with him long I should begin to find 
 myself the most disagreeable woman in England!" 
 "Then pray don't be with him long." said the rector. 
 
 But Archie made conversation throughout dinner, 
 and added greatly to Mrs. Clavering's troubles by doing 
 so. There was nothing in common between them, but 
 still Archie went on laboriously with his work. It was 
 a duty which he recognized, and at which he would work 
 hard. When he had used up Mary's marriage, a sub- 
 
156 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 ject whicli he economized carefully, so that he brought 
 it down to the roast saddle of mutton, he began upon 
 Harry's match. When was it to be? Where were they 
 to live? Was there any money? What manner of 
 people were the Burtons? Perhaps he might get over 
 it? This he whispered very lowly, and it was the 
 question next in sequence to that about the money. 
 When, in answer to this, Mrs. Clavering with consider- 
 able energy declared that anything of that kind would 
 be a misfortune of which there seemed to be no chance 
 whatever, he recovered himself as he thought very 
 skilfully. "Oh, yes; of course; that's just what I 
 meant; — a doosed nice girl I think her; — a doosed 
 nice girl, all round." Archie's questions were very 
 laborious to his fellow-labourer in his conversation be- 
 cause he never allowed one of them to pass without 
 an answer. He always recognized the fact that he 
 was working hard on behalf of society, and, as he used 
 to say himself, that he had no idea of pulling all the 
 coach up the hill by his own shoulders. Whenever 
 therefore he had made his effoi-t he waited for his com- 
 panion's, looking closely into her face, cunningly 
 driving her on, so that she also should pull her share 
 of the coach. Before dinner was over Mrs. Clavering 
 found the hill to be very steep, and the coach to be 
 very heavy. "I'll bet you seven to one," said he, — 
 and this was his parting speech as Mrs. Clavering rose 
 up at Lady Clavering's nod, — "I'll bet you seven to 
 one that the whole box and dice of them are married 
 before me, — or at any rate as soon; and I don't mean 
 to remain single much longer, I can tell you." The 
 "box and dice of them" was supposed to comprise 
 Harry, Florence, Fanny, and Lady Ongar, of all of 
 
sill HUGH AND HIS BKOTHER ARCHIE. 157 
 
 whom mention had been made, and that saving clause, 
 — ''at any rate as soon," — was cunningly put in, as 
 it had occurred to Archie that he perhaps might be 
 married on the same day as one of those other per- 
 sons. But Mrs. Clavering was not compelled either 
 to accept or reject the bet, as she was already moving 
 before the terms had been fully explained to her. 
 
 Lady Clavering as she went out of the room stopped 
 a moment behind Harry's chair and whispered a word 
 to him. ''I want to speak to you before you go to- 
 night." Then she passed on. 
 
 "What's that Hermione was saying?" asked Sir 
 Hugh, when he had shut the door. 
 
 "She only told •me that she wanted to speak to 
 me." 
 
 "She has always got some cursed secret," said Sir 
 Hugh. "If there is anything I hate, it's a secret." 
 Now this was hardly fair, for Sir Hugh was a man very 
 secret in his own affairs, never telling his wife any- 
 thing about them. He kept two bankers' accounts, so 
 that no banker's clerk might know how he stood as 
 regarded ready money, and hardly treated even his 
 lawyer with confidence. 
 
 He did not move from his own chair, so that, after 
 dinner, his uncle was not next to him. The places 
 left by the ladies were not closed up, and the table was 
 very uncomfortable. 
 
 "I see they're going to have another week after 
 this with the Pytchley," said Sir Hugh to his brother. 
 
 "I suppose they will, — or ten days. Things ain't 
 very early this year." 
 
 "I think I shall go down. It's never any use 
 trying to hunt here after the middle of March." 
 
158 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "You're rather short of foxes, are you not?" 
 said the rector, making an attempt to join the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "Upon my word I don't know anything about it," 
 said Sir Hugh. 
 
 "There are foxes at Clavering," said Archie, re- 
 commencing his duty. "The hounds will be here on 
 Saturday, and I'll bet three to one I find a fox before 
 twelve o'clock, or, say, half-past twelve, — that is, if 
 they'll draw punctually and let me do as I like with 
 the pack. I'll bet a guinea we find, and a guinea we 
 run, and a guinea we kill; that is, you know, if they'll 
 really look for a fox." 
 
 The rector had been willing to fall into a little 
 hunting talk for the sake of society, but he was not 
 prepared to go the length that Archie proposed to take 
 him, and therefore the subject dropped. 
 
 "At any rate I shan't stay here after to-morrow," 
 said Sir Hugh, still addressing himself to his brother. 
 "'Pass the wine, will you, Harry, that is, if your father 
 is drinking any." 
 
 "No more wine for me," said the rector almost 
 angrily. 
 
 "Liberty Hall," said Sir Hugh; "everybody does 
 as they like about that. I mean to have another bottle 
 of claret. Archie, ring the bell, will you?" Captain 
 Clavering, though he was further from the bell than 
 his elder brother, got up and did as he was bid. The 
 claret came, and was drunk almost in silence. The 
 rector, though he had a high opinion of the cellar of 
 the great house, would take none of the new bottle, 
 because he was angry. Harry filled his glass, and at- 
 tempted to say something. Sir Hugh answered him 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE. 159 
 
 by a monosyllable, and Archie offered to bet bim two 
 to one that he was wrong. 
 
 ^'I'll go into the drawing-room," said the rector, 
 getting up. 
 
 "All right," said Sir Hugh-, "you'll find coffee 
 there, I daresay. Has your father given up wine?" 
 he asked, as soon as the door was closed. 
 
 "Not that I know of," said Harry. 
 
 "He used to take as good a whack as any man I 
 know. The bishop hasn't put his embargo on that as 
 well as the hunting, I hope?" To this Harry made 
 no answer. 
 
 "He's in the blues, I think," said Archie. "Is 
 there anything the matter with him, Harry?" 
 "Nothing, as far I know." 
 
 "If I were left at Clavering all the year, with no- 
 thing to do, as he is, I think I should drink a good 
 deal of wine," said Sir Hugh. "I don't know what 
 it is, — something in the air, I suppose, — but every- 
 body always seems to me to be dreadfully dull here. 
 You ain't taking any wine either. Don't stop he^e out 
 of ceremony, you know, if you want to go after Miss 
 Burton." Harry took him at his word, and went after 
 Miss Burton, leaving the brothers together over their 
 claret. 
 
 The two brothers remained drinking their wine, but 
 they drank it in an uncomfortable fashion, not saying 
 much to each other for the first ten minutes after the 
 other Claverings were gone. Archie was in some 
 degree afraid of his brother, and never offered to make 
 any bets with him. Hugh had once put a stop to this 
 altogether. "Archie," he had said, "pray understand 
 that there is no money to be made out of me, at any 
 
160 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 rate not by you. If you lost money to me, you 
 wouldn't think it necessary to pay; and I certainly 
 shall lose none to you." The habit of proposing to 
 bet had become with Archie so much a matter of course, 
 that he did not generally intend any real speculation 
 by his offers; but with his brother he had dropped 
 even the habit. And he seldom began any conversa- 
 tion with Hugh unless he had some point to gain, — 
 an advance of money to ask, or some favour to beg in 
 the way of shooting, or the loan of a horse. On such 
 occasions he would commence the negotiation with his 
 usual diplomacy, not knowing any other mode of ex- 
 pressing his wishes; but he was aware that his brother 
 would always detect his manoeuvres, and expose them 
 before he had got through his first preface; and, there- 
 fore, as I have said, he was afraid of Hugh. 
 
 ''I don't know what's come to my uncle of late," 
 said Hugh, after a while. "I think I shall have to 
 drop them at the rectory altogether." 
 
 ''He never had much to say for himself." 
 
 "Put he has a mode of expressing himself without 
 speaking, which I do not choose to put up with at my 
 table. The fact is they are going to the mischief 
 at the rectory. His eldest girl has just married a 
 curate." 
 
 "Fielding has got a living." 
 
 "It's something very small then, and I suppose 
 Fanny will marry that prig they have there. My uncle 
 himself never does any of his own work, and now 
 Harry is going to make a fool of himself. I used to 
 think he would fall on his legs." 
 
 "He is a clever fellow." 
 
 "Then why is he such a fool as to marry such a 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE. ICl 
 
 girl as this, without money, good looks, or breeding? 
 It's well for you he's such a fool, or else you wouldn't 
 have a chance." 
 
 "I don't see that at all," said Archie. 
 
 "Julia always had a sneaking fondness for Harry, 
 and if he had waited would have taken him now. She 
 was very near making a fool of herself with him once, 
 before Lord Ongar turned up." 
 
 To this Archie said nothing, but he changed colour, 
 and it may almost be said of him that he blushed. 
 Why he was affected in so singular a manner by his 
 brother's words will be best explained by a statement 
 of what took place in the back drawing-room a little 
 later in the evening. 
 
 When Harry reached the drawing-room he went 
 up to Lady Clavering, but she said nothing to him 
 then of especial notice. She was talking to Mrs. Cla- 
 vering, while the rector was reading, — or pretending 
 to read, — a review, and the two girls were chattering 
 together in another part of the room. Then they had 
 coffee, and after awhile the two other men came in 
 from their wine. Lady Clavering did not move at 
 once, but she took the first opportunity of doing so, 
 when Sir Hugh came up to Mrs. Clavering and spoke 
 a word to her. A few minutes after that Harry found 
 himself closeted with Lady Clavering, in a little room 
 detached from the others, though the doors between 
 the two were open. 
 
 "Do you know," said Lady Clavering, "that Sir 
 Hugh has asked Julia to come here?" Harry paused 
 a moment, and then acknowledged that he did know it. 
 
 "I hope you did not advise her to refuse." 
 
 The Claverings. I. 11 
 
162 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 advise her! Oh dear, no. She did not ask me 
 anything about it." 
 
 ''But she has refused. Don't you think she has 
 been very wrong 
 
 "It is hard to say," said Harry. "You know I 
 thought it very cruel that Hugh did not receive her 
 immediately on her return. If I had been him I should 
 have gone to Paris to meet her." 
 
 "It's no good talking of that now, Harry. Hugh 
 is hard, and we all know that. "Who feels it most, do 
 you think — Julia or I? But as he has come round, 
 what can she gain by standing off? Will it not be 
 the best thing for her to come here?" 
 
 "I don't know that she has much to gain by it." 
 
 "Harry, — do you know that we have a plan?" 
 "Who is we?" Harry asked; but she went on without 
 noticing his question. "I tell you, because I believe 
 you can help us more than any one, if you will. Only 
 for your engagement with Miss Burton I should not 
 mention it to you; and, but for that, the plan would, 
 I dare say, be of no use." 
 
 "What is the plan?" said Harry, very gravely. 
 A vague idea of what the plan might be had come 
 across Harry's mind during Lady Clavering's last 
 speech. 
 
 "Would it not be a good thing if Julia and Archie 
 were to be married?" She asked the question in a 
 quick, hesitating voice, looking at first eagerly up into 
 his face, and then turning away her eyes, as though 
 she were afraid of the answer she might read there. 
 "Of course I know that you were fond of her, but all 
 that can be nothing now." 
 
 "No," said Harry, "that can be nothing now." 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE, 163 
 
 "Then why shouldn't Archie have her? It would 
 make us all so much more comfortable together. I 
 told Archie that I should speak to you, because I 
 know that you have more weight with her than any of 
 us; but Hugh doesn't know that I mean it." 
 
 *'Does Sir Hugh know of the, — the plan?" 
 
 ''It was he who proposed it. Archie will be very 
 badly off when he has settled with Hugh about all 
 their money dealings. Of course Julia's money would 
 be left in her own hands; there would be no intention 
 to interfere with that. But the position would be so 
 good for him; and it would, you know, put him on 
 his legs." 
 
 "Yes," said Harry, "it would put him on his legs, 
 I daresay." 
 
 "And why shouldn't it be so? She can't live 
 alone by herself always. Of course she never could 
 have really loved Lord Ongar." 
 
 "Never, I should think," said Harry. 
 
 "And Archie is good-natured, and good-tempered, 
 and — and — and — good-looking. Don't you think 
 so? I think it would just do for her. She'd have 
 her own way, for he's not a bit like Hugh, you know. 
 He's not so clever as Hugh, but he is much more 
 good-natured. Don't you think it would be a good 
 arrangement, Harry?" Then again she looked up into 
 his face anxiously. 
 
 Nothing in the whole matter surprised him more 
 than her eagerness in advocating the proposal. Why 
 should she desire that her sister should be sacrificed in 
 this way? But in so thinking of it he forgot her own 
 position, and the need that there was to her for some 
 friend to be near to her, — for some comfort and 
 
 11* 
 
164 
 
 TilE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 assistance. Slie had spoken truly in saying that the 
 plan had originated with her husband*, but since it had 
 been suggested to her, she had not ceased to think of 
 it, and to wish for it. 
 
 "Well, Harry, what do you say?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't see that I have anything to say." 
 
 "But I know you can help us. When I was with 
 her the last time, she declared that you were the only 
 one of us she ever wished to see again. She meant 
 to include me then especially, but of course she was 
 not thinking of Archie. I know you can help us if 
 you will." 
 
 "Am I to ask her to marry him?" 
 
 "Not exactly that; I don't think that would do any 
 good. But you might persuade her to come here. I 
 think she would come if you advised her; and then, 
 after a bit, you might say a good word for Archie." 
 
 "Upon my word I could not." 
 
 "Why not, Harry?" 
 
 "Because I know he would not make her happy. 
 What good would such a marriage do her?" 
 
 "Think of her position. No one will visit her un- 
 less she is first received here, or at any rate unless she 
 comes to us in town. And then it would be up-hill 
 work. Do you know Lord Ongar had absolutely deter- 
 mined at one time to — to get a divorce?" 
 
 "And do you believe that she was guilty?" 
 
 "I don't say that. No; why should I believe any- 
 thing against my own sister when nothing is proved? 
 But that makes no difference, if the world believes it. 
 They say now that if he had lived three months longer 
 she never would have got the money." 
 
 "Then they say lies. Who is it says so? A parcel 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTITER ARCHIE. 
 
 165 
 
 of old women wlio deliglit in having some one to run 
 down and backbite. It is all false, Lady Clavering." 
 
 ''But what does it signify, Harry? There she is, 
 and you know how people are talking. Of course it 
 would be best for her to marry again ; and if she would 
 take Archie, — Sir Hugh's brother, my brother-in-law, 
 — nothing further would be said. She might go any- 
 where then. As her sister, I feel sure that it is the 
 best thing she could do." 
 
 Harry's brow became clouded, and there was a look 
 of anger on his face as he answered her. 
 
 *'Lady Clavering," he said, "your sister will never 
 marry my cousin Archie. I look upon the thing as im- 
 possible." 
 
 "Perhaps it is, Harry, that you, — you yourself 
 would not wish it?" 
 
 "Why should I wish it?" 
 "He is your own cousin." 
 
 "Cousin indeed! Why should I wish it, or why 
 should I not wish it? They are neither of them any- 
 thing to me." 
 
 "She ought not to be anything to you." 
 
 "And she is nothing. She may marry Archie, if 
 she pleases, for me. I shall not set her against him. 
 But, Lady Clavering, you might as well tell him to 
 get one of the stars. I don't think you can know your 
 sister when you suppose such a match to be possible." 
 
 "Hermione!" shouted Sir Hugh, — and the shout 
 was uttered in a voice that always caused Lady Claver- 
 ing to tremble. 
 
 "I am coming," she said, rising from her chair. 
 ''Don't set yourself against it, Harry," and then, without 
 waiting to hear him further, she obeyed her husband's 
 
166 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 summons. "What tlie mischief keeps you in there?" 
 he said. Tt seemed that things had not been going well 
 in the larger room. The rector had stuck to his review, 
 taking no notice of Sir Hugh when he entered. "You 
 seem to be very fond of your book, all of a sudden," 
 Sir Hugh had said, after standing silent on the rug for 
 a few minutes. 
 
 "Yes, I am," said the rector, — "just at pre- 
 sent." 
 
 "It's quite new with you, then," said Sir Hugh, 
 ^^or else you're very much belied." 
 
 "Hugh," said Mr. Clavering, rising slowly from his 
 chair, "I don't often come into my father's house, but 
 when I do, I wish to be treated with respect. You 
 are the only person in this parish that ever omits to do 
 so." 
 
 "Bosh!" said Sir Hugh. 
 
 The two girls sat cowering in their seats, and poor 
 Florence must have begun to entertain an uncomfortable 
 idea of her future connexions. Archie made a frantic 
 attempt to raise some conversation with Mrs. Clavering 
 about the weather. Mrs. Clavering, paying no atten- 
 tion to Archie whatever, looked at her husband with 
 beseeching eyes. "Henry," she said, "do not allow 
 yourself to be angry, pray do not. What is the use?" 
 
 "None on earth," he said, returning to his book. 
 "No use on earth; — and worse than none in show- 
 ing it." 
 
 Then it was that Sir Hugh had made a diversion 
 by calling to his wife. "I wish you'd stay with us, 
 and not go off alone with one person in particular, in 
 that way." Lady Clavering looked round and imme- 
 diately saw that things were unpleasant. "Archie," she 
 
SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE. 
 
 167 
 
 said, "will you ring for tea?" And Arcliie did ring. 
 The tea was brought, and a cup was taken all round, 
 almost in silence. 
 
 Harry in the meantime remained by himself think- 
 ing of what he had heard from Lady Clavering. Archie 
 Clavering marry Lady Ongar, — marry his Julia! It 
 was impossible. He could not bring himself even to 
 think of such an arrangement with equanimity. He 
 was almost frantic with anger as he thought of this 
 proposition to restore Lady Ongar to the position in 
 the world's repute which she had a right to claim, by 
 such a marriage as that. "She would indeed be dis- 
 graced then," said Harry to himself. But he knew that 
 it was impossible. He could see what would be the 
 nature of Julia's countenance if Archie should ever get 
 near enough to her to make his proposal! Archie in- 
 deed! There was no one for whom, at that moment, 
 he entertained so thorough a contempt as he did for his 
 cousin, Archie Clavering. 
 
 Let us hope that he was no dog in the manger ; — 
 that the feelings which he now entertained for poor 
 Archie would not have been roused against any other 
 possible suitor who might have been named as a fitting 
 husband for Lady Ongar, Lady Ongar could be nothing 
 to him! 
 
 But I fear that he was a dog in the manger, and 
 that any marriage contemplated for Lady Ongar, either 
 by herself or by others for her, would have been dis- 
 tasteful to him, — unnaturally distasteful. He knew 
 that Lady Ongar could be nothing to him; and yet, as 
 he came out of the small room into the larger room, 
 there was something sore about his heart, and the sore- 
 ness was occasioned by the thought that any second 
 
168 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 marriage should be thought possible for Lady Ongar. 
 Florence smiled on him as he went up to her, but I 
 doubt whether she would have smiled had she known 
 all his heart. 
 
 Soon after that Mrs. Clavering rose to return home, 
 having swallowed a peace-offering in the shape of a cup 
 of tea. But though the tea had quieted the storm then 
 on the waters, there was no true peace in the rector's 
 breast. He shook hands cordially with Lady Claver- 
 ing, without animosity with Archie, and then held out 
 three fingers to the baronet. The baronet held out one 
 finger. Each nodded at the other, and so they parted. 
 Harry, who knew nothing of what had happened, and 
 who was still thinking of Lady Ongar, busied himself 
 with Florence, and they were soon out of the house, 
 walking down the broad road from the front door. 
 
 "I will never enter that house again, when I know 
 that Hugh Clavering is in it," said the rector. 
 
 ''Don't make rash assertions, Henry," said his 
 wife. 
 
 "I hope it is not rash, but I make that assertion," 
 he said. "I will never again enter that house as my 
 nephew's guest. I have borne a great deal for the 
 sake of peace, but there are things which a man cannot 
 bear." 
 
 Then, as they walked home, the two girls ex- 
 plained to Harry what had occurred in the larger room, 
 while he was talking to Lady Clavering in the smaller 
 one. But he said nothing to them of the subject of that 
 conversation. 
 
LADY ONGAR TAKES POSSESSION. 
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Lady Ongar takes Possession. 
 
 I DO not know tliat there is in England a more 
 complete gentleman's residence than Ongar Park, nor 
 could there be one in better repair, or more fit for im- 
 mediate habitation than was that house when it came 
 into the hands of the young widow. The park was 
 not large, containing about sixty or seventy acres. But 
 there was a home farm attached to the place, which 
 also now belonged to Lady Ongar for her life, and 
 which gave to the park itself an appearance of extent 
 which it would otherwise have wanted. The house, 
 regarded as a nobleman's mansion, was moderate in 
 size, but it was ample for the requirements of any' 
 ordinarily wealthy family. The dining-room, library, 
 drawing-rooms, and breakfast-room, were all large and 
 well-arranged. The hall was handsome and spacious, 
 and the bed-rooms were sufficiently numerous to make 
 an auctioneer's mouth water. But the great charm of 
 Ongar Park lay in the grounds immediately round the 
 house, which sloped down from the terrace before the 
 windows to a fast-running stream which was almost 
 hidden, — but was not hidden, — by the shrubs on 
 its bank. Though the domain itself was small, the 
 shrubberies and walks were extensive. It was a place 
 costly to maintain in its present perfect condition, but 
 when that was said against it, all was said against it 
 which its bitterest enemies could allege. 
 
 But Lady Ongar, with her large jointure, and with 
 no external expenses whatever, could afford this delight 
 without imprudence. Everything in and about the 
 
170 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 place was her own, and she might live there happily, 
 even in the face of the world's frowns, if she could 
 teach herself to find happiness in rural luxuries. On 
 her immediate return to England , her lawyer had told her 
 that he found there would be opposition to her claim, 
 and that an attempt would be made to keep the house 
 out of her hands. Lord Ongar's people would, he 
 said, bribe her to submit to this by immediate ac- 
 quiescence as to her income. Bat she had declared 
 that she would not submit, — that she would have 
 house and income and all-, and she had been success- 
 ful. "Why should I surrender what is my own?" she 
 had said, looking the lawyer full in the face. The 
 lawyer had not dared to tell her that her opponents, 
 — Lord Ongar's heirs, — had calculated on her anxiety 
 to avoid exposure; but she knew that that was meant. 
 "I have nothing to fear from them," she said, "and 
 mean to claim what is my own by my settlement." 
 There had, in truth, been no ground for disputing her 
 right, and the place was given up to her before she 
 had been three months in England. She at once went 
 down and took possession, and there she was, alone, 
 when her sister was communicating to Harry Clavering 
 her plan about Captain Archie. 
 
 She had never seen the place till she reached it on 
 this occasion; nor had she ever seen, nor would she 
 now probably ever see, Lord Ongar's larger house, 
 Courton Castle. She had gone abroad with him im- 
 mediately on their maniage, and now she had returned 
 a widow to take possession of his house. There she 
 was in possession of it all. The furniture in the rooms, 
 the books in the cases, the gilded clocks and grand 
 mirrors about the house, all the implements of wealthy 
 
LADY ONGAR TAKES POSSESSION. 
 
 171 
 
 care about tlie gardens, the corn in the granaries and 
 the ricks in tlie hay-yard, the horses in the stable, and 
 the cows lowing in the fields, — they were all hers. 
 She had performed her part of the bargain, and now 
 the price was paid to her into her hands. When she 
 arrived she did not know what was the extent of her 
 riches in this world's goods; nor, in truth, had she at 
 once the courage to ask questions on the subject. She 
 saw cows, and was told of horses; and words came 
 to her gradually of sheep and oxen, of poultry, pigs, 
 and growing calves. It was as though a new world 
 had opened itself before her eyes, full of interest, and 
 as though all that world were her own. She looked 
 at it, and knew that it was the price of her bargain. 
 Upon the whole she had been very lucky. She had, 
 indeed, passed through a sharp agony, — an agony 
 sharp almost to death; but the agony had been short, 
 and the price was in her hand. 
 
 A close carriage had met her at the station, and 
 taken her with her maid to the house. She had so 
 arranged that she had reached the station after dark, 
 and even then had felt that the eyes of many were 
 upon her as she went out to her carriage, with her 
 face covered by a veil. She was all alone, and there 
 would be no one at the house to whom she could 
 speak; — but the knowledge that the carriage was her 
 own perhaps consoled her. The housekeeper who 
 received her was a stout, elderly, comfortable body, 
 to whom she could perhaps say a few words beyond 
 those which might be spoken to an ordinary servant; 
 but she fancied at once that the housekeeper was cold 
 to her, and solemn in her demeanour. "I hope you 
 have good fires, Mrs. Button.'' "Yes, my lady." "I 
 
172 
 
 THE OLAVERINaS. 
 
 think I will have some tea; I don't want anything else 
 to-night." "Very well, my lady." Mrs. Button, main- 
 taining a solemn countenance, would not go beyond 
 this; and yet Mrs. Button looked like a woman who 
 could have enjoyed a gossip, had the lady been a lady 
 to her mind. Perhaps Mrs. Button did not like serv- 
 ing a lady as to whom such sad stories were told. 
 Lady Ongar, as she thought of this, drew herself 
 up unconsciously, and sent Mrs. Button away from 
 her. 
 
 The next morning, after an early breakfast. Lady 
 Ongar went out. She was determined that she would 
 work hard; that she would understand the farm; that 
 she would know the labourers; that she would assist 
 the poor; that she would have a school; and, above 
 all, that she would make all the privileges of owner- 
 ship her own. Was not the price in her hand, and 
 would she not use it? She felt that it was very good 
 thai; something of the price had come to her thus in 
 the shape of land, and beeves, and wide, heavy out- 
 side garniture. From them she would pluck an interest 
 which mere money could not have given her. She 
 was out early, therefore, that she might look round 
 upon the things that were her own. 
 
 And there came upon her a feeling that she would 
 not empty this sweet cup at one draught, that she 
 would dally somewhat with the rich banquet that was 
 spread for her. She had many griefs to overcome, 
 much sorrow to conquer, perhaps a long period of de- 
 solation to assuage, and she would not be prodigal of 
 her resources. As she looked around her while she 
 walked, almost furtively, lest some gardener as he 
 spied her might guess her thoughts and tell how my 
 
LADY ONGAR TAKES POSSESSION. 
 
 173 
 
 lady was revelling in her pride of possession, — it 
 appeared to her that those novelties in which she was 
 to find her new interest were without end. There was 
 not a tree there, not a shrub, not a turn in the walks, 
 which should not become her friend. She did not go 
 far from the house, not even down to the water. She 
 was husbanding her resources. But yet she lost her- 
 self amidst the paths, and tried to find a joy in feeling 
 that she had done so. It was all her own. It was the 
 price of what she had done; and the price was even 
 now being paid into her hand, — paid with current 
 coin and of full weight. 
 
 As she sat down alone to her breakfast , she declared 
 to herself that this should be enough for her, — that 
 it should satisfy her. She had made her bargain with 
 her eyes open, and would not now ask for things 
 which had not been stipulated in the contract. She 
 was alone, and all the world was turning its back on 
 her. The relatives of her late husband would, as a 
 matter of course, be her enemies. Them she had never 
 seen, and that they should speak evil of her seemed 
 to be only natural. But her own relatives were re- 
 moved from her by a gulf nearly equally wide. Of 
 Brabazon cousins she had none nearer than the third 
 or fourth degree of cousinship, and of them she had 
 never taken heed, and expected no heed from them. 
 Her set of friends would naturally have been the same 
 as her sister's, and would have been made up of those 
 she had known when she was one of Sir Hugh's family. 
 But from Sir Hugh she was divided now as widely as 
 from the Ongar people, and, — for any purposes of 
 society, — from her sister also. Sir Hugh had allowed 
 his wife to invite her to Clavering, but to this she 
 
174 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 would not submit after Sir Hugh's treatment to her on 
 her return. Though she had suffered much, her spirit 
 was unbroken. Sir Hugh was, in truth, responsible 
 for her reception in England, Had he come forward 
 like a brother, all might have been well. But it was 
 too late now for Sir Hugh Clavering to remedy the 
 evil he had done, and he should be made to under- 
 stand that Lady Ongar would not become a suppliant 
 to him for mercy. She was striving to think how 
 ^'rich she was in horses, how rich in broidered garments 
 and in gold," as she sat solitary over her breakfast; 
 but her mind would run off to other things, cumbering 
 itself with unnecessary miseries and useless indignation. 
 Had she not her price in her hand. 
 
 Would she see the steward that morning? No, — 
 not that morning. Things outside could go on for a 
 while in their course as heretofore. She feared to 
 seem to take possession with pride, and then there was 
 that conviction that it would be well to husband her 
 resources. So she sent for Mrs. Button, and asked 
 Mrs. Button to walk through the rooms with her. Mrs. 
 Button came, but again declined to accept her lady's 
 condescension. Every spot about the house, every 
 room, closet, and wardrobe, she was ready to open with 
 zeal; the furniture she was prepared to describe, if 
 Lady Ongar would listen to her; but every word was 
 spoken in a solemn voice, very far removed from gos- 
 siping. Only once was Mrs. Button moved to betray 
 any emotion. "That, my lady, was my lord's mother's 
 room, after my lord died, — my lord's father that 
 was; may God bless her." Then Lady Ongar reflected 
 that from her husband she had never heard a word 
 either of his father or his mother. She wished that 
 
LADY ONGAR TAKES POSSESSION. 175 
 
 she could seat herself with that woman in some small 
 upstairs room, and then ask question after question 
 about the family. But she did not dare to make the 
 attempt. She could not bring herself to explain to 
 Mrs. Button that she had never known anything of the 
 belongings of her own husband. 
 
 When she had seen the upper part of the house, 
 Mrs. Button offered to convoy her through the kitchen 
 and servants' apartments, but she declined this for the 
 present. She had done enough for the day. So she 
 dismissed Mrs. Button, and took herself to the library. 
 How often had she heard that books afforded the 
 surest consolation to the desolate. She would take to 
 reading; not on this special day, but as the resource 
 for many days and months, and years to come. But 
 this idea had faded and become faint before she had 
 left the gloomy, damp-feeling, chill room, in which 
 some former Lord Ongar had stored the musty volumes 
 which he had thought fit to purchase. The library 
 gave her no ease, so she went out again among the 
 lawns and shrubs. For some time to come her best 
 resources must be those which she could find outside 
 the house. 
 
 Peering about, she made her way behind the stables, 
 which were attached to the house, to a farmyard gate, 
 through which the way led to the head-quarters of the 
 live-stock. She did not go through, but she looked 
 over the gate, telling herself that those barns and sheds, 
 that wealth of straw-yard, those sleeping pigs and idle 
 dreaming calves, were all her own. As she did so, 
 her eye fell upon an old labourer, who was sitting 
 close to her, on a felled tree, under the shelter of a 
 paling, eating his dinner. A little girl, some six years 
 
176 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 old, who had brought him his meal tied up in a hand- 
 kerchief, was crouching near his feet. They had both 
 seen her before she had seen them, and when she 
 noticed them, were staring at her with all their eyes. 
 She and they were on the same side of the farmyard 
 paling, and so she could reach them and speak to them 
 without difficulty. There was apparently no other 
 person near enough to listen, and it occurred to her 
 that she might at any rate make a friend of this old 
 man. His name, he said, was Enoch Gubby, and the 
 girl was his grandchild. Her name was Patty Gubby. 
 Then Patty got up and had her head patted by her 
 ladyship and received sixpence. They neither of them, 
 however, knew who her ladyship was, and, as far as 
 Lady Ongar could ascertain without a question too 
 direct to be asked, had never heard of her. Enoch 
 Gubby said he worked for Mr. Giles, the steward, — 
 that was for my lord, and as he was old and stiff with 
 rheumatism he only got eight shillings a week. He 
 had a daughter, the mother of Patty, who worked in 
 the fields, and got six shillings a week. Everything 
 about the poor Gubbys seemed to be very wretched 
 and miserable. Sometimes he could hardly drag him- 
 self about, he was so bad with the rheumatics. Then 
 she thought that she would make one person happy, 
 and told him that his wages should be raised to ten 
 shillings a week. 'No matter whether he earned it or 
 not, or what Mr. Giles might say, he should have ten 
 shillings a week. Enoch Gubby bowed, and rubbed 
 his head, and stared, and was in truth thankful be- 
 cause of the sixpence in ready money, but he believed 
 nothing about the ten shillings. He did not especially 
 disbelieve, but simply felt confident that he understood 
 
LADY ONGAR TAKES POSSESSION. 
 
 177 
 
 nothing that was said to him. That kindness was in- 
 tended, and that the sixpence was there, he did under- 
 stand. 
 
 But Enoch Gubby got his weekly ten shillings, 
 though Lady Ongar hardly realized the pleasure that 
 she had expected from the transaction. She sent that 
 afternoon to Mr. Giles, the steward, and told him what 
 she had done. Mr. Giles did not at all approve, and 
 spoke his disapproval very plainly, though he garnished 
 his rebuke with a great many '^my lady's." The old 
 man was a hanger-on about the place, and for years 
 had received eight shillings a week, which he had not 
 half earned. ''Now he will have ten, that is all," 
 said Lady Ongar. Mr. Giles acknowledged that if her 
 ladyship pleased, Enoch Gubby must have the ten 
 shillings, but declared that the business could not be 
 carried on in that way. Everybody about the place 
 would expect an addition, and those people who did 
 earn what they received, would think themselves 
 cruelly used in being worse treated than Enoch Gubby, 
 who, according to Mr. Giles, was by no means the 
 most worthy old man in the parish. And as for his 
 daughter — oh! Mr. Giles could not trust himself to 
 talk about the daughter to her ladyship. Before he 
 left her. Lady Ongar was convinced that she had made 
 a mistake. Not even from charity will pleasure come, 
 if charity be taken up simply to appease remorse. 
 
 The price was in her hand. For a fortnight the 
 idea clung to her, that gradually she would realize the 
 joys of possession; but there was no moment in which 
 she could tell herself that the joy was hers. She was 
 now mistress of the geography of the place. There 
 was no more losing herself amidst the shrubberies, no 
 
 The Clmerings, /. 12 
 
178 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 thought of economizing her resources. Of Mr. Giles 
 and his doings she still knew very little, but the desire 
 of knowing much had faded. The ownership of the 
 haystacks had become a thing tame to her, and the 
 great cart-horses, as to every one of which she had in- 
 tended to feel an interest, were matters of indifference 
 to her. She observed that since her arrival a new 
 name in new paint, — her own name, — was attached 
 to the carts, and that the letters were big and glaring. 
 She wished that this had not been done, or, at any 
 rate, that the letters had been smaller. Then she 
 began to think that it might be well for her to let the 
 farm to a tenant*, not that she might thus get more 
 money, but because she felt that the farm would be a 
 trouble. The apples had indeed quickly turned to 
 ashes between her teeth! 
 
 On the first Sunday that she was at Ongar Park 
 she went to the parish church. She had resolved 
 strongly that she would do this, and she did it-, but 
 when the moment for starting came, her courage almost 
 failed her. The church was but a few yards from her 
 own gate, and she walked there without any attendant. 
 She had, however, sent word to the sexton to say that 
 she would be there, and the old man was ready to 
 show her into the family pew. She wore a thick veil, 
 and was dressed, of course, in all the deep ceremonious 
 woe of widowhood. As she walked up the centre of 
 the church she thought of her dress, and told herself 
 that all there would know how it had been between 
 her and her husband. She was pretending to mourn 
 for the man to whom she had sold herself; for the 
 man who through happy chance had died so quickly, 
 leaving her with the price in her hand! All of course 
 
A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAR PARK, 
 
 179 
 
 knew that, and all thought that they knew, moreover, 
 that she had been foully false to her bargain, and 
 had not earned the price! That, also, she told her- 
 self. But she went through it, and walked out of 
 the church among the village crowd with her head on 
 high. 
 
 Three days afterwards she wrote to the clergyman, 
 asking him to call on her. She had come, she said, 
 to live in the parish, and hoped to be able, with his 
 assistance, to be of some use among the people. She 
 would hardly know how to act without some counsel 
 from him. The schools might be all that was ex- 
 cellent, but if there was anything required she hoped 
 he would tell her. On the following morning the 
 clergyman called, and, with many thanks for her 
 generosity, listened to her plans, and accepted her sub- 
 sidies. But he was a married man, and he said no- 
 thing of his wife, nor during the next week did his 
 wife come to call on her. She was to be left desolate 
 by all, because men had told lies of her. 
 
 She had the price in her hands, but she felt her- 
 self tempted to do as Judas did, — to go out and 
 hang herself 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A Visitor calls at Ongar Park. 
 
 It will be remembered that Harry Clavering, on 
 returning one evening to his lodgings in Bloomsbury 
 Square, had been much astonished at finding there the 
 card of Count Pateroff, a man of whom he had only 
 heard, up to that moment, as the friend of the late 
 Lord Ongar. At first he had been very angry with 
 
 12* 
 
180 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Lady Ongar, thinking that she and this count were in 
 some league together, some league of which he would 
 greatly disapprove; but his anger had given place to 
 a new interest when he learned direct from herself 
 that she had not seen the count, and that she was 
 simply anxious that he, as her friend, should have an 
 interview with the man. He had then become very 
 eager in the matter, offering to subject himself to any 
 amount of inconvenience so that he might effect that 
 which Lady Ongar asked of him. He was not, how- 
 ever, called upon to endure any special trouble or 
 expense, as he heard nothing more from Count Pateroff 
 till he had been back in London for two or three 
 weeks. 
 
 Lady Ongar's statement to him had been quite 
 true. It had been even more than true; for when she 
 had written she had not even heard directly from the 
 count. She had learned by letter from another person 
 that Count Pateroff was in London, and had then com- 
 municated the fact to her friend. This other person 
 was a sister of the count's, who was now living in 
 London, one Madame Gordeloup, — Sophie Gorde- 
 loup, — a lady whom Harry had found sitting in 
 Lady Ongar's room when last he had seen her in 
 Bolton Street. He had not then heard her name; nor 
 was he * aware then , or for some time subsequently, 
 that Count Pateroff had any relative in London. 
 
 Lady Ongar had been a fortnight in the country 
 before she received Madame Gordeloup's letter. In 
 that letter the sister had declared herself to be most 
 anxious that her brother should see Lady Ongar. 'The 
 letter had been in French , and had been very eloquent, 
 — more eloquent in its cause than any letter with the 
 
A YIS1T(?^ 51lLS at ONGAK PARK, 181 
 
 same object could have been if written by an Englisli- 
 woman in English *, and the eloquence was less offensive 
 than it might , under all concurrent circumstances , have 
 been had it reached Lady Ongar in English. The 
 reader must not, however, suppose that the letter con- 
 tained a word that was intended to support a lover's 
 suit. It was very far indeed from that, and sppke of 
 the count simply as a friend; but its eloquence went 
 to shoAv that nothing that had passed should be con- 
 strued by Lady Ongar as offering any bar to a fair 
 friendship. What the world said! — Bah! Did not 
 she know, — she, Sophie, — and did not her friend 
 know, — her friend Julie, — that the world was a 
 great liar? Was it not even now telling wicked venom- 
 ous lies about her friend Julie? Why mind what the 
 world said, seeing that the world could not be brought to 
 speak one word of truth? The world indeed! Bah! 
 
 But Lady Ongar, though she was not as yet more 
 than half as old as Madame Gordeloup, knew what 
 she was about almost as well as that lady knew what 
 Sophie Gordeloup was doing. Lady Ongar had known 
 the count's sister in France and Italy, having seen 
 much of her in one of those sudden intimacies to which 
 English people are subject when abroad; and she had 
 been glad to see Madame Gordeloup in London, — 
 much more glad than she would have been had she 
 been received there on her return by a crowd of loving 
 native friends. But not on that account was she pre- 
 pared to shape her conduct in accordance with her 
 friend Sophie's advice, and especially not so when 
 that advice had reference to Sophie's brother. She had, 
 therefore, said very little in return to the lady's elo- 
 quence, answering the letter on that matter very 
 
182 
 
 THE CLAVERIlNiv,<5 
 
 vaguely; but, having a purpose of her own, had 
 begged that Count Pateroff might be asked to call upon 
 Harry Clavering. Count Pateroff did not feel himself 
 to care very much about Harry Clavering, but wishing 
 to do as he was bidden, did leave his card in Blooms- 
 bury Square. 
 
 And why was Lady Ongar anxious that the young 
 man who was her friend should see the man who had 
 been her husband's friend , and whose name had been 
 mixed with her own in so grievous a manner? She 
 had called Harry her friend, and it might be that she 
 desired to give this friend every possible means of 
 testing the truth of that story which she herself had 
 told. The reader, perhaps, will hardly have believed 
 in Lady Ongar's friendship*, — will, perhaps, have 
 believed neither the friendship nor the story. If so, 
 the reader will have done her wrong, and will not 
 have read her character aright. The woman was not 
 heartless because she had once, in one great epoch of 
 her life, betrayed her own heart; nor was she alto- 
 gether false because she had once lied; nor altogether 
 vile, because she had once taught herself that, for such 
 an one as her, riches were a necessity. It might be 
 that the punishment of her sin could meet witli no 
 remission in this world, but not on that account should 
 it be presumed that there was no place for repentance 
 left to her. 
 
 As she walked alone through the shrubberies at 
 Ongar Park she thought much of those other paths at 
 Clavering, and of the walks in which she had not 
 been alone; and she thought of that interview in the 
 garden when she had explained to Harry, — as she 
 had then thought so successfully, — that they two, 
 
A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAH PARK. 
 
 183 
 
 each being poor, were not fit to love and marry each 
 other. She had brooded over all that, too, during the 
 long hours of her sad journey home to England. She 
 was thinking of it still when she had met him, and 
 had been so cold to him on the platform of the railway 
 station, when she had sent him away angry because 
 she had seemed to slight him. She had thought of it 
 as she had sat in her London room, telling him the 
 terrible tale of her married life, while her eyes were 
 fixed on his and her head was resting on her hands. 
 Even then, at that moment, she was asking herself 
 whether he believed her story, or whether, within his 
 breast, he was saying that she was vile and false. She 
 knew that she had been false to him, and that he 
 must have despised her when, with her easy philo- 
 sophy, she had made the best of her own mercenary 
 perfidy. He had called her a jilt to her face, and she 
 liad been able to receive the accusation with a smile. 
 Would he now call her something worse, and with a 
 louder voice, within his own bosom? And if she 
 could convince him that to that accusation she was not 
 fairly subject, might the old thing come back again? 
 Would he walk with her again, and look into her 
 eyes as though he only wanted her commands to show 
 himself ready to be her slave? She was a widow, and 
 had seen many things, but even now she had not 
 reached her six-and -twentieth year. 
 
 The apples at her rich country-seat had quickly 
 become ashes between her teeth, but something of the 
 juice of the fruit might yet reach her palate if he would 
 come and sit with her at the table. As she complained 
 to herself of the coldness of the world, she thought 
 that she would not care how cold might be all the 
 
184 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 world if there might be but one whom she could love, 
 and who would love her. And him she had loved. 
 To him, in old days, — in days which now seemed 
 to her to be very old, — she had made confession of 
 her love. Old as were those days, it could not be 
 but he should still remember them. She had loved 
 him, and him only. To none other had she ever pre- 
 tended love. From none other had love been offered 
 to her. Between her and that wretched being to whom 
 she had sold herself, who had been half dead before 
 she had seen him, there had been no pretence of love. 
 Eut Harry Clavering she had loved. Harry Clavering 
 was a man, with all those qualities which she valued, 
 and also with those foibles which saved him from being 
 too perfect for so slight a creature as herself. Harry 
 had been offended to the quick, and had called her a 
 jilt*, but yet it might be possible that he would return 
 to her. 
 
 It should not be supposed that since her return to 
 England she had had one settled, definite object be- 
 fore her eyes with regard to this renewal of her love. 
 There had been times in which she had thought that 
 she would go on with the life which she had prepared 
 for herself, and that she would make herself contented, 
 if not happy, with the price which had been paid to 
 her. And there were other times ; in which her spirits 
 sank low within her, and she told herself that no con- 
 tentment was any longer possible to her. She looked 
 at herself in the glass , and found herself to be old and 
 haggard. Harry, she said, was the last man in the 
 world to sell himself for wealth, when there was no 
 love remaining. Harry would never do as she had 
 done with herself! Not for all the wealth that woman 
 
A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAR PARK. 185 
 
 ever inherited, — so she told herself, — would he 
 link himself to one who had made herself vile and 
 tainted among women! In this, I think, she did him 
 no more than justice, though it may be that in some 
 other matters she rated his character too highly. Of 
 Florence Burton she had as yet heard nothing, though 
 had she heard of her, it may well be that she would 
 not on that account have desisted. Such being her 
 thoughts and her hopes, she had written to Harry, 
 begging him to see this man who had followed her, — 
 she knew not why, — from Italy, and had told the 
 sister simply that she could not do as she was asked, 
 because she was away from London, alone in a country 
 house. 
 
 And quite alone she was sitting one morning, 
 counting up her misery, feeling that the apples were, 
 in truth, ashes, when a servant came to her, telling 
 her that there was a gentleman in the hall desirous of 
 seeing her. The man had the visitor's card in his 
 hand, but before she could read the name, the blood 
 had mounted into her face as she told herself that it 
 was Harry Clavering. There was joy for a moment 
 at her heart-, but she must not show it, — not as yet. 
 She had been but four months a widow, and he should 
 not have come to her in the country. She must see 
 him and in some way make him understand this, — 
 but she would be very gentle with him. Then her 
 eye fell upon the card, and she saw, with grievous 
 disappointment, that it bore the name of Count Pateroff. 
 No; — she was not going to be caught in that way. 
 Let the result be what it might, she would not let 
 Sophie Gordeloup, or Sophie's brother, get the better 
 of her by such a ruse as thai! "Tell the gentleman, 
 
186 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 witli my compliments," slie said, as she handed back 
 the card, "that I regret it greatly, but I can see no 
 one now." Then the servant went away, and she sat 
 wondering whether the count would be able to make 
 his way into her presence. She felt rather than knew 
 that she had some reason to fear him. All that had 
 been told of him and of her had been false. No accu- 
 sation brought against her had contained one spark 
 of truth. But there had been things between Lord 
 Ongar and this man which she would not care to have 
 told openly in England. And though, in his conduct 
 to her, he had been customarily courteous, and on one 
 occasion had been generous, still she feared him. She 
 would much rather that he should have remained in 
 Italy. And though, wheti all alone in Bolton Street, 
 she had in her desolation welcomed his sister Sophie, 
 she would have preferred that Sophie should not have 
 come to her, claiming to renew their friendship. But 
 with the count she would hold no communion now, 
 even though he should find his way into the room. 
 
 A few minutes passed before the servant returned, 
 and then he brought a note with him. As the door 
 opened Lady Ongar rose, ready to leave the room by 
 another passage; but she took the note and read it. 
 It was as -follows: — "I cannot understand why you 
 should refuse to see me, and I feel aggrieved. My 
 present purpose is to say a few words to you on private 
 matters connected with papers that belonged to Lord 
 Ongar. I still hope that you will admit me. — P." 
 Having read these words while standing, she made an 
 effort to think what might be the best course for her 
 to follow. As for Lord Ongar's papers, she did not 
 believe in the plea. Lord Ongar could have had no 
 
A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAR PARK. 
 
 187 
 
 papers interesting to her in such a manner as to make 
 her desirous of seeing this man or of hearing of them 
 in private. Lord Ongar, though she had nursed him 
 to the hour of his death, earning her price, had been 
 her bitterest enemy, and though there had been some- 
 thing about this count that she had respected, she had 
 known him to be a man of intrigue and afraid of no 
 falsehoods in his intrigues, — a dangerous man, who 
 might perhaps now and again do a generous thing, but 
 one who would expect payment for his generosity. 
 Besides, had he not been named openly as her lover? 
 She wrote to him, therefore, as follows: — "Lady 
 Ongar presents her compliments to Count Pateroff, and 
 finds it to be out of her power to see him at present." 
 This answer the visitor took and walked away from 
 the front door without showing any disgust to the 
 servant, either by his demeanour or in his countenance. 
 On that evening she received from him a long letter, 
 written at the neighbouring inn, expostulating with her 
 as to her conduct towards him, and saying in the last 
 line, that it was "impossible now that they should be 
 strangers to each other," "Impossible that we should 
 be strangers!" she said almost aloud. "Why impos- 
 sible? I know no such impossibility." After that she 
 carefully burned both the letter and the note. 
 
 She remained at Ongar Park something over six 
 weeks, and then, about the beginning of May, she 
 went back to London. No one had been to see her, 
 except Mr. Sturm, the clergyman of the parish: and 
 he, though something almost approaching to an intimacy 
 had sprung up between them, had never yet spoken 
 to her of his wife. She was not quite sure whether 
 her rank might not deter him, — whether under such 
 
188 
 
 THE CLAVERINUS. 
 
 circumstances as those now in question, tlie ordinary 
 social rules were not ordinarily broken, — whether a 
 countess should not call on a clergyman's wife first, 
 although the countess might be the stranger; but she 
 did not dare to do as she would have done, had no 
 blight attached itself to her name. She gave, there- 
 fore, no hint; she said no word of Mrs. Sturm, though 
 her heart was longing for a kind word from some 
 woman's mouth. But she allowed herself to feel no 
 anger against the husband, and went through her 
 parish work, thanking him for his assistance. 
 
 Of Mr. Giles she had seen very little, and since 
 her misfortune with Enoch Gubby, she had made no 
 further attempt to interfere with the wages of the per- 
 sons employed. Into the houses of some of the poor 
 she had made her way, but she fancied that they Avere 
 not glad to see her. They might, perhaps, have all 
 heard of her reputation, and Gubby's daughter may 
 have congratulated herself that there was another in 
 tlie parish as bad as herself, or perhaps, happily, worse. 
 The owner of all the wealth around strove to make 
 Mrs. Button become a messenger of charity between 
 herself and some of the poor; but Mrs. Button alto- 
 gether declined the employment, although, as her 
 mistress had ascertained, she herself performed her 
 own little missions of charity with zeal. Before the 
 fortnight was over. Lady Ongar was sick of her house 
 and her park, utterly disregardful of her horses and 
 oxen, and unmindful even of the pleasant stream which 
 in these spring days rippled softly at the bottom of her 
 gardens. 
 
 She had undertaken to be back in London early 
 in May, by appointment with her lawyer, and had un- 
 
A VISITOR CALLS AT ONaAR PARK. 189 
 
 fortunately communicated the fact to Madame Gorde- 
 loup. Four or five days before she was due in Bolton 
 Street, her mindful Sophie, with unerring memory, 
 wrote to her, declaring her readiness to do all and 
 anything that the most diligent friendship could prompt. 
 Should she meet her dear Julie at the station in Lon- 
 don? Should she bring any special carriage? Should 
 she order any special dinner in Bolton Street? She 
 herself would of course come to Bolton Street, if not 
 allowed to be present at the station. It was still chilly 
 in the evenings, and she would-have fires lit. Might 
 she suggest a roast fowl and some bread sauce, and 
 perhaps a sweetbread, — and just one glass of cham- 
 pagne? And might she share the banquet? There 
 was not a word in the note about the too obtrusive 
 brother, either as to the offence committed by him, or 
 the offence felt by him. 
 
 The little Franco-Polish woman was there in Bolton 
 Street, of course, — for Lady Ongar had not dared to 
 refuse her, A little, dry, bright woman she was, with 
 quick eyes, and thin lips, and small nose, and mean 
 forehead, and scanty hair drawn back quite tightly 
 from her face and head; very dry, but still almost 
 pretty with her quickness and her brightness. She was 
 fifty, was Sophie Gordeloup, but she had so managed 
 her years that she was as active on her limbs as most 
 women are at twenty-five. And the chicken and the 
 bread-sauce, and the sweetbread, and the champagne 
 were there, all very good of their kind; for Sophie 
 Gordeloup liked such things to be good, and knew 
 how to indulge her own appetite, and to coax that of 
 another person. 
 
 Some little satisfaction Lady Ongar received from 
 
190 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 the fact tliat she was not alone; but the satisfaction 
 was not satisfactory. When Sophie had left her at 
 ten o'clock, running off by herself to her lodgings in 
 Mount Street, Lady Ongar, after but one moment's 
 thought, sat down and wrote a note to Harry Clavering. 
 
 "Dear Harry, — I am back in town. Pray come 
 and see me to-morrow evening. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 "J. 0." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. * 
 
 Count Pateroff and his Sister. 
 
 After an interval of some weeks, during which 
 Harry had been down at Clavering and had returned 
 again to his work at the Adelphi, Count Pateroff called 
 again in Bloomsbury Square*, — but Harry was at 
 Mr. Beilby's office. Harry at once returned the count's 
 visit at the address given in Mount Street. Madame 
 was at home, said the servant-girl, from which Harry 
 was led to suppose that the count was a mamed man-, 
 but Harry felt that he had no right to intrude upon 
 madame, so he simply left his card. Wishing, how- 
 ever, really to have this interview, and having been 
 lately elected at a club of which he was rather proud, 
 he wrote to the count asking him to dine with him at 
 the Beaufort. He explained that there was a strangers' 
 room, — which Pateroff knew very well, having often 
 dined at the Beaufort, — and said something as to a 
 private little dinner for two, thereby apologizing for 
 proposing to the count to dine without other guests. 
 Pateroff accepted the invitation, and Harry, never hav- 
 
COUNT PATBROFF AKD HIS ^ISTJilR. 
 
 191 
 
 ing done such a tiling before, ordered his dinner with 
 much nervousness. 
 
 The count was punctual, and the two men intro- 
 duced themselves. Harry had expected to see a hand- 
 some foreigner, with black hair, polished whiskers, and 
 probably a hook nose, — forty years of age or there- 
 abouts, but so got up as to look not much more than 
 thirty. But his guest was by no means a man of that 
 stamp. Excepting that the count's age was altogether 
 uncertain, no correctness of guess on that matter being 
 possible by means of his appearance, Harry's precon- 
 ceived notion was wrong in every point. He was a 
 fair man, with a broad fair face, and very light blue 
 eyes; his forehead was low, but broad; he wore no 
 whiskers, but bore on his lip a heavy moustache, which 
 was not grey, but perfectly white — white it was with 
 years, of course, but yet it gave no sign of age to his 
 face. He was well made, active, and somewhat broad 
 in the shoulders, though rather below the middle height. 
 But for a certain ease of manner which he possessed, 
 accompanied by something of restlessness in his eye, 
 any one would have taken him for an Englishman. 
 And his speech hardly betrayed that he was not Eng- 
 lish. Harry, knowing that he was a foreigner, noticed 
 now and again some little acc^uired distinctness of 
 speech which is hardly natural to a native; but other- 
 wise there was nothing in his tongue to betray him. 
 
 "I am sorry that you should have had so much 
 trouble," he said, shaking hands with Harry. Claver- 
 ing declared that he had incurred no trouble, and de- 
 clared also that he would be only too happy to have 
 taken any trouble in obeying a behest from his friend 
 Lady Ongar. Had he been a Pole as was the count, 
 
192 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 lie would not have forgotten to add that he would 
 have been equally willing to exert himself with the 
 view of making the count's acquaintance; but being 
 simply a young Englishman, he was much too awk- 
 ward for any such courtesy as that. The count ob- 
 served the omission, smiled, and bowed. Then he 
 spoke of the weather, and said that London was a 
 magnificent city. Oh, yes, he knew London well, — 
 had known it these twenty years; — had been for 
 fifteen years a member of the Travellers' ; — he liked 
 everything English, except hunting. English hunting 
 he had found to be dull work. But he liked shooting 
 for an hour or two. He could not rival, he said, the 
 intense energy of an Englishman, who would work all 
 day with his guns harder than ploughmen with their 
 ploughs. Englishmen sported, he said, as though more 
 than their bread, — as though their honour, their 
 wives, their souls, depended on it. It was very fine! 
 He often wished that he was an Englishman. Then he 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Harry was very anxious to commence a conversa- 
 tion about Lady Ongar, but he did not know how at 
 first to introduce her name. Count Pateroff had come 
 to him at Lady Ongar's request, and, therefore, as he 
 thought, the count should have been the first to men- 
 tion her. But the count seemed to be enjoying his 
 dinner without any thought either of Lady Ongar or 
 of her late husband. At this time he had been down 
 to Ongar Park, on that mission, which had been, as we 
 know, futile; but he said no word of that to Harry. 
 He seemed to enjoy his dinner thoroughly, and made 
 himself very agreeable. When the wine was discussed 
 he told Harry that a certain vintage of Moselle was 
 
COUNT PATEROFP AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 193 
 
 very famous at the Beaufort. Harry ordered the wine 
 of course, and was delighted to give his guest the best 
 of everything; but he was a little annoyed at finding 
 that the stranger knew his club better than he knew 
 it himself Slowly the count ate his dinner, enjoying 
 every morsel that he took with that thoughtful, con- 
 scious pleasure which young men never attain in 
 eating and drinking, and which men as they grow 
 older so often forget to acquire. But the count nev§r 
 forgot any of his own capacities for pleasure, and in 
 all things made the most of his own resources. To be 
 rich is not to have one or ten thousand a year, but to 
 be able to get out of that one or ten thousand all that 
 every pound, and every shilling, and every penny 
 will give you. After this fashion the count was a 
 rich man. 
 
 "You don't sit after dinner here, I suppose," said 
 the count, when he had completed an elaborate washing 
 of his mouth and moustache. ''I like this club, be- 
 cause we who are strangers have so charming a room 
 for our smoking. It is the best club in London for 
 men who do not belong to it." 
 
 It occurred to Harry that in the smoking-room 
 there could be no privacy. Three or four men had 
 already spoken to the count, showing that he was well 
 known, giving notice, as it were, that Pateroff would 
 become a public man when once he was placed in a 
 public circle. To have given a dinner to the count, 
 and to have spoken no word to him about Lady Ongar, 
 would be by no means satisfactory to Harry's feelings, 
 though, as it appeared, it might be sufficiently satis- 
 factory to the guest. Harry therefore suggested one 
 bottle of claret. The count agreed, expressing an 
 
 The Claverings. 1. 13 
 
194 
 
 THE OLAVERINaS* 
 
 opinion tliat the '51 Lafitte was unexceptionable. The 
 '51 Lafitte was ordered, and Harry, as lie filled his 
 glass, considered the way in which his subject should 
 be introduced. 
 
 "You knew Lord Ongar, I think, abroad?" 
 
 '^Lord Ongar, — abroad! Oh, yes, very well; 
 and for many years here in London; and at Vienna; 
 and very early in life at St. Petersburg. I knew 
 Lord Ongar first in Russia when he was attached to 
 the embassy as Frederic Courton. His father. Lord 
 Courton, was then alive, as was also his grandfather. 
 He was a nice, good-looking lad then." 
 
 "As regards his being nice, he seems to have 
 changed a good deal before he died." This the count 
 noticed by simply shrugging his shoulders and smiling 
 as he sipped his wine. "By all that I can hear he 
 became a horrid brute when he married," said Harry, 
 energetically. 
 
 "He was not pleasant when he was ill at Florence," 
 said the count. 
 
 "She must have had a terrible time with him," 
 said Harry. 
 
 The count put up his hands, again shrugged his 
 shoulders, and then shook his head. "She knew he 
 was no longer an Adonis when he married her." 
 
 "An Adonis! No; she did not expect an Adonis; 
 but she thought he would have something of the honour 
 and feelings of a man." 
 
 "She found it uncomfortable, no doubt. He did 
 too much of this, you know," said the" count, raising 
 his glass to his lips; "and he didn't do it with '51 La- 
 fitte. That was Ongar's fault. All the world knew 
 
COUNT PATEROFF AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 195 
 
 it for the last ten years. 'No one knew it better than 
 Hugh C layering." 
 
 ''But — " said Harry, and then he stopped. He 
 hardly knew what it was that he wished to learn from 
 the man, though he certainly did wish to learn some- 
 thing. He had thought that the count would himself 
 have talked about Lady Ongar and those Florentine 
 days, but this he did not seem disposed to do. "Shall 
 we have our cigars now?" said Count Pateroff. 
 
 "One moment, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly. There is no hurry." 
 
 "You will take no more wine?" 
 
 "No more wine. I take my wine at dinner, as 
 you saw." 
 
 "I want to ask you one special q^uestion, — about 
 Lady Ongar." 
 
 "1 will say anything in her favour that you please. 
 I am always ready to say anything in the favour of 
 any lady, and, if needs be, to swear it. But anything 
 against any lady nobody ever heard me say." 
 
 Harry was sharp enough to perceive that any 
 assertion made under such a stipulation was worse 
 than nothing. It was as when a man, in denying the 
 truth of a statement, does so with an assurance that 
 on that subject he should consider himself justified in 
 telling any number of lies. "I did not write the 
 book, — but you have no right to ask the question; 
 and I should say that I had not, even if I had." 
 Pateroff was speaking of Lady Ongar in this way, and 
 Harry hated him for doing so. 
 
 "I don't want you to say any good of her," said 
 he, "or any evil." 
 
 "I certainly shall say no evil of her." 
 
 13* 
 
196 
 
 THE CLAVERINOS. 
 
 "But I think you know that she has been most 
 cruelly treated." 
 
 "Well, there is about seven — thousand — pounds 
 a year, I think! Seven — thousand — a year! Not 
 ^ francs, but pounds! We poor foreigners lose ourselves 
 in amazement when we hear about your English for- 
 tunes. Seven thousand poun(Js a year for a lady all 
 alone, and a beautiful house! A house so beautiful, 
 they tell me!" 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" said Harry; where- 
 upon the count again shrugged his shoulders. "What 
 has that to do Vvdth it? Because the man was rich he 
 was not justified in ill-treating his wife. Did he not 
 bring false accusations against her, in order that he 
 might rob her after his death of all that of which you 
 think so much? Did he not bear false witness against 
 her, to his own dishonour?" 
 
 "She has got the money, I think, — and the beau- 
 tiful house." 
 
 "But her name was been covered with lies." 
 
 "What can I do? Why do you ask me? I know 
 nothing. Look here, Mr. Clavering, if you want to 
 make any inquiry you had better go to my sister. I 
 don't see what good it will do, but she will talk to 
 you by the hour together, if you wish it. Let us 
 smoke." 
 
 "Your sister?" 
 
 "Yes, my sister. Madame Gordeloup is her natne. 
 Has not Lady Ongar mentioned my sister? They are 
 inseparables. My sister lives in Mount Street." 
 
 "With you?" 
 
 "No, not with me; I do not live in Mount Street. 
 I have my address sometimes at her house." 
 
COUNT PATEROFIT AND Hlfcl SISTER. 
 
 197 
 
 "Madame Gordeloup?" 
 
 ''Yes, Madame Gordeloup. She is Lady Ongar's 
 friend. Slie will talk to you." 
 
 "Will you introduce me, Count Pateroff?" 
 
 "OL, no; it is not necessary. You can go to Mount 
 Street, and she will be delighted. There is the card. 
 And now we will smoke." Harry felt that he could 
 not, with good-breeding, detain the count any longer, 
 and therefore, rising from his chair, led the way into 
 the smoking-room. When there, the man of the world 
 separated himself from his young friend, of whose en- 
 thusiasm he had perhaps had enough, and was soon 
 engaged in conversation with sundry other men of his 
 own standing. Harry soon perceived that his guest 
 had no further need of his countenance, and went home 
 to Bloomsbury Square by no means satisfied with his 
 new acquaintance. 
 
 On the next day he dined in Onslow Crescent with 
 the Burtons, and when there he said nothing about 
 Lady Ongar or Count Pateroff. He was not aware 
 that he had any special reason for being silent on the 
 subject, but he made up his mind that the Burtons 
 were people so far removed in their sphere of life from 
 Lady Ongar, that the subject would not be suitable in 
 Onslow Crescent. It was his lot in life to be concerned 
 with people of the two classes. He did not at all 
 mean to say, — even to himself, — that he liked the 
 Ongar class the better; but still, as such was his lot, 
 he must take it as it came, and entertain both subjects 
 of interest, without any commingling of them one with 
 another. Of Lady Ongar and his early love he had 
 spoken to Florence at some length, but he did not find 
 it necessary in his letters to tell her anything of Count 
 
198 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Pateroff and Ms dinner at the Beaufort. Nor did lie 
 mention the dinner to his dear friend Cecilia. On this 
 occasion he made himself very happy in Onslow Cres- 
 cent, playing with the children, chatting with his friend, 
 and enduring with a good grace Theodore Burton's 
 sarcasm, when that ever studious gentleman told him 
 that he was only fit to go about tied to a woman's 
 apron- string. 
 
 On the following day, about five o'clock, he called 
 in Mount Street. He had doubted much as to this, 
 thinking that at any rate he ought, in the first place, 
 to write and ask permission. But at last he resolved 
 that he would take the count at his word, and present- 
 ing himself at the door, he sent up his name. Madame 
 Gordeloup was at home, and in a few moments he 
 found himself in the room in which the lady was sit- 
 ting, and recognized her whom he had seen with Lady 
 Ongar in Bolton Street. She got up at once, having 
 glanced at the name upon the card, and seemed to 
 know all about him. She shook hands with him cor- 
 dially, almost squeezing his hand, and bade him sit 
 down near her on the sofa. "She was so glad to see 
 him, for her dear Julie's sake. Julie, as of course he 
 knew, was at ^Ongere' Park. Oh! so happy," — 
 which, by the by, he did not know, — "and would 
 be up in the course of next week. So many things to 
 do, of course, Mr. Clavering. The house, and the 
 servants, and the park, and the beautiful things of a 
 large country establishment! But it was delightful, 
 and Julie was quite happy!" 
 
 No people could be more unlike to each other than 
 this brother and his sister. No human being could have 
 taken Madame Gordeloup for an Englishwoman, though 
 
COUNT PATEROFF AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 199 
 
 it might be difficult to judge, either from her language 
 or her appearance, of the nationality to which she be- 
 longed. She spoke English with great fluency, but 
 every word uttered declared her not to be English. 
 And when she was most fluent she was most incorrect 
 in her language. She was small, eager, and quick, 
 and appeared quite as anxious to talk as her brother 
 had been to hold his tongue. She lived in a small 
 room on the first floor of a small house; and it seemed 
 to Harry that she lived alone. But he had not been 
 long there before she had told him all her history, and 
 explained to him most of her circumstances. That she 
 kept back something is probable*, but how many are 
 there who can afford to tell everything? 
 
 Her husband v/as still living, but he was at St. 
 Petersburg. He was a Frenchman by family, but had 
 been bom in Russia. He had been attached to the 
 Russian embassy in London, but was now attached to 
 diplomacy in general in Russia. She did not join him 
 because she loved England, — oh, so much! And, 
 perhaps, her husband might come back again some 
 day. She did not say that she had not seen him for 
 ten years, and was not quite sure whether he was dead 
 or alive-, but had she made a clean breast in all things 
 she might have done so. She said that she was a 
 good deal still at the Russian embassy, but she did 
 not say that she herself was a paid spy. Nor do I say 
 so now, positively; but that was the character given to 
 her by many who knew her. She called her brother 
 Edouard, as though Harry had known the count all 
 his life*, and always spoke of Lady Ongar as Julie. 
 She uttered one or two little hints which seemed to 
 imply that she knew everything that had passed be- 
 
200 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 tween "Julie" and Harry Clavering in early days; 
 and never mentioned Lord Ongar without some term 
 of violent abuse. 
 
 "Horrid wretcli!" slie said, pausing over all the r's 
 in the name she had called him. "It began, you know, 
 from the very first. Of course he had been a fool. 
 An old roue is always a fool to marry. What does he 
 get, you know, for his money? A pretty face. He's 
 tired of that as soon as it's his own. Is it not so, Mr. 
 Clavering? But other people ain't tired of it, and 
 then he becomes jealous. But Lord Ongar was not 
 jealous. He was not man enough to be jealous. 
 Hor-r-rid wr-retch!" She then went on telling many 
 things which, as he listened, almost made Harry Cla- 
 vering's hair stand on end, and which must not be re- 
 peated here. She herself had met her brother in Paris, 
 and had been with him when they encountered the 
 Ongars in that capital. According to her showing, 
 they had, all of them, been together nearly from that 
 time to the day of Lord Ongar's death. But IlaiTy 
 soon learned to feel that he could not believe all that 
 the little lady told him. 
 
 "Edouard was always mth him. Poor Edouard!'' 
 she said. "There was some money matter between 
 them about ^cart^. When that wr-retch got to be so 
 bad, he did not like parting with his money, — not 
 even when he had lost it! And Julie had been so 
 good always! Julie and Edouard had done everything 
 for the nasty wr-retch." Harry did not at all like this 
 mingling of the names of Julie and Edouard, though 
 it did not for a moment fill his mind with any suspi- 
 cion as to Lady Ongar. It made him feel, however, 
 that this woman was dangerous, and that her tongue 
 
COUNT PATEROFF AND UlS SISTER. 
 
 201 
 
 miglit be very miscliievous if slie talked to others as 
 she did to him. As he looked at her, — and being 
 now in her own room she was not dressed with scru- 
 pulous care, — and as he listened to her, he could 
 not conceive what Lady Ongar had seen in her that 
 she should have made a friend of her. Her brother, 
 the count, was undoubtedly a gentleman in his manners 
 and way of life, but he did not know by what name 
 to call this woman, who called Lady Ongar "Julie." 
 She was altogether unlike any ladies whom he had 
 known. 
 
 "You know that Julia will be in town next 
 week?" 
 
 "No*, I did not know when she was to return." 
 
 "Oh, yes; she has business with those people in 
 South Audley Street on Thursday. Poor dear! Those 
 lawyers are so harassing! But when people have seven 
 — thousand — pounds a year, they must put up with 
 lawyers." As she pronounced those talismanic words, 
 which to her were almost celestial, Harry perceived for 
 the first time that there was some sort of resemblance 
 between her and the count. He could see that they 
 were brother and sister. "I shall go to her directly 
 she comes, and of course I will tell her how good you 
 have been to come to me. And Edouard has been 
 dining with you? How good of you. He told me how 
 charming you are," — Harry was quite sure then that 
 she was fibbing, — "and that it was so pleasant! 
 Edouard is very much attached to Julie; very much. 
 Though, of course, all that was mere nonsense; just 
 lies told by that wicked lord. Bah! what did he 
 know?" Harry by this time was beginning to wish 
 that he had never found his way to Mount Street. 
 
202 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 ^'Of course they were lies," lie said roughly. 
 
 "Of course, mon clier. Those things always are 
 lies, and so wicked! What good do they do?" 
 
 "Lies never do any good," said Harry. 
 
 To so wide a proposition as this madame was not 
 prepared to give an unconditional assent*, she therefore 
 shrugged her shoulders and once again looked like her 
 brother. 
 
 "Ah!" she said. "Julie is a happy woman now. 
 Seven — thousand — pounds a year! One does not 
 know how to believe it; does one?" 
 
 "I never heard the amount of her income," said 
 Harry. 
 
 "It is all that," said the Franco-Pole, energetically, 
 "every franc of it, besides the house! I know it. She 
 told me herself. Yes. What woman would risk that, 
 you know? and his life, you may say, as good as gone? 
 Of course they were lies." 
 
 "I don't think you understand her, Madame Gorde- 
 loup." 
 
 "Oh, yes; I know her, so well. And love her — 
 oh, Mr. Clavering, I love her so dearly! Is she not 
 charming? So beautiful you know, and grand. Such 
 a will, too! That is what I like in a woman. Such 
 a courage! She never flinched in those horrid days, 
 never. And when he called her, — you know what, 
 — she only looked at him, just looked at him, miser- 
 able object. Oh, it was beautiful!" And Madame 
 Gordeloup, rising in her energy from her seat for the 
 purpose, strove to throw upon Harry such another 
 glance as the injured, insulted wife had thrown upon 
 her foul-tongued , dying lord. 
 
 "She will marry," said Madame Gordeloup, chang- 
 
COUNT PATEROFP AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 203 
 
 ing her tone witli a suddenness that made Harry start; 
 "yes, she will marry of course. Your English widows 
 always marry if they have money. They are wrong, 
 and she will be wrong; but she will marry." 
 
 "I do not know how that may be," said Harry, 
 looking foolish. 
 
 '^I tell you I know she will marry, Mr. Clavering; 
 I told Edouard so yesterday. He merely smiled. It 
 would hardly do for him, she has so much will. Edouard 
 has a will also." 
 
 "All men have, I suppose." 
 
 "Ah, yes; but there is a difference. A sum of 
 money down, if a man is to marry, is better than a 
 widow's dower. If she dies, you know, he looks so 
 foolish. And she is grand and will want to spend every- 
 thing. Is she much older than you, Mr. Clavering? 
 Of course I know Julie's age, though perhaps you do 
 not. What will you give me to tell?" And the woman 
 leered at him with a smile which made Harry think 
 that she was almost more than mortal. He found him- 
 self quite unable to cope with her in conversation, and 
 soon after this got up to take his leave. "You will 
 come again?" she said. "Do. I like you so much. 
 And when Julie is in town, we shall be able to see her 
 together, and I will be your friend. Believe me." 
 
 Harry was very far from believing her, and did not 
 in the least recjuire her friendship. Her friendship, in- 
 deed! How could any decent English man or woman 
 wish for the friendship of such a creature as that? It 
 was thus that he thought of her as he walked away 
 from Mount Street, making heavy accusations, within 
 his own breast, against Lady Ongar as he did so. 
 Julia! He repeated the name over to himself a dozen 
 
204 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 times, thinking that tlie flavour of it was lost since it 
 had been contaminated so often by that vile tongue. 
 But what concern was it of his? Let her be Julia to 
 whom she would, she could never be Julia again to 
 him. But she was his friend — Lady Ongar, and he 
 told himself plainly that his friend had been wrong in 
 having permitted herself to hold any intimacy with such 
 a woman as that. No doubt Lady Ongar had been 
 subjected to very trying troubles in the last months of 
 her husband's life, but no circumstances could justify 
 her, if she continued to endorse the false cordiality of 
 that horribly vulgar and evil-minded little woman. As 
 regarded the grave charges brought against Lady Ongar, 
 Harry still gave no credit to them, still looked upon 
 tliem as calumnies, in spite of the damning advocacy 
 of Sophie and her brother; but he felt that she must 
 have dabbled in very dirty water to have returned to 
 England with such claimants on her friendship as these. 
 He had not much admired the count, but the count's 
 sister had been odious to him. "I will be your friend. 
 Believe me." Harry Clavering stamped upon the pave- 
 ment as he thought of the little Pole's offer to him. 
 She be his friend! No, indeed; — not if there were 
 no other friend for him in all London. 
 
 Sophie, too, had her thoughts about him. Sophie 
 was very anxious in this matter, and was resolved to 
 stick as close to her Julie as possible. "I will be his 
 friend or his enemy; — let him choose." That had 
 been Sophie's reflection on the matter when she was 
 left alone. 
 
AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 205 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 An Evening in Bolton Street. 
 
 Ten days after his visit in Mount Street, Harry re- 
 ceived the note which Lady Ongar had written to him 
 on the night of her arrival in London. It was brought 
 to Mr. Beilby's office by her own footman early in the 
 morning*, but Harry was there at the time, and was 
 thus able to answer it, telling Lady Ongar that he 
 would come as she had desired. She had commenced 
 her letter ''Dear Harry," and he well remembered that 
 when she had before written she had called him ''Dear 
 Mr. Clavering." And though the note contained only 
 half-a-dozen ordinary words, it seemed to him to be 
 affectionate, and almost loving. Had she not been 
 eager to see him, she would hardly thus have written 
 to him on the very instant of her return. "Dear Lady 
 Ongar," he wrote, "I shall dine at my club, and be 
 with you about eight. Yours always, H. C." After 
 that he could hardly bring himself to work satisfactorily 
 during the whole day. Since his interview with the 
 Franco-Polish lady he had thought a good deal about 
 himself, and had resolved to work harder and to love 
 Florence Burton more devotedly than ever. The nasty 
 little woman had said certain words to him which had 
 caused him to look into his own breast and to tell him- 
 self that this was necessary. As the love was easier 
 than the work, he began his new tasks on the follow- 
 ing morning by writing a long and very affectionate 
 letter to his own Flo, who was still staying at Claver- 
 ing rectory; — a letter so long and so affectionate that 
 Florence, in her ecstasy of delight made Fanny read 
 it, and confess that, as a lovei'^ietter, it was perfect. 
 
206 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 "It's great nonsense, all tlie same," said Fanny. 
 
 "It isn't nonsense at all," said Florence 5 "and if it 
 were, it would not signify. Is it true? That's tlie 
 q^uestion." 
 
 "I'm sure it's true," said Fanny. 
 
 "And so am I," said Florence. "I don't want any 
 one to tell me that." 
 
 "Then why did you ask, you simpleton?" Florence 
 indeed was having a happy time of it at Clavering 
 rectory. When Fanny called her a simpleton, she threw 
 her arms round Fanny's neck and kissed her. 
 
 And Harry kept his resolve about the work too, 
 investigating plans with a resolution to understand them 
 which was almost successful. During those days he 
 would remain at his office till past four o'clock, and 
 would then walk away with Theodore Burton, dining 
 sometimes in Onslow Crescent, and going there some- 
 times in the evening after dinner. And when there he 
 would sit and read; and once when Cecilia essayed to 
 talk to him, he told her to keep her apron-strings to 
 herself. Then Theodore laughed and apologized, and 
 Cecilia said that too much work made Jack a dull 
 boy; and then Theodore laughed again, stretching out 
 his legs and arms as he rested a moment from his own 
 study, and declared that, under those circumstances, 
 Harry never would be dull. And Harry on those even- 
 ings would be taken upstairs to see the bairns in their 
 cots; and as he stood with their mother looking down 
 upon the children, pretty words would be said about 
 Florence and his future life; and all was going merry 
 as a marriage bell. But on that morning, when the 
 note had come from Lady Ongar, Harry could work 
 
I ' 
 
 \ 
 
 I AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 207 
 
 ^^0 more to liis satisfaction. He scrawled upon liis 
 blotting-paper, and made no progress whatsoever to- 
 wards the understanding of anything. It was the day 
 on which, in due course, he would write to Florence; 
 and he did write to her. But Florence did ^ not show 
 this letter to Fanny, claiming for it any meed of god- 
 like perfection. It was a stupid, short letter, in which 
 he declared that he was very busy, and that his head 
 ached. In a postcript he told her that he was going 
 to see Lady Ongar that evening. This he commu- 
 nicated to her under an idea that by doing so he made 
 everything right. And I think that the telling of it 
 did relieve his conscience. 
 
 He left the office soon after three, having brought 
 himself to believe in the headache, and sauntered down 
 to his club. He found men playing whist there, and 
 as whist might be good for his head, he joined them. 
 They won his money, and scolded him for playing 
 badly till he was angry, and then he went out for a 
 walk by himself. As he went along Piccadilly he saw 
 Sophie Gordeloup coming towards him, trotting along, 
 with her dress held well up over her ankles, eager, 
 quick, and, as he said to himself, clearly intent upon 
 some mischief He endeavoured to avoid her by turn- 
 ing up the Burlington Arcade, but she was too quick 
 for him, and was walking up the arcade by his side 
 before he had been able to make up his mind as to the 
 best mode of ridding himself of such a companion. 
 
 ''Ah, Mr. Clavering, I am so glad to see you. I 
 was with Julie last night. She was fagged, very much 
 fagged — the journey, you know, and the business. 
 But yet so handsome! And we talked of you. Yes, 
 Mr. Clavering; and I told her how good you had been 
 
208 
 
 THE CLAVETlINaS. 
 
 in coming to me. She said you were always good; yt j, 
 she did. When shall you see her?" 
 
 Harry Clavering was a bad hand at fibbing, and a 
 bad hand also at leaving a question unanswered. When 
 questioned in this way he did not know what to do but 
 to answer the truth. He would much rather not have 
 said that he was going to Bolton Street that evening, 
 but he could find no alternative. "I believe I shall 
 see her this evening," he said, simply venturing to 
 mitigate the evil of making the communication by 
 rendering it falsely doubtful. There are men who fib 
 with so bad a grace and with so little tact that they 
 might as well not fib at all. They not only never 
 arrive at success, but never even venture to expect it. 
 
 "Ah, this evening. Let me see. I don't think I 
 can be there to-night. Madame Berenstoff receives at 
 the embassy."^ 
 
 "Good afternoon," said Harry, turning into True- 
 fit's, the hairdresser's shop. 
 
 "Ah, very well," said Sophie to herself; "just so. 
 It will be better, much better. He is simply one lout, 
 and why should he have it all? My God, what fools, 
 what louts, are these Englishmen!" Now having read 
 Sophie's thoughts so far, we will leave her to walk up 
 the remainder of the arcade by herself. 
 
 I do not know that Hany's visit to Truefit's 
 establishment had been in any degree caused by his 
 engagement for the evening. I fancy that he had 
 simply taken to ground at the first hole, as does a 
 hunted fox. But now that he was there he had his 
 head put in order, and thought that he looked the 
 better for the operation. He then went back to his 
 club, and when he sauntered into tlie card-room one 
 
AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 209 
 
 old gentleman looked askance at him, as though in- 
 quiring angrily whether he had come there to make 
 fresh misery. "Thank you; no, — I won't play again," 
 said Harry. Then the old gentleman was appeased, 
 and offered him a pinch of snuff. "Have you seen the 
 new book about whist?" said the old gentleman. "It 
 is very useful, — very useful. I'll send you a copy 
 if you will allow me." Then Harry left the room, and 
 went down to dinner. 
 
 It was a little past eight when he knocked at Lady 
 Ongar's door. I fear he had calculated that if he 
 were punctual to the moment, she would think that he 
 thought the matter to be important. It was important 
 to him, and he was willing that she should know that 
 it was so. But there are degrees in everything, and 
 therefore he was twenty minutes late. He was not the 
 first man who has weighed the diplomatic advantage 
 of being after his time. But all those ideas went from 
 him at once when she met him almost at the door of 
 the room, and, taking him by the hand, said that she 
 was "so glad to see him, — so very glad. Fancy, 
 Harry, I haven't seen an old friend since I saw you 
 last. You don't know how hard all that seems." 
 
 "It is hard," said he; and when he felt the pres- 
 sure of her hand, and saw the brightness of her eye, 
 and when her dress rustled against him as he followed 
 her to her seat, and he became sensible of the in- 
 fluence of her presence, all his diplomacy vanished, 
 and he was simply desirous of devoting himself to her 
 service. Of course, any such devotion was to be given 
 without detriment to that other devotion which he 
 owed to Florence Burton. But this stipulation, though it 
 was made, was made quickly, and with a confused brain. 
 
 The Claverings. L 
 
210 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Yes, — it is hard," she said. "Harry, sometimes 
 I think I shall go mad. It is more than I can bear. 
 I could bear it if it hadn't been my own fault, — all 
 my own fault." 
 
 There was a suddenness about this which took him 
 quite by surprise. No doubt it had been her own fault. 
 He also had told himself that; though, of course, he 
 would make no such charge to her. "You have not 
 recovered yet," he said, "from what you have suffered 
 lately. Things will look brighter to you after a 
 while." 
 
 "Will they? Ah, — I do not know. But come, 
 Harry; come and sit down, and let me get you some 
 tea. There is no harm, I suppose, in having you here, 
 — is there?" 
 
 "Harm, Lady Ongar?" 
 
 "Yes, — harm, Lady Ongar." As she repeated 
 her own name after him, nearly in his tone, she smiled 
 once again; and then she looked as she used to look 
 in the old days, when she would be merry with him. 
 "It is hard to know what a woman may do, and what 
 she may not. When my husband was ill and dying, 
 I never left his bedside. From the moment of my 
 marrying him till his death, I hardly spoke to a man 
 but in his presence; and when once I did, it was he 
 that had sent him. And for all that people have turned 
 their backs upon me. You and I were old friends, 
 Harry, and something more once, — were we not? But 
 I jilted you, as you were man enough to tell me. 
 How I did respect you when you dared to speak the 
 truth to me! Men don't know women, or they would 
 be harder to them." 
 
 "I did not mean to be hard to you." 
 
AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 211 
 
 *'If you had taken me by the shoulders and shaken 
 me, and have declared that before God you would not 
 allow such wickedness, I should have obeyed you. I 
 know I should." Harry thought of Florence, and 
 could not bring himself to say that he wished it had 
 been so. "But where would you have been then, 
 Harry? I was wrong and false and a beast to marry 
 that man; but I should not, therefore, have been right 
 to marry you and ruin you. It would have been 
 ruin, you know, and we should simply have been 
 fools." 
 
 "The folly was very pleasant," said he. 
 
 "Yes, yes; I will not deny that. But then the 
 wisdom and the prudence afterwards! Oh, Harry, that 
 was not pleasant. That was not pleasant! But what 
 was I saying? Oh! about the propriety of your being 
 here. It is so hard to know what is proper. As I 
 have been married, I suppose I may receive whom I 
 please. Is not that the law?" 
 
 "You may receive me, I should think. Your sister 
 is my cousin's wife." Harry's matter-of-fact argument 
 did as well as anything else, for it turned her thought 
 at the moment. 
 
 "My sister, Harry! If there was nothing to make 
 us friends but our connection through Sir Hugh 
 Clavering, I do not know that I should be particularly 
 anxious to see you. How unmanly he has been, and 
 how cruel!" 
 
 "Very cruel," said Harry. Then he thought of 
 Archie and Archie's suit. "But he is willing to change 
 all that now. Hermione asked me the other day to per- 
 suade you to go to Clavering." 
 
 "And have you come here to use your eloquence 
 
212 
 
 THE CLAVERINOS. 
 
 for that purpose? I will never go to Clavering again, 
 Harry, unless it should be yours, and your wife should 
 offer to receive me. Then I'd pack up for the dear, 
 dull, solemn old place, though I was on the other side 
 of Europe." 
 
 "It will never be mine." 
 
 "Probably not, and probably, therefore, I shall 
 never be there again. No*, I can forgive an injury, 
 but not an insult, — not an insult such as that. I 
 will not go to Clavering; so, Harry, you may save 
 your eloquence. Hermione I shall be glad to see 
 whenever she will come to me. If you can persuade 
 her to that, you will persuade her to a charity." 
 
 "She goes nowhere, I think, without his — his — " 
 
 "Without his permission. Of course she does not. 
 That, I suppose, is all as it should be. And he is 
 such a tyi-ant that he will give no such permission. 
 He would tell her, I suppose, that her sister was no 
 fit companion for her." 
 
 "He could not say that now, as he has asked you 
 there." 
 
 "Ah, I don't know that. He would say one thing 
 first and another after, just as it would suit him. He 
 has some object in wishing that I should go there, I 
 suppose." Harry, who knew the object, and who was 
 too faithful to betray Lady Clavering, even though he 
 was altogether hostile to his cousin Archie's suit, felt 
 a little proud of his position , but said nothing in 
 answer to this. "But I shall not go; nor will I see 
 him, or go to his house when he comes up to London, 
 When do they come, Harry?" 
 
 "He is in town now." 
 
AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 213 
 
 "What a nice husband, is he not? And when does 
 Hermione come?" 
 
 '^I do not know; she did not say. Little Hughy 
 is ill, and that may keep her." 
 
 ''After all, Harry, I may have to pack up and go 
 to Clavering even yet, — that is, if the mistress of the 
 house will have me." 
 
 "Never in the way you mean. Lady Ongar. Do 
 not propose to kill all my relations in order that I 
 iQight have their property. Archie intends to marry, 
 and have a dozen children." 
 
 "Archie marry! Who will have him? But such 
 men as he are often in the way by marrying some 
 cookmaid at last. Archie is Hugh's body-slave. Fancy 
 being body-slave to Hugh Clavering! He has two, and 
 poor Hermy is the other; only he prefers not to have 
 Hermy near him, which is lucky for her. Here is 
 some tea. Let us sit down and be comfortable, and 
 talk no more about our horrid relations. I don't 
 know what made me speak of them. I did not 
 mean it." 
 
 Harry sat down and took the cup from her hand, 
 as she had bidden the servant to leave the tray upon 
 the table. 
 
 "So you saw Count Pateroff?" she said. 
 "Yes, and his sister." 
 
 "So she told me. What do you think of them?" 
 To this question Harry made no immediate answer. 
 "You may speak out. Though I lived abroad with 
 such as them for twelve months, I have not forgotten 
 the sweet scent of our English hedgerows, nor the 
 wholesomeness of English household manners. What 
 do you think of them?" 
 
214 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "They are not sweet or wholesome/' said he. 
 
 "Oh, Harry, you are so honest! Your honesty is 
 beautiful. A spade will ever be a spade with you.^' 
 
 He thought that she was laughing at him, and 
 coloured. 
 
 "You pressed me to speak/' he said, "and I did 
 but use your own words." 
 
 "Yes, but you used them with such straightforward 
 violence! Well, you shall use what words you please, 
 and how you please, because a word of truth is so 
 pleasant after living in a world of lies. I know 
 you will not lie to me, Harry. You never did." 
 
 He felt th t now was the moment in which he 
 should tell her of his engagement, but he let the mo- 
 ment pass without using it. And, indeed, it would 
 have been hard for him to tell. In telling such a 
 story he would have been cautioning her that it was 
 useless for her to love him, — and this he could not 
 bring himself to do. And he was not sure even now 
 that she had not learned the fact from her sister. "I 
 hope not," he said. In all that he was saying he 
 knew that his words were tame and impotent in com- 
 parison with hers, which seemed to him to mean so 
 much. But then his position was so unfortunate! Had 
 it not been for Florence Burton he would have been 
 long since at her feet *, for, to give Harry Clavering his 
 due, he could be quick enough at swearing to a pas- 
 sion. He was one of those men to whom love-making 
 comes so readily that it is a pity that they should ever 
 marry. He was ever making love to women, usually 
 meaning no harm. He made love to Cecilia Burton 
 over her children's beds, and that discreet matron liked 
 it. But it was a love-making without danger. It 
 
AN EVENINa TN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 215 
 
 simply signified on liis part the pleasure lie had in 
 being on good terms with a pretty woman. He would 
 have liked to have made love in the same way to 
 Lady Ongar; but that was impossible, and in all love- 
 making with Lady Ongar there must be danger. 
 There was a pause after the expression of his last 
 hopes, during which he finished his tea, and then 
 looked at his boots. 
 
 "You do not ask me what I have been doing at 
 my country-house." 
 
 "And what have you been doing there?" 
 
 "Hating it." 
 
 "That is wrong." 
 
 "Everything is wrong that I do; everything must 
 be wrong. That is the nature of the curse upon 
 me." 
 
 "You think too much of all that now." 
 
 "Ah, Harry, that is so easily said. People do not 
 think of such things if they can help themselves. The 
 place is full of him and his memories; full of him, 
 though I do not as yet know whether he ever put, his 
 foot in it. Do you know I have a plan, a scheme, 
 which would, I think, make me happy for one half- 
 hour? It is to give everything back to the family. 
 Everything! money, house, and name; to call myself 
 Julia Brabazon, and let the world call me what it 
 pleases. Then I would walk out into the streets, and 
 beg some one to give me my bread. Is there one in 
 all the wide world that would give me a crust? Is 
 there one, except yourself, Harry — one, except 
 yourself? " 
 
 Poor Florence! I fear it fared badly with her cause 
 at this moment How was it possible that he should 
 
216 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 not regret, that he should not look back upon Stratton 
 with something akin to sorrow? Julia had been his 
 first love, and to her he could have been always true. 
 I fear he thought of this now. I fear that it was a 
 grief to him that he could not place himself close at 
 her side, bid her do as she had planned, and then 
 come to him, and share all his crusts. Had it been 
 open to him to play that part, he would have played 
 it well, and would have gloried in the thoughts of her 
 poverty. The position would have suited him exactly. 
 But Florence was in the way, and he could not do 
 it. How was he to answer Lady Ongar? It was 
 more difficult now than ever to tell her of Florence 
 Burton. 
 
 His eyes were full of tears, and she accepted that 
 as his excuse for not answering her. "I suppose they 
 would say that I was a romantic fool. When the price 
 has been taken one cannot cleanse oneself of the stain. 
 With Judas, you know, it was not sufficient that he 
 gave back the money. Life was too heavy for him, 
 and so he went out and hanged himself." 
 
 "Julia," he said, getting up from his chair, and 
 going over to whe^e she sat on a sofa, "Julia, it is 
 horrid to hear you speak of yourself in that way. I 
 will not have it. You are not such a one as the 
 Iscariot." And as he spoke to her, he found her hand 
 in his. 
 
 "I wish you had my burden, Harry, for one half 
 day, so that you might know its weight." 
 
 "I wish I could bear it for you — for life." 
 
 "To be always alone, Harry, to have none that 
 come to me and scold me, and love me, and some- 
 times make me smile! You will scold me at any rate; 
 
AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 217 
 
 will you not? It is terrible to have no one nea^ one 
 that will speak to one with the old easiness of familiar 
 affection. And then the pretence of it where it does 
 not, cannot, could not, exist! Oh, that woman, Harry, 
 
 — that woman who comes here and calls me Julie! 
 And she has got me to promise too that I would call 
 her Sophie! I know that you despise me because she 
 comes here. Yes; I can see it. You said at once that 
 she was not wholesome, with your dear outspoken 
 honesty." 
 
 "It was your word." 
 
 "And she is not wholesome, whosever word it was. 
 She was there, hanging about him when he was so 
 bad, before the worst came. She read novels to him, 
 
 — books that I never saw, and played ecart^ with 
 him for what she called gloves. I believe in my heart 
 she was spying me, and I let her come and go as she 
 would, because I would not seem to be afraid of her. 
 So it grew. And once or twice she was useful to me. 
 A woman, Harry, wants to have a woman ^ear her 
 sometimes, — even though it be such an unwholesome 
 creature as Sophie Gordeloup. You must not think 
 too badly of me on her account." 
 
 "I will not; — I will not think badly of you 
 at all." 
 
 "He is better, is he not? I know little of him, or 
 nothing, but he has a more reputable outside than she 
 has. Indeed I liked him. He had known Lord Ongar 
 well; and though he did not toady him nor was afraid 
 of him, yet he was gentle and considerate. Once to 
 me he said words that I was called on to resent; — 
 but he never repeated them, and I know that he was 
 prompted by him who should have protected me. It 
 
218 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 is too bad, Harry, is it not? Too bad almost to be 
 believed by such as you." 
 
 "It is very bad," said Harry. 
 
 "After that he was always courteous *, and when the 
 end came and things were very terrible, he behaved 
 well and kindly. He went in and out quietly, and 
 like an old friend. He paid for everything, and was 
 useful. I know that even this made people talk-, — 
 yes, Harry, even at such a moment as that! But in 
 spite of the talking I did better with him then than I 
 could have done without him." 
 
 "He looks like a man who could be kind if he 
 chooses." 
 
 "He is one of those, Harry, who find it easy to 
 be good-natured, and who are soft by nature, as cats 
 are, — not from their heart, but through instinctive 
 propensity to softness. When it suits them, they 
 scratch, even though they have been ever so soft be- 
 fore. Count Pateroff is a cat. You, Harry, I think 
 are a dgg." She perhaps expected that he would 
 promise to her that he would be her dog, — a dog in 
 constancy and affection*, but he was still mindful in 
 part of Florence, and restrained himself. 
 
 "I must tell you something further," she said. 
 "And indeed it is this that I particularly want to tell 
 you. I have not seen him, you know, since I parted 
 with him at Florence " 
 
 "I did not know," said Harry. 
 
 "I thought I had told you. However, so it is. 
 And now, listen. He came down +o Ongar Park the 
 other day while T was there, and sent in his card. 
 When I refused to receive him, he wrote to me 
 pressing his visit. I still declined, and he wrote again. 
 
AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 219 
 
 I burned his note, because I did not choose that any- 
 thing from him should be in my possession. He told 
 some story about papers of Lord Ongar. I have 
 nothing to do with Lord Ongar's papers. Everything 
 of which I knew was sealed up in the count's presence 
 and in mine, and was sent to the lawyers for the 
 executors. I looked at nothing; not at one word in a 
 single letter. What could he have to say to me of 
 Lord Ongar's papers?" 
 
 "Or he might have written." 
 
 "At any rate he should not have come there, 
 Harry. I would not see him, nor, if I can help it, 
 will I see him here. I will be open with you, Harry. 
 I think that perhaps it might suit him to make me 
 his wife. Such an arrangement, however, would not 
 suit me. I am not going to be frightened into marrying 
 a man, because he has been falsely called my lover. 
 If I cannot escape the calumny in any other way, I 
 will not escape it in that way." 
 
 "Has he said anything?" 
 
 "No; not a word. I have not seen him since the 
 day after Lord Ongar's funeral. But I have seen his 
 sister." 
 
 "And has she proposed such a thing?" 
 
 "No, she has not proposed it. But she talks of it, 
 saying that it would not do. Then, when I tell her 
 that of course it would not do, she shows me all that 
 would make it expedient. She is so sly and so false, 
 that with all my eyes open I cannot quite understand 
 her, or quite know what she is doing. I do not feel 
 sure that she wishes it herself." 
 
 "She told me that it would not do." 
 
 "She did, did she? If she speaks of it again, 
 
220 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 tell her that she is right, that it will never do. Had 
 he not come down to Ongar Park, I should not have 
 mentioned this to you. I should not have thought 
 that he had in truth any such scheme in his head. 
 He did not tell you that he had been there?" 
 
 "He did not mention it. Indeed, he said very 
 little about you at all." 
 
 "No, he would not. He is cautious. He never 
 talks of anybody to anybody. He speaks only of the 
 outward things of the world. Now, Harry, what you 
 must do for me is this." As she was speaking to him 
 she was leaning again upon the table, with her fore- 
 head resting upon her hands. Her small widow's cap 
 had become thus thrust back, and was now nearly off 
 her head, so that her rich brown hair was to be seen 
 in its full luxuriance, rich and lovely as it had ever 
 been. Could it be that she felt, — half thought, half 
 felt, without knowing that she thought it, — that 
 while the signs of her widowhood were about her, 
 telling in their too plain language the tale of what 
 she had been, he could not dare to speak to her of his 
 love? She was indeed a widow, but not as are other 
 widows. She had confessed, did hourly confess to 
 herself, the guilt which she had committed in marrying 
 that man; but the very fact of such confessions, of 
 such acknowledgment, absolved her from the necessity 
 of any show of sorrow. When she declared how she 
 had despised and hated her late lord, she threw off 
 mentally all her weeds. Mourning, the appearance 
 even of mourning, became impossible to her, and the 
 cap upon her head was declared openly to be a sacrifice 
 to the world's requirements. It was now pushed back, 
 but I fancy that nothing like a thought on the matter 
 
AN BVENlNG IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 221 
 
 had made itself plain to her mind. *'What you must 
 do for me is this," she continued. '^You must see 
 Count Pateroff again, and tell him from me, — as my 
 friend, — that I cannot consent to see him. Tell him 
 that if he will think of it, he must know the reason 
 why." 
 
 ''Of course he will know." 
 
 ''Tell him what I say, all the same*, and tell him 
 that as I have hitherto had cause to be grateful to 
 him for his kindness, so also I hope he will not put 
 an end to that feeling by anything now that would not 
 be kind. If there be papers of Lord Ongar's, he can 
 take them either to my lawyers, if that be fit, or to 
 those of the family. You can tell him that, can you 
 not?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; I can tell him." 
 
 "And have you any objection?" 
 
 "None for myself. The question is, — would it 
 not come better from some one else?" 
 
 "Because you are a young man, you mean? Whom 
 else can I trust, Harry? To whom can I go? Would 
 you have me ask Hugh to do this? Or, perhaps you 
 think Archie Clavering would be a proper messenger. 
 Who else have I got?" 
 
 "Would not his sister be better?" 
 
 "How should I know that she had told him? She 
 would tell him -her own story, — what she herself 
 wished. And whatever story she told, he would not 
 believe it. They know each other better than you 
 and I know them. It must be you, Harry, if you 
 will do it." 
 
 "Of course I will do it. I will try and see him 
 to-morrow. Where does he live?" 
 
222 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "How should I know? Perhaps nobody knows; 
 no one, perhaps, of all those with whom he associates 
 constantly. They do not live after our fashion, do 
 they, these foreigners? But you will find him at his 
 club, or hear of him at the house in Mount Street. 
 You will do it; eh, Harry?" 
 
 "I will." 
 
 ''That is my good Harry. But I suppose you 
 would do anything I asked you. Ah, well; it is good 
 to have one friend, if one has no more. Look, Harry! 
 if it is not near eleven o'clock! Did you know that 
 you had been here nearly three hours? And I have 
 given you nothing but a cup of tea!" 
 
 ''What else do you think I have wanted?" 
 
 "At your club you would have had cigars and 
 brandy-and- water, and billiards, and broiled bones, 
 and oysters, and tankards of beer. I know all about 
 it. You have been very patient with me. If you go 
 quick perhaps you will not be too late for the tankards 
 and the oysters." 
 
 "I never have any tankards or any oysters." 
 
 "Then it is cigars and brandy-and- water. Go 
 quick, and perhaps you may not be too late." 
 
 "I will go, but not there. One cannot cUange 
 one's thoughts so suddenly." 
 
 "Go, then; and do not change your thoughts. Go 
 and think of me, and pity me. Pity me for what I 
 have got, but pity me most for what I have lost." 
 Harry did not say another word, but took her hand, 
 and kissed it, and then left her. 
 
 Pity her for what she had lost! What had she 
 lost? What did she mean by that? He knew well 
 what she meant by pitying her for what she had got. 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 223 
 
 What had she lost? She had lost him. Did she 
 intend to evoke his pity for that loss? She had lost 
 him. Yes, indeed. Whether or no the loss was one 
 to regret, he would not say to himself; or rather, he, 
 of course, declared that it was not-, but such as it was, 
 it had been incurred. He was now the property of 
 Florence Burton, and, whatever happened, he would 
 be true to her. 
 
 Perhaps he pitied himself also. If so, it is to be 
 hoped that Florence may never know of such pity. 
 Before he went to bed, when he was praying on his 
 knees, he inserted it in his prayers that the God in 
 whom he believed might make him true in his faith to 
 Florence Burton. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 The Rivals. 
 
 Lady Ongar sat alone, long into the night, when 
 Harry Clavering had left her. She sat there long, 
 getting up occasionally from her seat, once or twice 
 attempting to write at her desk, looking now and then 
 at a paper or two, and then at a small picture which 
 she had, but passing the long hours in thinking, — in 
 long, sad, solitary thoughts. What should she do 
 with herself, — with herself, her title, and her money? 
 Would it be still well that she should do something, 
 that she should make some attempt; or should she, in 
 truth, abandon all, as the arch-traitor did, and acknow- 
 ledge that for her foot there could no longer be a 
 resting-place on the earth? At six-and-twenty , with 
 youth, beauty, and wealth at her command, must she 
 despair? But her youth h^d been stained, her beauty 
 
224 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 had lost its freshness; and as for her wealth, had she 
 not stolen it? Did not the weight of the theft sit so 
 heavy on her, that her brightest thought was one 
 which prompted her to abandon it? 
 
 As to that idea of giving up her income and her 
 house and calling herself again J ulia Brabazon, though 
 there was something in the poetry of it which would 
 now and again for half-an-hour relieve her, yet she 
 hardly proposed such a course to herself as a reality. 
 The world in which she had lived had taught her to 
 laugh at romance, to laugh at it even while she liked 
 its beauty; and she would tell herself that for such a 
 one as her to do such a thing as this, would be to in- 
 sure for herself the ridicule of all who knew her name. 
 What would Sir Hugh say, and her sister? What 
 Count Pateroff and the faithful Sophie? What all the 
 Ongar tribe, who would reap the rich harvest of her 
 insanity? These latter would offer to provide her a 
 place in some convenient asylum, and the others would 
 all agree that such would be her fitting destiny. She 
 could bear the idea of walking forth, as she had said, 
 penniless into the street, without a crust; but she 
 could not bear the idea of being laughed at when she 
 got there. 
 
 To her, in her position, her only escape was by 
 marriage. It was the solitude of her position which 
 maddened her; — its solitude, or the necessity of 
 breaking that solitude by the presence of those who 
 were odious to her. Whether it were better to be 
 alone, feeding on the bitterness of her own thoughts, 
 or to be comforted by the fulsome flatteries and odious 
 falsenesses of Sophie Gordeloup, she could not tell. 
 She hated herself for her loneliness, but she hated her- 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 225 
 
 self almost worse for submitting herself to the society 
 of Sophie Gordeloup. Why not give all that she pos- 
 sessed to Harry Clavering, — herself, her income, her 
 rich pastures and horses and oxen, and try whether 
 the world would not be better to her when she had 
 done so? 
 
 She had learned to laugh at romance, but still she 
 believed in love. While that bargain was going on as 
 to her settlement, she had laughed at romance, and had 
 told herself that in this world worldly prosperity was 
 everything. Sir Hugh then had stood by her with 
 truth, for he had well understood the matter, and 
 could enter into it with zest. Lord Ongar, in his state 
 of health, had not been in a position to make close 
 stipulations as to the dower in the event of his pro- 
 posed wife becoming a widow. ''No, no*, we won't 
 stand that," Sir Hugh had said to the lawyers. ''We 
 all hope, of course, that Lord Ongar may live long*, 
 no doubt he'll turn over a new leaf, and die at ninety. 
 But in such a case as this the widow must not be fet- 
 tered." The widow had not been fettered, and Julia 
 had been made to understand the full advantage of 
 such an arrangement. But still she had believed in 
 love when she had bid farewell to Harry in the garden. 
 She had told herself then, even then, that she would 
 have better liked to have taken him and his love, — 
 if only she could have afforded it. He had not dreamed 
 that on leaving him she had gone from him to her 
 room, and taken out his picture, — the same that she 
 had with her now in Bolton Street, — and had kissed 
 it, bidding him farewell there with a passion which 
 she could not display in his presence. And she had 
 thought of his offer about the money over and over 
 
 The Claverings. I. 15 
 
226 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGSo 
 
 again. "Yes," she would say, "that man loved me. 
 He would have given me all he had to relieve me, 
 though nothing was to come to him in return." She 
 had, at any rate, been loved once*, and she almost 
 wished that she had taken the money, that she might 
 now have an opportunity of repaying it. 
 
 And she was again free, and her old lover was 
 again by her side. Had that fatal episode in her life 
 been so fatal that she must now regard herself as 
 tainted and unfit for him? There was no longer any- 
 thing to separate them, — anything of which she was 
 aware, unless it was that. And as for his love, — ■ 
 did he not look and speak as though he loved her 
 still? Had he not pressed her hand passionately, and 
 kissed it, and once more called her Julia? How 
 should it be that he should not love her? In such a 
 case as his, love might have been turned to hatred or 
 to enmity, but it was not so with him. He called him- 
 self her friend. How could there be friendship be- 
 tween them without love? 
 
 And then she thought how much with her wealth 
 she might do for him. With all his early studies and 
 his talent, Harry Clavering was not the man, she 
 thought, to make his way in the world by hard work; 
 but with such an income as she could give him, he 
 might shine among the proud ones of his nation. He 
 should go into Parliament, and do great things. He 
 should be lord of all. It should all be his without a 
 word of reserve. She had been mercenary once, but 
 she would atone for that now by open-handed, un- 
 doubting generosity. She herself had learned to hate 
 the house and fields and widespread comforts of Ongar 
 Park. She had walked among it all alone, and despised. 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 227 
 
 But it would be a glory to her to see him go forth, 
 with Giles at his heels, boldly giving his orders, 
 changing this and improving that. He would be re- 
 buked for no errors, let him do with Enoch Gubby 
 and the rest of them what he pleased! And then the 
 parson's wife would be glad enough to come to her, 
 and the house would be full of smiling faces. And it 
 might be that God would be good to her, and that she 
 would have treasures, as other women had them, and 
 that the flavour would come back to the apples, and 
 that the ashes would cease to grate between her teeth. 
 
 She loved him, and why should it not be so? She 
 could go before God's altar with him without dis- 
 gracing herself with a lie. She could put her hand in 
 his, and swear honestly that she would worship him 
 and obey him. She had been dishonest; — but if he 
 would pardon her for that, could she not reward him 
 richly for such pardon? And it seemed to her that he 
 had pardoned her. He had forgiven it all and was 
 gracious to her, — coming at her beck and call, and 
 sitting with her as though he liked her presence. She 
 was woman enough to understand this, and iJhe knew 
 that he liked it. Of course he loved her. How could 
 it be otherwise? 
 
 But yet he spoke nothing to her of his love. In 
 the old days there had been with him no bashfulness 
 of that kind. He was not a man to tremble and doubt 
 before a woman. In those old days he had been ready 
 enough, — so ready, that she had wondered that one 
 who had just come from his books should know so 
 well how to make himself master of a girl's heart. 
 Nature had given him that art, as she does give it to 
 some, withholding it from many. But now he sat 
 
 15* 
 
228 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 near her, dropping once and again half words of love, 
 hearing her references to the old times; — and yet he 
 said nothing. 
 
 But how was he to speak of love to one who was 
 a widow but of four months' standing? and with what 
 face could he now again ask for her hand, knowing 
 that it had been filled so full since last it was refused 
 to him? It was thus she argued to herself when she 
 excused him in that he did not speak to her. As to 
 her widowhood, to herself it was a thing of scorn. 
 Thinking of it, she cast her weepers from her, and 
 walked about the room, scorning the hypocrisy of her 
 dress. It needed that she should submit herself to this 
 hypocrisy before the world; but he might know, — 
 for had she not told him? — that the clothes she wore 
 were no index of her feeling or of her heart. She had 
 been mean enough, base enough, vile enough, to sell 
 herself to that wretched lord. Mean, base, and vile 
 she had been, and she now confessed it; but she was 
 not false enough to pretend that she mourned the man 
 as a wife mourns. Harry might have seen enough to 
 know, have understood enough to perceive, that he 
 need not regard her widowhood. 
 
 And as to her money! If that were the stumbling- 
 block, might it not be well that the first overture 
 should come from her? Could she not find words to 
 tell him that it might all be his? Could she not say 
 to him, ''Harry Clavering, all this is nothing in my 
 hands. Take it into your hands, and it will prosper." 
 Then it was that she went to her desk, and attempted 
 to write to him. She did write to him a completed 
 note, offering herself and all that was hers for his ac- 
 ceptance. In doing so, she strove hard to be honest 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 229 
 
 and yet not over bold-, to be affectionate and yet not 
 unfeminine. Long she sat, holding her head with one 
 hand, while the other attempted to use the pen which 
 would not move over the paper. At length, quickly 
 it flew across the sheet, and a few lines were there for 
 her to peruse. 
 
 "Harry Clavering," she had written, "I know I 
 am doing what men and women say no woman should 
 do. You may, perhaps, say so of me now, but if you 
 do, I know you so well, that I do not fear that others 
 will be able to repeat it. Harry, I have never loved 
 any one but you. Will you be my husband? You 
 well know that I should not make you this offer, if I 
 did not intend that everything I have should be yours. 
 It will be pleasant to me to feel that I can make 
 some reparation for the evil I have done. As for love, 
 I have never loved any one but you. You yourself 
 must know that well. Yours, altogether if you will 
 have it so, — Julia.'' 
 
 She took the letter with her, back across the room 
 to her seat by the fire, and took with her at the same 
 time the little portrait-, and there she sat, looking at 
 the one and reading the other. At last she slowly 
 folded the note up into a thin wisp of paper, and, 
 lighting the end of it, watched it till every shred of it 
 was burnt to an ash. "If he wants me," she said, 
 "he can come and take me, — as other men do." It 
 was a fearful attempt, that which she had thought of 
 making. How could she have looked him in the face 
 again had his answer to her been a refusal? 
 
 Another hour went by before she took herself to 
 her bed, during which her cruelly-used maiden was 
 waiting for her half asleep in the chamber above; and 
 
230 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 during that time she tried to bring herself to some 
 steady resolve. She would remain in London for the 
 coming months, so that he might come to her if he 
 pleased. She would remain there, even though she 
 were subject to the daily attacks of Sophie Gordeloup. 
 She hardly knew why, but in part she was afraid of 
 Sophie. She had done nothing of which Sophie knew 
 the secret. She had no cause to tremble because 
 Sophie might be offended. The woman had seen her 
 in some of her saddest moments, and could indeed tell 
 of indignities which would have killed some women. 
 But these she had borne, and had not disgraced herself 
 in the bearing of them. But still she was afraid of 
 Sophie, and felt that she could not bring herself ab- 
 solutely to dismiss her friend from her house. Never- 
 theless, she would remain; — because Harry Clavering 
 was in London and could come to her there. To her 
 house at Ongar Park she would never go again, unless 
 she went as his wife. The place had become odious 
 to her. Bad as was her solitude in London, with 
 Sophie Gordeloup to break it, — and perhaps with 
 Sophie's brother to attack her, it was not so bad as 
 the silent desolation of Ongar Park. Never again 
 would she go there, unless she went there in triumph, 
 — as Harry's wife. Having so far resolved she took 
 herself at last to her room, and dismissed her drowsy 
 Phoebe to her rest. 
 
 And now the reader must be asked to travel down 
 at once into the country, that he may see how Florence 
 Burton passed the same evening at Clavering rectory. 
 It was Florence's last night there , and on the following 
 morning she was to return to her father's house at 
 Stratton. Florence had not as yet received her un- 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 231 
 
 satisfactory letter from Harry. That was to arrive on 
 the following morning. At present she was, as regarded 
 her letters, under the influence of that one which had 
 been satisfactory in so especial a degree. Not that the 
 coming letter, — the one now on its route, — was of 
 a nature to disturb her comfort permanently, or to 
 make her in any degree unhappy. ''Dear fellow; he 
 must be careful, he is overworking himself.'' Even 
 the unsatisfactory letter would produce nothing worse 
 than this from her; but now, at the moment of which 
 I am writing , she was in a paradise of happy thoughts. 
 
 Her visit to Clavering had been in every respect 
 successful. She had been liked by every one, and 
 every one in return had been liked by her. Mrs. 
 Clavering had treated her as though she were a daughter. 
 The rector had made her pretty presents, had kissed 
 her, and called her his child. With Fanny she had 
 formed a friendship which was to endure for ever, let 
 destiny separate them how it might. Dear Fanny! 
 She had had a wonderful interview respecting Fanny 
 on this very day, and was at this moment disquieting 
 her mind because she could not tell her friend what 
 had happened without a breach of confidence! She 
 had learned a great deal at Clavering, though in most 
 matters of learning she was a better instructed woman 
 than they were whom she had met. In general know- 
 ledge and in intellect she was Fanny's superior, though 
 Fanny Clavering was no fool; but Florence, when she 
 came thither, had lacked something which living in 
 such a house had given to her; — or, I should rather 
 say, something had been given to her of which she 
 would greatly feel the want, if it could be again taken 
 from her. Her mother was as excellent a woman as 
 
232 
 
 THE CLAVEIUNGS. 
 
 had ever sent forth a family of daughters into the 
 world, and I do not know that any one ever objected 
 to her as being ignorant, or specially vulgar; but the 
 house in Stratton was not like Clavering rectory in the 
 little ways of living, and this Florence Burton had 
 been clever enough to understand. She knew that a 
 sojourn under such a roof, with such a woman as Mrs. 
 Clavering, must make her fitter to be Harry's wife; 
 and, therefore, when they pressed her to come again 
 in the autumn, she said that she thought she would. 
 She could understand, too, that Harry was different in 
 many things from the men who had married her sisters, 
 and she rejoiced that it was so. Poor Florence! Had 
 he been more like them it might have been safer for her. 
 
 But we must return for a moment to the wonderful 
 interview which has been mentioned. Florence, during 
 her sojourn at Clavering, had become intimate with 
 Mr. Saul , as well as with Fanny. She had given her- 
 self for the time heartily to the schools, and matters 
 had so far progressed with her that Mr. Saul had on 
 one occasion scolded her soundly. ^'It's a great sign 
 that he thinks well of you," Fanny had said. "It was 
 the only sign he ever gave me, before he spoke to me 
 in that sad strain.'' On the afternoon of this, her last 
 day at Clavering, she had gone over to Cumberly Green 
 with Fanny, to say farewell to the children, and walked 
 back by herself, as Faimy had not finished her work. 
 When she was still about half a mile from the rectory, 
 she met Mr. Saul, who was on his way out to the 
 Green. '^I knew I should meet you," he said, "so 
 that I might say good-by." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Mr. Saul, — for I am going in truth 
 to-morrow." 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 233 
 
 "I wish you were staying. I wish you were going 
 to remain with us. Having you here is very pleasant, 
 and you do more good here, perhaps, than you will 
 elsewhere." 
 
 "I will not allow that. You forget that I have a 
 father and mother." 
 
 *'Yes; and you will have a husband soon." 
 
 "No, not soon; some day, perhaps, if all goes well. 
 But I mean to be back here often before that. I mean 
 to be here in October, just for a little visit, if mamma 
 can spare me." 
 
 "Miss Burton," he said, speaking in a very serious 
 
 tone . All his tones were serious, but that which 
 
 he now adopted was more solemn than usual. "I wish 
 to consult you on a certain matter, if you can give me 
 five minutes of your time." 
 
 "To consult me, Mr. Saul?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Burton. I am hard pressed at present, 
 and I know no one else of whom I can ask a certain 
 question, if I cannot ask it of you. I think that you 
 will answer me truly, if you answer me at all. I do 
 not think you would flatter me, or tell me an un- 
 truth." 
 
 "Flatter you! how could I flatter you?" 
 
 "By telling me •, but I must ask you my ques- 
 tion first. You and Fanny Clavering are dear friends 
 now. You tell each other everything." 
 
 "I do not know," said Florence, doubting as to 
 what she might best say, but guessing something of 
 that which was coming. 
 
 "She will have told you, perhaps, that I asked her 
 to be my wife. Did she ever tell you that?" Florence 
 looked into his face for a few moments without an- 
 
234 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 swering him, not knowing how to answer such a ques- 
 tion. "I know that she has told you," said he. "I 
 can see that it is so." 
 
 '^She has told me," said Florence. 
 
 ^'Why should she not? How could she he with 
 you so many hours, and not tell you that of which she 
 could hardly fail to have the remembrance often pre- 
 sent with her? If I were gone from here, if I were 
 not before her eyes daily, it might be otherwise*, but 
 seeing me as she does from day to day, of course she 
 has spoken of me to her friend." ♦ 
 
 ^'Yes, Mr. Saul, she has told me of it." 
 
 *'And now, will you tell me whether I may hope?" 
 
 "Mr. Saul!" 
 
 "I want you to betray no secret, but I ask you for 
 your advice. Can I hope that she will ever return my 
 lovfe?" 
 
 "How am I to answer you?" 
 "With the truth. Only with the truth." 
 "I should say that she thinks that you have for- 
 gotten it." 
 
 "Forgotten it! No, Miss Burton; she cannot think 
 that. Do you believe that men or women can forget 
 such things as that? Can you ever forget her brother? 
 Do you think people ever forget when they have loved? 
 No, I have not forgotten her. I have not forgotten 
 that walk which we had down this lane together. There 
 are things which men never forget." Then he paused 
 for an answer. 
 
 Florence was by nature steady and self-collected, 
 and she at once felt that she was bound to be wary 
 before she gave him any answer. She had half fancied 
 once or twice that Fanny thought more of Mr. Saul 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 235 
 
 than she allowed even herself to know. And Fanny, 
 when she had spoken of the impossibility of such a 
 marriage, had always based the impossibility on the 
 fact that people should not marry without the means 
 of living — a reason which to Florence, with all her 
 prudence, was not sufficient. Fanny might wait, as 
 she also intended to wait. Latterly, too, Fanny had 
 declared more than once to Florence her conviction 
 that Mr. Saul's passion had been a momentary insanity, 
 which had altogether passed away, and in these de- 
 clarations Florence had half fancied that she discovered 
 some tinge of regret. If it were so , what was she now 
 to say to Mr. Saul? 
 
 "You think then, Miss Burton," he continued, 
 "that I have no chance of success? I ask the question 
 because if I felt certain that this was so, — quite cer- 
 tain, I should be wrong to remain here. It has been 
 my first and only parish, and I could not leave it with- 
 out bitter sorrow. But if I were to remain here hope- 
 lessly, I should become unfit for my work. I am be- 
 coming so, and shall be better away." 
 
 "But why ask me, Mr. Saul?" 
 
 "Because I think that you can tell me." 
 
 "But why not ask herself? Who can tell you so 
 truly as she can do?" 
 
 "You would not advise me to do that if you were 
 sure that she would reject me?" 
 
 "That is what I would advise." 
 
 "I will take your advice. Miss Burton. Now, good- 
 by, and may God bless you. You say you will be 
 here in the autumn •, but before the autumn I shall pro- 
 bably have left Clavering. If so, our farewells will be 
 for very long, but I shall always remember our pleasant 
 
236 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 intercourse here." Then lie went on towards Cumberly 
 Green; and Florence, as she walked into the vicarage 
 grounds, was thinking that no girl had ever been loved 
 by a more single-hearted, pure-minded gentleman than 
 Mr. Saul." 
 
 As she sat alone in her bed-room, five or six hours 
 after this interview, she felt some regret that she should 
 leave Clavering without a word to Fanny on the sub- 
 ject. Mr. Saul had exacted no promise of secrecy from 
 her; he was not a man to exact such promises. But 
 she felt not the less that she would be betraying con- 
 fidence to speak, and it might even be that her speak- 
 ing on the matter would do more harm than good. 
 Her sympathies were doubtless with Mr. Saul, but she 
 could not therefore say that she thought Fanny ought 
 so accept his love. It would be best to say nothing of 
 the matter, and allow Mr. Saul to fight his own battle. 
 
 Then she turned to her own matters, and there she 
 found that everything was pleasant. How good the 
 world had been to her to give her such a lover as 
 Harry Clavering! She owned with all her heart the 
 excellence of being in love, when a girl might be al- 
 lowed to call such a man her own. She could not but 
 make comparisons between him and Mr. Saul, though 
 she knew that she was making them on points that 
 were hardly worthy of her thoughts. Mr. Saul was 
 plain, uncouth, with little that was bright about him 
 except the brightness of his piety. Harry was like the 
 morning star. He looked and walked and spoke as 
 though he 'were something more godlike than common 
 men. His very voice created joy, and the ring of his 
 laughter was to Florence as the music of the heavens. 
 What woman would not have loved Harry Clavering? 
 
THE RIVALS. 
 
 237 
 
 Even Julia Brabazon, — a creature so base that she 
 had sold herself to such a thing as Lord Ongar for 
 money and a title, but so grand in her gait and ways, 
 so Florence had been told, that she seemed to despise 
 the earth on which she trod, — even she had loved 
 him. Then as Florence thought of what Julia Braba- 
 zon might have had and of what she had lost, she 
 wondered that there could be women born so sadly 
 vicious. 
 
 But that woman's vice had given her her success, 
 her joy, her great triumph! It was surely not for her 
 to deal hardly with the faults of Julia Brabazon, — 
 for her who was enjoying all the blessings of which 
 those faults had robbed the other! Julia Brabazon had 
 been her very good friend. 
 
 But why had this perfect lover come to her, to one 
 so small, so trifling, so little in the world's account as 
 she, and given to her all the treasure of his love? Oh, 
 Harry, — dear Harry! what could she do for him that 
 would be a return good enough for such great good- 
 ness? Then she took out his last letter, that satis- 
 factory letter, that letter that had been declared to be 
 perfect, and read it and read it again. No; she did 
 not want Fanny or any one else to tell her that he 
 was true. Honesty and truth were written on every 
 line of his face, were to be heard in every tone of his 
 voice, could be seen in every sentence that came from 
 his hand. Dear Harry; dearest Harry! She knew 
 well that he was true. 
 
 Then she also sat down and wrote to him, on that 
 her last night beneath his father's roof, — wrote to him 
 when she had nearly prepared herself for her bed ; and 
 honestly, out of her full heart, thanked him for hi^ 
 
238 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 love. There was no need that she should be coy with 
 him now, for she was his own. ^'Dear Harry, when 
 I think of all that you have done for me in loving me 
 and choosing me for your wife, I know that I can 
 never pay you all that I owe you." 
 
 Such were the two rival claimants for the hand of 
 Harry Clavering. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 Let her Know that you're There. 
 
 A WEEK had passed since the evening which Harry 
 had spent in Bolton Street, and he had not again seen 
 Lady Ongar. He had professed to himself that his 
 reason for not going there was the non-performance of 
 the commission which Lady Ongar had given him with 
 reference to Count Pateroff. He had not yet succeeded 
 in catching the count, though he had twice asked for 
 him in Mount Street and twice at the club in Pall 
 Mall. It appeared that the count never went to Mount 
 Street, and was very rarely seen at the club. There 
 was some other club which he frequented, and Harry 
 did not know what club. On both the occasions of 
 Harry's calling in Mount Street, the servant had asked 
 him to go up and see madame; but he had declined 
 to do so, pleading that he was hurried. He was, how- 
 ever, driven to resolve that he must go direct to Sophie, 
 as otherwise he could find no means of doing as he 
 had promised. She probably might put him on the 
 scent of her brother. 
 
 But there had been another reason why Harry had 
 not gone to Bolton Street, though he had not acknow- 
 ledged it to himself. He did not dare to trust himself 
 
I/KT HER KNOW THAT YOU'rE THERE. 239 
 
 with Lady Ongar. He feared that he would be led on 
 to betray himself and to betray Florence, — to throw 
 himself at Julia's feet and sacrifice his honesty, in 
 spite of all his resolutions to the contrary. He felt 
 when there as the accustomed but repentant dram- 
 drinker might feel, when, having resolved to abstain, 
 he is called upon to sit with the full glass offered 
 before his lips. From such temptation as that the 
 repentant dram-drinker knows that he must fly. But 
 though he did not go after the fire-water of Bolton 
 Street, neither was he able to satisfy himself with the 
 cool fountain of Onslow Crescent. He was wretched 
 at this time, — ill-satisfied with himself and others, 
 and was no fitting companion for Cecilia Burton. The 
 world, he thought, had used him ill. He could have 
 been true to Julia Brabazon when she was well-nigh 
 penniless. It was not for her money that he had re- 
 garded her. Had he been now a free man, — free 
 from those chains with which he had fettered himself 
 at Stratton, he would again have asked this woman 
 for her love, in spite of her past treachery; but it 
 would have been for her love and not for her money 
 that he would have sought her. Was it his fault that 
 he had loved her, that she had been false to him, and 
 that she had now come back and thrown herself before 
 him? Or had he been wrong because he had ventured 
 to think that he loved another when Julia had deserted 
 him? Or could he help himself if he now found that 
 his love in truth belonged to her whom he had known 
 first? The world had been very cruel to him, and he 
 could not go to Onslow Crescent and behave there 
 prettily, hearing the praises of Florence with all the 
 ardour of a discreet lover. 
 
240 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 He knew well what would have been his right 
 course, and yet he did not follow it. Let him but 
 once communicate to Lady Ongar the fact of his en- 
 gagement, and the danger would be over, though 
 much, perhaps, of the misery might remain. Let him 
 write to her and mention the fact, bringing it up as 
 some little immaterial accident, and she would under- 
 stand what he meant. But this he abstained from 
 doing. Though he swore to himself that he would not 
 touch the dram, he would not dash down the full glass 
 that was held to his lips. He went about the town 
 very wretchedly, looking for the count, and regarding 
 himself as a man specially marked out for sorrow by 
 the cruel hand of misfortune. Lady Ongar, in the 
 meantime, was expecting him, and was waxing angry 
 and becoming bitter towards him because he came not. 
 
 Sir Hugh Clavering w^as now up in London, and 
 with him was his brother Archie. Sir Hugh was a 
 man who strained an income, that was handsome and 
 sufficient for a country gentleman, to the very utmost, 
 wanting to get out of it more than it could be made 
 to give. He was not a man to be in debt, or indulge 
 himself with present pleasures to be paid for out of 
 the funds of future years. He was possessed of a 
 worldly wisdom which kept him from that folly, and 
 taught him to appreciate fully the value of independ- 
 ence. But he was ever remembering how many 
 shillings there are in a pound, and how many pence 
 in a shilling. He had a great eye to discount, and 
 looked very closely into his bills. He searched for 
 cheap shops; — and some men began to say of him 
 that he had found a cheap establishment for such wines 
 as he did not drink himself! In playing cards and in 
 
LET HER KNOW THAT YOU^RE THERE. 241 
 
 betting he was very careful , never playing high , never 
 risking much, but hoping to turn something by the 
 end of the year, and angry with himself if he had not 
 done so. An unamiable man he was, but one whose 
 heir would probably not quarrel with him, — if only 
 he would die soon enough. He had always had a 
 house in town, a moderate house in Berkeley Square, 
 which belonged to him and had belonged to his father 
 before him. Lady Clavering had usually lived there 
 during the season*, or, as had latterly been the case, 
 during only a part of the season. And now it had 
 come to pass, in this year, that Lady Clavering was 
 not to come to London at all, and that Sir Hugh was 
 meditating whether the house in Berkeley Square 
 might not be let. The arrangement would make the 
 difference of considerably more than a thousand a year 
 to him. For himself, he would take lodgings. He 
 had no idea of giving up London in the spring and 
 early summer. But why keep up a house in Berkeley 
 Square, as Lady Clavering did not use it? 
 
 He was partly driven to this by a desire to shake 
 off the burden of his brother. When Archie chose to 
 go to Clavering the house was open to him. That was 
 the necessity of Sir Hugh's position, and he could not 
 avoid it unless he made ii worth his while to quarrel 
 with his brother. Archie was obedient, ringing the 
 bell when he was told, looking after the horses, spying 
 about, and perhaps saving as much money as he cost. 
 But the matter was very different in Berkeley Square. 
 No elder brother is bound to find breakfast and bed 
 for a younger brother in London. And yet from his 
 boyhood upwards Archie had made good his footing in 
 Berkeley Square. In the matter of' the breakfast, Sir 
 
 The Claverings. I. 16 
 
242 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 Hugh had indeed of late got the better of him. The 
 servants were kept on board wages, and there were no 
 household accounts. But there was Archie's room, and 
 Sir Hugh felt this to be a hardship. 
 
 The present was not the moment for actually 
 driving forth the intruder, for Archie was now up in 
 London especially under his brother's auspices. And 
 if the business on which Captain Clavering was now 
 intent could be brought to a successful issue, the 
 standing in the world of that young man would be 
 very much altered. Then he would be a brother of 
 whom Sir Hugh might be proud; a brother who would 
 pay his way, and settle his points at whist if he lost 
 them, even to a brother. If Archie could induce 
 Lady Ongar to marry him, he would not be called 
 upon any longer to ring the bells and look after the 
 stable. He would have bells of his own, and stables 
 too, and perhaps some captain of his own to ring them 
 and look after them. The expulsion, therefore, was 
 not to take place till Archie should have made his 
 attempt upon Lady Ongar. 
 
 But Sir Hugh would admit of no delay, whereas 
 Archie himself seemed to think that the iron was not 
 yet quite hot enough for striking. It would be better, 
 he had suggested, to postpone the work till Julia could 
 be coaxed down to Clavering in the autumn. He could 
 do the work better, he thought, down at Clavering 
 than in London. But Sir Hugh was altogether of a 
 different opinion. Though he had already asked his 
 sister-in-law to Clavering, when the idea had first come 
 up, he was glad that she had declined the visit. Her 
 coming might be very well if she accepted Ai'chie; but 
 he did not want to be troubled with any renewal of 
 
LET HER KNOW THAT YOU're THERE, 
 
 243 
 
 liis responsibility respecting her, if, as was more pro- 
 bable, she should reject him. The world still looked 
 askance at Lady Ongar, and Hugh did not wish to 
 take up the armour of a paladin in her favour. If 
 Archie married her, Archie would be the paladin; 
 though indeed, in that case, no paladin would be needed. 
 
 "She has only been a widow, you know, four 
 months," said Archie, pleading for delay. "It won't 
 be delicate; will it?" 
 
 "Delicate!" said Sir Hugh. "I don't know whether 
 there is much of delicacy in it at all." 
 
 "I don't see why she isn't to be treated like any 
 other woman. If you were to die, you'd think it very 
 odd if any fellow came up to Hermy before the season 
 was over." 
 
 "Archie, you are a fool," said Sir Hugh; and 
 Archie could see by his brother's brow that Hugh 
 was angry. "You say things that for folly and ab- 
 surdity are beyond belief. If you can't see the pecu- 
 liarities of Julia's position, I am not going to point 
 them out to you." 
 
 "She is peculiar, of course, — having so much 
 money, and that place near Guildford, all her own for 
 her life. Of course it's peculiar. But four months, 
 Hugh!" 
 
 "If it had been four days it need have made no 
 difference. A home, with some one to support her, is 
 everything to her. If you wait till lots of fellows are 
 buzzing round her you won't have a chance You'll 
 find that by this time next year she'll be at the top 
 of the fashion; and if not engaged to you, she will be 
 to some one else. I shouldn't be surprised if Harry 
 were after her again," 
 
 16* 
 
244 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "He's engaged to that girl we saw down at Cla- 
 vering." 
 
 "What matters that? Engagements can be broken 
 as well as made. You have this great advantage over 
 every one, except him, that you can go to her at once 
 without doing anything out of the way. That girl 
 that Harry has in tow may perhaps keep him away for 
 some time." 
 
 "I tell you what, Hugh, you might as well call 
 with me the first time." 
 
 "So that I may quarrel with her, which I cer- 
 tainly should do, — or, rather, she with me. No, 
 Archie; if you're afraid to go alone, you'd better give 
 it up." 
 
 "Afraid! I'm not afraid!" 
 
 "She can't eat you. Remember that with her you 
 needn't stand on your p's and q's, as you would with 
 another woman. She knows what she is about, and 
 will understand what she has to get as well as what 
 she is expected to give. All I can say is, that if she 
 accepts you, Hermy will consent that she shall go 
 to Clavering as much as she pleases till the marriage 
 takes place. It couldn't be done, I suppose, till after 
 a year; and in that case she shall be married at Cla- 
 vering." 
 
 Here was a prospect for Julia Brabazon; — to be 
 led to the same altar at which she had married Lord 
 Ongar, by Archie Clavering, twelve months after her 
 first husband's death, and little more than two years 
 after her first w-edding! The peculiarity of the posi- 
 tion did not quite make itself apparent either to Hugh 
 or to Archie; but there was one point which did sug- 
 gest itself to the younger brother at that moment. 
 
LET HER KNOW THAT YOU'bE THERE. 245 
 
 "I don't suppose there was anything really wrong, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Can't say, I'm sure," said Sir Hugh. 
 
 "Because I shouldn't like " 
 
 "If I were you I wouldn't trouble myself about that. 
 Judge not, that you be not judged." 
 
 "Yes, that's true, to be sure," said Archie; and on 
 that point he went forth satisfied. 
 
 But the job before him was a peculiar job, and 
 that Archie well knew. In some inexplicable manner 
 he put himself into the scales and weighed himself, and 
 discovered his own weight with fair accuracy. And 
 he put her into the scales, and he found that she was 
 much the heavier of the two. How he did this, — how 
 such men as Archie Clavering do do it, — I cannot say ; 
 but they do weigh themselves, and know their own 
 weight, and shove themselves aside as being too light 
 for any real service in the world. This they do, 
 though they may fluster with their voices, and walk 
 about with their noses in the air, and swing their canes, 
 and try to look as large as they may. They do not 
 look large, and they know it*, and consequently they 
 ring the bells, and look after the horses, and shove 
 themselves on one side, so that the heavier weights 
 may come forth and do the work. Archie Clavering, 
 who had duly weighed himself, could hardly bring 
 himself to believe that Lady Ongar would be fool 
 enough to marry him! Seven thousand a year, with a 
 park and farm in Surrey, and give it all to him, — 
 him, Archie Clavering, who had, so to say, no weight 
 at all! Archie Clavering, for one, could not bring 
 himself to believe it. 
 
 But yet Hermy, her sister, thought it possible*, and 
 
246 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 though Hermy was, as Archie had found out by his 
 invisible scales, lighter than Julia, still she must know 
 something of her sister's nature. And Hugh, who was 
 by no means light, — who was a man of weight, 
 with money and position and firm ground beneath his 
 feet, — he also thought that it might be so. "Faint 
 heart never won a fair lady," said Archie to himself a 
 dozen times, as he walked down to the Kag. The 
 Rag was his club , and there was a friend there whom he 
 could consult confidentially. No; faint heart never 
 won a fair lady, but they who repeat to themselves 
 that adage, trying thereby to get courage, always have 
 faint hearts for such work. Harry Clavering never 
 thought of the proverb when he went a-wooing. 
 
 But Captain Boodle of the Rag, — for Captain 
 Boodle always lived at the Rag when he was not at 
 Newmarket, or at other racecourses, or in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Market Harborough, — Captain Boodle 
 knew a thing or two, and Captain Boodle, was his fast 
 friend. He would go to Boodle and arrange the cam- 
 paign with him. Boodle had none of that hectoring, 
 domineering way which Hugh never quite threw o£P in 
 his intercourse with his brother. And Archie, as he 
 went along, resolved that when Lady Ongar's money 
 was his, and when he had a countess for his wife, he 
 would give his elder brother a cold shoulder. 
 
 Boodle was playing pool at the Rag, and Archie 
 joined him-, but pool is a game which hardly admits 
 of confidential intercourse as to proposed \7ives, and 
 Archie was obliged to remain quiet on that subject all 
 the afternoon. He cunningly, however, lost a little 
 money to Boodle, for Boodle liked to win, — and 
 engaged himself to dine at the same table with his 
 
LET HER KNOW THAT YOU'rE THERE. 
 
 247 
 
 friend. Their dinner they ate almost in silence, — 
 unless when they abused the cook, or made to each 
 other some pithy suggestion as to the expediency of 
 this or that delicacy, — bearing always steadily in 
 view the cost as well as desirability of the viands. 
 Boodle had no shame in not having this or that be- 
 cause it was dear. To dine with the utmost luxury at 
 the smallest expense was a proficiency belonging to 
 him, and of which he was very proud. 
 
 But after a while the cloth was gone, and the heads 
 of the two men were brought near together over the 
 small table. Boodle did not speak a word till his 
 brother captain had told his story, had pointed out all 
 the advantages to be gained, explained in what peculiar 
 way the course lay open to himself, and made the 
 whole thing clear to his friend's eye. 
 
 ^'They say she's been a little queer, don't they?" 
 said the friendly counsellor. 
 
 "Of course people talk, you know." 
 
 ^'Talk, yes*, they're talking a doosed sight, I 
 should say. There's no mistake about the money, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, none," said Archie, shaking his head vigor- 
 ously. "Hugh managed all that for her, so I know it." 
 
 "She don't lose any of it because she enters her- 
 self for running again, does she?" 
 
 "Not a shilling. That's the beauty of it." 
 
 "Was you ever sweet on her before?" 
 
 "What! before Ongar took her? 0 laws, no. She 
 
 hadn't a rap, you know; and knew how to spend 
 
 money as well as any girl in London." 
 
 "It's all to begin then, Clavvy; all the up-hill work 
 to be done?" 
 
24R 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "Well, yes*, I don't know about up-MU, Doodles. 
 What do you mean by up-bill?" 
 
 "I mean that seven thousand a year ain't usually 
 to be picked up merely by trotting easy along the flat. 
 And this sort of work is very up-hill generally, I take 
 it; — unless, you know, a fellow has a fancy for it. 
 If a fellow is really sweet on a girl, he likes it, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " She's a doosed handsome woman , you know, 
 Doodles." 
 
 "I don't know anything about it, except thai I 
 suppose Ongar wouldn't have taken her if she hain't 
 stood well on her pasterns, and had some breeding 
 about her. I never thought much of her sister, — 
 your brother's wife, you know, — that is m the 
 way of looks. No doubt she runs straight, and that's 
 a great thing. She wont go the wrong side of the 
 post." 
 
 "As for running straight, let me alone for that." 
 
 "Well, now, Clavvy, I'll tell you what my ideas 
 are. When a man's trying a young filly, his hands 
 can't be too light. A touch too much will bring her 
 on her haunches, or throw her out of her step. She 
 should hardly feel the iron in her mouth. That's the 
 sort of work which requires a man to know well what 
 he's about. But when I've got to do with a trained, 
 mare, I always choose that she shall know that I'm 
 there! Do you understand me?" 
 
 "Yes*, I understand you. Doodles." 
 
 "I always choose that she shall know that I'm 
 there." And Captain Boodle, as he repeated these 
 manly words with a firm voice, put out his hands as 
 though he were handling the horse's rein, "Their 
 
LET HER KNOW THAT YOu'rE THERE. 249 
 
 mouths are never so fine then, and thej generally want 
 to be brought up to the bit, d'ye see ? — up to the bit. 
 When a mare has been trained to her work, and knows 
 what she's at in her running, she's all the better for 
 feeling a fellow's hands as she's going. She likes it 
 rather. It gives her confidence, and makes her know 
 where she is. And look here, Clavvy, when she comes 
 to her fences, give her her head; but steady her first, 
 and make her know that you're there. Damme, what- 
 ever you do, let her know that you're there. There's 
 nothing like it. She'll think all the more of the fellow 
 that's piloting her. And look here, Clavvy; ride her 
 with spurs. Always ride a trained mare with spurs. 
 Let her know that they're on; and if she tries to get 
 her head, give 'em her. Yes, by George, give 'em 
 her." And Captain Boodle in his energy twisted him- 
 self in his chair, and brought his heel round, so that 
 it could be seen by Archie. Then he produced a 
 sharp click with his tongue, and made the peculiar jerk 
 with the muscle of his legs, whereby he was accustomed 
 to evoke the agility of his horses. After that he looked 
 triumphantly at his friend. "Give 'em her, Clavvy, 
 and she'll like you the better for it. She'll know then 
 that you mean it." 
 
 It was thus that Captain Boodle instructed his 
 friend Archie Clavering how to woo Lady Ongar; and 
 Archie, as he listened to his friend's words of wisdom, 
 felt that he had learned a great deal. "That's the 
 way I'll do it. Doodles," he said, "and upon my word 
 I'm very much obliged to you." 
 
 "That's the way, you may depend on it. Let her 
 know that you're there. — Let her know that you're 
 
250 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 there. She's done the filly work before, you see; and 
 it's no good trying that again." 
 
 Captain Clavering really believed that he had 
 learned a good deal, and that he now knew the way 
 to set about the work before him. What sort of spurs 
 he was to use, and how he was to put them on, I don't 
 think he did know; but that was a detail as to which 
 he did not think it necessary to consult his adviser. 
 He sat the whole evening in the smoking-room, very 
 silent, drinking slowly iced gin-and-water; and the 
 more he drank the more assured he felt that he now 
 understood the way in which he was to attempt the 
 work before him. "Let her know I'm there," he said 
 to himself, shaking his head gently, so that no one 
 should observe him; "yes, let her know I'm there." 
 At this time Captain Boodle, or Doodles as he was 
 familiarly called, had again ascended to the billiard- 
 room and was hard at work. "Let her know that I'm 
 there," repeated Archie, mentally. Everything was 
 contained in that precept. And he, with his hands be- 
 fore him on his knees, went through the process of 
 steadying a horse with the snaffle-rein, just touching 
 the curb, as he did so, for security. It was but a mo- 
 tion of his fingers and no one could see it, but it made 
 him confident that he had learned his lesson. "Up to 
 the bit," he repeated; "by George, yes; up to the bit. 
 There's nothing like it for a trained mare. Give her 
 her head, but steady her." And Archie, as the words 
 passed across his memory and were almost pronounced, 
 seemed to be flying successfully over some prodigious 
 fence. He leaned himself back a little in the saddle, 
 and seemed to hold firm with his legs. That was the 
 way to do it. And then the spurs! He would not 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERING MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 251 
 
 forget the spurs. She should know that he wore a 
 spur, and that, if necessary, he would use it. Then 
 he, too, gave a little click with his tongue, and an 
 acute observer might have seen the motion of his 
 heel. 
 
 Two hours after that he was still sitting in the 
 smoking-room, chewing the end of a cigar, when 
 Doodles came down victorious from the billiard-room. 
 Archie was half asleep, and did not notice the entrance 
 of his friend. ''Let her know that youVe there,'' said 
 Doodles, close into Archie Clavering's ear. — "Damme, 
 let her know that you're there." Archie started and 
 did not like the surprise, or the warm breath in his 
 ear-, but he forgave the offence for the wisdom of the 
 words that had been spoken. 
 
 Then he walked home by himself, repeating again 
 and again the invaluable teachings of his friend. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIIL 
 
 Captain Clavering makes his First Attempt. 
 
 During breakfast on the following day, — which 
 means from the hour of one till two, for the glasses of 
 iced gin-and-water had been many, — Archie Claver- 
 ing was making up his mind that he would begin at 
 once. He would go to Bolton Street on that day, and 
 make an attempt to be admitted. If not admitted to- 
 day he would make another attempt to-morrow, and, 
 if still unsuccessful, he would write a letter; not a letter 
 containing an offer, which according to Archie's ideas 
 would not be letting her know that he was there in a 
 manner sufficiently potential, — but a letter in which 
 he would explain that he had very grave reasons for 
 
252 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 wishing to see Ms near and dear connexion, Lady 
 Ongar. Soon after two lie sallied out, and he also 
 went to a hairdresser's. He was aware that in doing 
 so he was hardly obeying his friend to the letter, as 
 this sort of operation would come rather under the 
 head of handling a filly with a light touch; but he 
 thought that he could in this way, at any rate, do no 
 harm, if he would only remember the instructions he 
 had received when in presence of the trained mare. It 
 was nearly three when he found himself in Bolton 
 Street, having calculated that Lady Ongar might be 
 more probably found at home then than at a later 
 hour. But when he came to the door, instead of 
 knocking he passed by it. He began to remember 
 that he had not yet made up his mind by what means 
 he would bring it about that she should certainly know 
 that he was there. So he took a little turn up the 
 street, away from Piccadilly, through a narrow passage 
 that there is in those parts, and by some stables, and 
 down into Piccadilly, and again to Bolton Street; dur- 
 ing which little tour he had made up his mind that it 
 could hardly become his duty to teach her that great 
 lesson on this occasion. She must undoubtedly be 
 taught to know that he was there, but not so taught 
 on this, his first visit. That lesson should quickly 
 precede his offer; and, although he had almost hoped 
 in the interval between two of his beakers of gin-and- 
 water on the preceding evening that he might ride the 
 race and win it altogether during this very morning 
 visit he was about to make, in his cooler moments he 
 had begun to reflect that that would hardly be prac- 
 ticable. The mare must get a gallop before she would 
 be in a condition to be brought out. So Ai'chie 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERING MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 253 
 
 knocked at the door, intending merely to give the mare 
 a gallop if he should find her in to-day. 
 
 He gave his name, and was shown at once up into 
 Lady Ongar's drawing-room. Lady Ongar was not 
 there, but she soon came down, and entered the room 
 with a smile on her face and with an outstretched 
 hand. Between the man-servant who took the captain's 
 name, and the maid-servant who carried it up to her 
 mistress, — but who did not see the gentleman before 
 she did so, there had arisen some mistake, and Lady 
 Ongar, as she came down from her chamber above ex- 
 pected that she was to meet another man. Harry 
 Clavering, she thought, had come to her at last. "I'll 
 be down at once," Lady Ongar had said, dismissing 
 the girl and then standing for a moment before her 
 mirror as she smoothed her hair, obliterated as far as 
 it might be possible the ugliness of her cap, and shook 
 out the folds of her dress. A countess, a widow, a 
 woman of the world who had seen enough to make 
 her composed under all circumstances, one would say, 
 — a iirained mare as Doodles had called her , — she 
 stood before her glass doubting and trembling like a 
 girl, when she heard that Harry Clavering was wait- 
 ing for her below. We may surmise that she would 
 have spared herself some of this trouble had she 
 known the real name of her visitor. Then, as she 
 came slowly down the stairs, she reflected how she 
 would receive him. He had stayed away from her, 
 and she would be cold to him, — cold and formal as 
 she had been on the railway platform. She knew well 
 how to play that part. Yes-, it was his turn now to 
 show some eagerness of friendship, if there was ever to 
 be anything more than friendship between them. But 
 
254 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 she changed all this as she put her hand upon the lock 
 of the door. She would be honest to him, — honest 
 and true. She was in truth glad to see him, and he 
 should know it. What cared she now for the common 
 ways of women and the usual coynesses of feminine 
 coquetry? She told herself also, in language somewhat 
 differing from that which Doodles had used, that her 
 filly days were gone by, and that she was now a 
 trained mare. All this passed through her mind as her 
 hand was on the door; and then she opened it, with a 
 smiling face and ready hand, to find herself in the pre- 
 sence of — Captain Archie Clavering. 
 
 The captain was sharp-sighted enough to observe 
 the change in her manner. The change, indeed, was 
 visible enough, and was such that it at once knocked 
 out of Archie's breast some portion of the courage with 
 which his friend's lessons had inspired him. The out- 
 stretched hand fell slowly to her side, the smile gave 
 place to a look of composed dignity which made 
 Archie at once feel that the fate which called upon 
 him to woo a countess was in itself hard. And she 
 walked slowly into the room before she spoke to him, 
 or he to her. 
 
 "Captain Clavering!" she said at last, and there 
 was much more of surprise than of welcome in her 
 words as she uttered them. 
 
 ''Yes, Lady On — , Julia, that is*, I thought I 
 might as well come and call, as I found we weren't to 
 see you at Clavering when we were all there at 
 Easter." When she had been living in his brother's 
 house as one of the family he had called her Julia, as 
 Hugh had done. The connection between them had 
 been close, and it had come naturally to him to do so, 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERINa MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 255 
 
 He had thought much of this since his present project 
 had been initiated, and had strongly resolved not to 
 lose the advantage of his former familiarity. He had 
 very nearly broken down at the onset, but, as the 
 reader will have observed, had recovered himself. 
 
 "You are very good," she said; and then as he 
 had been some time standing with his right hand pre- 
 sented to her, she just touched it with her own. 
 
 "There's nothing I hate so much as stuff and non- 
 sense," said Archie. To this remark she simply 
 bowed, remaining awfully quiet. Captain Clavering 
 felt that her silence was in truth awful. She had al- 
 ways been good at talking, and he had paused for her 
 to say something; but when she bowed to him in that 
 stiff manner,' — "doosed stiff she was; doosed stiff, and 
 impudent too," he told Doodles afterwards; — he knew 
 that he must go on himself. "Stuff and nonsense is 
 the mischief, you know." Then she bowed again. 
 "There's been something, the matter with them all 
 down at Clavering since you came home, Julia; but 
 hang me if I can find out what it is!" Still she was 
 silent. "It ain't Hermy; that I must say. Hermy al- 
 ways speaks of you as though there had never been 
 anything wrong." This assurance, we may say, must 
 have been flattering to the lady whom he was about 
 to court. 
 
 "Hermy was always too good to me," said Lady 
 Ongar, smiling. 
 
 "By George, she always does. If there's anything 
 wrong it's been with Hugh; and, by George, I don't 
 know what it is he was up to when you first came 
 home. It wasn't my doing; — of course you know 
 that." 
 
256 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "I never thought that anything was your doing, 
 Captain Clavering." ^ 
 
 "I think Hugh had been losing money, I do in- 
 deed. He was like a bear with a sore head just at 
 that time. There was no living in the house with 
 him. I daresay Hermy may have told you all about 
 that." 
 
 ^'Hermione is not by nature so communicative as 
 you are, Captain Clavering." 
 
 "Isn't she? I should have thought between sisters 
 — but of course that's no business of mine." Again 
 she was silent, awfully silent, and he became aware 
 that he must either get up and go away or carry on 
 the conversation himself. To do either seemed to be 
 equally difficult, and for a while he sat there almost 
 gasping in his misery. He was quite aware that as 
 yet he had not made her know that he was there. He 
 was not there, as he well knew, in his friend Doodles' 
 sense of the word. "At any rate there isn't any good 
 in quarrelling, is there, Julia?" he said at last. Now 
 that he had asked a question, surely she must speak. 
 
 "There is great good sometimes I think," said she, 
 "in people remaining apart and not seeing each other. 
 Sir Hugh Clavering has not quarrelled with me, that 
 I am aware. Indeed, since my marriage there have 
 been no means of quarrelling between us. But I think 
 it quite as well that he and I should not come to- 
 gether." 
 
 "But he particularly wants you to go to Claver- 
 ing." 
 
 "Has he sent you here as his messenger?" 
 "Sent me! oh dear no; nothing of that sort. I have 
 come altogether on my own hook. If Hugh wants a 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERlNa MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 257 
 
 messenger lie must find some one else. But you and 
 I were always friends you know," — at this assertion 
 she opened her large eyes widely, and simply smiled; 
 — ^'and I thought that perhaps you might be glad to 
 see me if I called. That was all." 
 
 ''You are very good. Captain Clavering." 
 
 ''I couldn't bear to think that you should be here 
 in London, and that one shouldn't see anything of you 
 or know anything about you. Tell me now, is there 
 anything I can do for you? Do you want anybody 
 to settle anything for you in the City?" 
 
 "I think not, Captain Clavering; thank you very 
 much." 
 
 "Because I should be so happy; I should indeed. 
 There's nothing I should like so much as to make my- 
 self useful in some way. Isn't there anything now? 
 There must be so much to be looked after, — about 
 money and all that." 
 
 ''My lawyer does all that, Captain Clavering." 
 
 "Those follows are such harpies. There is no end 
 to their charges; and all for doing things that would 
 only be a pleasure to me." 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't employ you in any matter that 
 would suit your tastes." 
 
 "Can't you indeed, now?" Then again there was 
 a silence, and Captain Clavering was beginning to think 
 that he must go. He was willing to work hard at 
 talking or anything else; but he could not work if no 
 ground for starting were allowed to him. He thought 
 he must go, though he was aware that he had not 
 made even the slightest preparation for future obe- 
 dience to his friend's precepts. He began to feel that 
 he had commenced wrongly. He should have made 
 
 The Claverings, 1. 17 
 
258 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 her know that he was there from the first moment of 
 her entrance into the room. He must retreat now in 
 order that he might advance with more force on the 
 next occasion. He had just made up his mind to this 
 and was doubting how he might best get himself out 
 of his chair with the purpose of going, when sudden 
 relief came in the shape of another visitor. The door 
 was thrown open and Madame Gordeloup was announced. 
 
 "Well, my angel,'' said the little woman, running 
 up to her friend and kissing her on either side of her 
 face. Then she turned round as though she had only 
 just seen the strange gentleman, and curtseyed to him. 
 Captain Clavering, holding his hat in both his hands, 
 bowed to the little woman. 
 
 "My sister's brother-in-law. Captain Clavering," 
 said Lady Ongar. "Madame Gordeloup." 
 
 Captain Clavering bowed again. ''Ah, Sir Go's 
 brother," said Madame Gordeloup. "I am very glad 
 to see Captain Clavering: and is your sister come?" 
 
 "No-, my sister is not come." 
 
 "Lady Clavering is not in town this spring," said 
 the captain. 
 
 "Ah, not in town! Then I do pity her. There is 
 only de one place to live in, and that is London, for 
 April, May, and June. Lady Clavering is not coming 
 to London?" 
 
 "Her little boy isn't quite the thing," said the 
 captain. 
 
 "Not quite de ting?" said the Franco-Pole in an 
 inquiring voice, not exactly understanding the gentle- 
 man's language. 
 
 "My little nephew is ill, and my sister does not 
 think it wise to bring him to London.'' 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERINa MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 259 
 
 "Ah*, that is a pity. And Sir Oo? Sir Oo is in 
 London?" 
 
 "Yes,'' said tlie captain; "my brother has been up 
 some time." 
 
 "And his lady left alone in the country? Poor 
 lady! But your English ladies like the country. They 
 are fond of the fields and the daisies. So they say; 
 but I think often they lie. Me ; I like the houses, and 
 the people, and the pav^. The fields are damp, and 
 I love not rheumatism at all." Then the little woman 
 shrugged her shoulders and shook herself. "Tell us 
 the truth, Julie; which do you like best, the town or 
 the country^" 
 
 "Whichever I'm not in, I think." 
 
 "Ah, just so. Whichever you are not in at pre- 
 sent. That is because you are still idle. You have 
 not settled yourself?" At this reference to the possi- 
 bility of Lady Ongar settling herself. Captain Claver- 
 ing pricked up his ears, and listened eagerly for what 
 might come next. He only knew of one way in which 
 a young woman without a husband could settle her- 
 self "You must wait, my dear, a little longer, 
 just a little longer, till the time of your trouble has 
 passed by." 
 
 "Don't talk such nonsense, Sophie," said the coun- 
 tess. 
 
 "Ah, my dear, it is no nonsense. I am always 
 telling her. Captain Clavering, that she must go through 
 this black, troublesome time as quick as she can; and 
 then nobody will enjoy the town so much as de rich 
 and beautiful Lady Ongar Is it not so, Captain Cla- 
 vering?" 
 
 Archie thought that the time had now come for 
 
 17* 
 
260 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 him to say something pretty, so that his love mi^ht 
 begin to know that he was there. "By George, yes, 
 there'll be nobody so much admired when she comes 
 out again. There never was anybody so much ad- 
 mired' before, — before, — that is, when you were 
 Julia Brabazon, you know; and I shouldn't wonder if 
 you didn't come out quite as strong as ever." 
 
 "As strong!" said the Franco-Pole. "A woman 
 that has been married is always more admired than a 
 meess." 
 
 "Sophie, might I ask you and Captain Clavering 
 to be a little less personal?" 
 
 "There is noting I hate so much as your meesses," 
 continued Madame Gordeloup*, "noting! Your English 
 meesses give themselves such airs. Now in Paris, or 
 in dear Vienna, or in St. Petersburg, they are not like 
 that at all. There they are nobodies — they are no- 
 bodies; but then they will be something very soon, 
 which is to be better. Your English meess is so much 
 and so grand, she never can be greater and grander. 
 So when she is a mamma, she lives down in the 
 country by herself, and looks after de pills and de 
 powders. I don't like that. I don't like that at all. 
 No; if my husband had put me into the country to 
 look after de pills and de powders, he should have had 
 them all, all — himself, when he came to see me." 
 As she said this with great energy, she opened her 
 eyes wide, and looked full into Archie's face. 
 
 Captain Clavering, who was sitting with his hat in 
 his two hands between his knees, stared at the little 
 foreigner. He had heard before of women poisoning 
 their husbands, but never had heard a woman advocate 
 the system as expedient. Nor had he often heard a 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERINa MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 261 
 
 woman advocate any system with the vehemence which 
 Madame Gordeloup now displayed on this matter, and 
 with an allusion which was so very pointed to the 
 special position of his own sister-in-law. Did Lady 
 Ongar agree with her? He felt as though he should 
 like to know his Julia's opinions on that matter. 
 
 "Sophie, Captain Clavering will think you are in 
 earnest," said the countess, laughing. 
 
 " So I am — in earnest. It is all wrong. You boil 
 all the water out of de pot before you put the gigot 
 into it. So the gigot is no good, is tough and dry, and 
 you shut it up in an old house in the country. Then, 
 to make matters pretty, you talk about de fields and 
 de daisies. I know. ^ Thank you,' I should say. 'De 
 fields and de daisies are so nice and so good! Suppose 
 you go down, my love, and walk in the fields, and 
 pick de daisies, and send them up to me by de railway ! ' 
 Yes, that is what I would say." 
 
 Captain Clavering was now quite in the dark, and 
 began to regard the little woman as a lunatic. When 
 she spoke of the pot and the gigot he vainly endea- 
 voured to follow her-, and now that she had got among 
 the daisies he was 'more at a loss than ever. Fruit, 
 vegetables, and cut flowery came up, he knew, to London 
 regularly from Clavering, when the family was in town; 
 — but no daisies. In France it must, he supposed, be 
 different. He was aware, however, of his ignorance, 
 and said nothing. 
 
 ''No one ever did try to shut you up, Sophie?" 
 
 "No, indeed; M. Gordeloup knew better. What 
 would he do if I were shut up? And no one will ever 
 shut you up, my dear. If I were you, I would give 
 no one a chance." 
 
262 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Don't say that," said the captain, almost passion- 
 ately; "don't say that." 
 
 "Ha, ha! but I do say it. Why should a woman 
 who has got everything marry again? If she wants 
 de fields and de daisies she has got them of her own 
 
 — yes, of her own. If she wants de town, she has 
 got that too. Jewels, — she can go and buy them. 
 Coaches, — there they are. Parties, — one, two, 
 three, every night, as many as she please. Gentlemen 
 who will be her humble slaves; such a plenty, — all 
 London. Or, if she want to be alone, no one can come 
 near her. Why should she marry? No." 
 
 "But she might be in love with somebody," said 
 the captain, in a surprised but humble tone. 
 
 "Love! Bah! Be in love, so that she may be 
 shut up in an old barrack with de powders!" The 
 way in which that word barrack was pronounced, and 
 the middle letters sounded, almost lifted the captain off 
 his seat. "Love is very pretty at seventeen, when the 
 imagination is telling a parcel of lies, and when life is 
 one dream. To like people, — oh, yes*, to be very 
 fond of your friends, — oh, yes; to be most attached, 
 
 — as I am to my Julie," — here she got hold of Lady 
 Ongar's hand, — "it is the salt of life! But what you 
 call love, booing and cooing, with rhymes and verses 
 about de moon, it is to go back to pap and panade, 
 and what you call bibs. No ; if a woman wants a house, 
 and de something to live on, let her marry a husband; 
 or if a man want to have children, let him marry a 
 wife. But to be shut up in a country house, when every- 
 thing you have got of your own, — I say it is bad." 
 
 Captain Clavering was heartily sorry that he had 
 mentioned the fact of his sister-in-law being left at home 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERINa MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 263 
 
 at Clavering Park. It was most unfortunate. How 
 could lie make it understood tkat if lie were married 
 lie would not think of shutting his wife up at Ongar 
 Park? "Lady Clavering, you know, does come to 
 London generally," he said. 
 
 "Bah!" exclaimed the little Franco-Pole. 
 
 "And as for me, I never should be happy, if I were 
 married, unless I had my wife with me everywhere," 
 said Captain Clavering. 
 
 "Bah-ah-ali!" ejaculated the lady. 
 
 Captain Clavering could not endure this any longer. 
 He felt that the manner of the lady was, to say the 
 least of it, unpleasant, and he perceived that he was 
 doing no good to his own cause. So he rose from his 
 chair and muttered some words with the intention of 
 showing his purpose of departure. 
 
 "Grood-by, Captain Clavering," said Lady Ongar. 
 "My love to my sister when you see her." 
 
 Archie shook hands with her and then made his 
 bow to Madame Gordeloup. 
 
 "Au revoir, my friend," she said, "and you re- 
 member all I say. It is not good for de wife to be all 
 alone in the country, while de husband walk about in 
 the town and make an eye to every lady he see." 
 Archie would not trust himself to renew the argument, 
 but bowing again, made his way off. 
 
 "He was come for one admirer," said Sophie, as 
 soon as the door was closed. 
 
 "An admirer of whom?" 
 
 "Not of me; — oh, no*, I was not in danger at 
 all." 
 
 "Of me? Captain Clavering! Sophie, you get your 
 head full of the strangest nonsense." 
 
264 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Ah; very well. You see. What will you give 
 me if I am right? Will you bet? Why had he got 
 on his new gloves, and had his head all smelling with 
 stuff from de hairdresser? Does he come always per- 
 fumed like that? Does he wear shiny little boots to 
 walk about in de morning, and make an eye always? 
 Perhaps yes." 
 
 "I never saw his boots or his eyes." 
 
 "But I see them. I see many things. He come to 
 have Ongere Park for his own. I tell you, yes. Ten 
 thousand will come to have Ongere Park. Why not? 
 To have Ongere Park and all de money a man will 
 make himself smell a great deal." 
 
 "You think much more about all that than is ne- 
 cessary." 
 
 "Do I, my dear? Very well. There are three 
 already. There is Edouard, and there is this Claver- 
 ing who you say is a captain; and there is the other 
 Clavering who goes with his nose in the air, and who 
 think himself a clever fellow because he learned his 
 lesson at school and did not get himself whipped. He 
 will be whipped yet some day, — perhaps." 
 
 "Sophie, hold your tongue. Captain Clavering is 
 my sister's brother-in-law, and Harry Clavering is my 
 friend." 
 
 "Ah, friend! I know what sort of friend he wants 
 to be. How much better to have a park and plenty of 
 money than to work in a ditch and make a railway! 
 But he do not know the way with a woman. Perhaps 
 he may be more at home, as you say, in the ditch. I 
 should say to him, 'My friend, you will do well in 
 de ditch if you work hard; — suppose you stay 
 there.'" 
 
CAPTAIN CLAVERING MAKES HIS FIRST ATTEMPT. 265 
 
 "You don't seem to like my cousin, and if you 
 please, we will talk no more about him." 
 
 "Why should I not like him? He don't want to 
 get any money from me." 
 
 "That will do, Sophie." 
 
 "Very well; it shall do for me. But this other man 
 that come here to-day. He is a fool." 
 "Very likely." 
 
 "He did not learn his lesson without whipping." 
 "Nor with whipping either." 
 
 "No; he have learned nothing. He does not know 
 what to do with his hat. He is a fool. Come, Julie, 
 will you take me out for a drive? It is melancholy 
 for you to go alone; I came to ask you for a drive. 
 Shall we go?" And they did go, Lady Ongar and 
 Sophie Gordeloup together. Lady Ongar, as she sub- 
 mitted, despised herself for her submission; but what 
 was she to do? It is sometimes very difficult to escape 
 from the meshes of friendship. 
 
 Captain Clavering, when he left Bolton Street, went 
 down to his club, having first got rid of his shining 
 boots and new gloves. He sauntered up into the billiard- 
 room knowing that his friend would be there, and there 
 he found Doodles with his coat ofP, the sleeves of his 
 shirt turned back, and armed with his cue. His brother 
 captain, the moment that he saw him, presented the 
 cue at his breast. "Does she know you're there, old 
 fellow? I say, does she know you're there?" The 
 room was full of men, and the whole thing was done 
 so publicly that Captain Clavering was almost ofi*ended. 
 
 "Come, Doodles, you go on with your game," said 
 he; "it's you to play." Doodles turned to the table, 
 and scientifically pocketed the ball on which he played; 
 
266 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 then he laid his own ball close under the cushion, picked 
 up a shilling and put it into his waistcoat pocket, hold- 
 ing a lighted cigar in his mouth the while, and then 
 he came back to his friend. "Well, Clavvy, how has 
 it been?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing as yet, you know." 
 
 "Haven't you seen her?" 
 
 "Yes, IVe seen her, of course. Fm not the fellow 
 to let the grass grow under my feet. IVe only just 
 come from her house." 
 
 "Well, well?" 
 
 "That's nothing much to tell the first day, you 
 know." 
 
 "Did you let her know you were there? That's 
 the chat. Damme, did you let her know you were 
 there?" 
 
 In answer to this Archie attempted to explain that 
 he was not as yet quite sure that he had been success- 
 ful in that particular*, but in the middle of his story 
 Captain Doodles was called off to exercise his skill 
 again, and on this occasion to pick up two shillings. 
 "I'm sorry for you, Griggs," he said, as a very young 
 lieutenant, whose last life he had taken, put up his cue 
 with a look of ineffable disgust, and whose shilling 
 Doodles had pocketed; "I'm sorry for you, very; but a 
 fellow must play the game, you know." Whereupon 
 Grriggs walked out of the room with a gait that seemed 
 to show that he had his own ideas upon that matter, 
 though he did not choose to divulge them. Doodles 
 instantly returned to his friend. "With cattle of that 
 kind it's no use trying the waiting dodge," said he. 
 "You should make your running at once, and trust to 
 Tbottom to carry you through." 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 2G7 
 
 "But there was a horrid little Frenchwoman came 
 
 in." 
 
 "What; a servant?" 
 
 "No; a friend. Such a creature! You should have 
 heard her talk. A kind of confidential friend she seemed, 
 who called her Julie. I had to go away and leave her 
 there, of course." 
 
 "Ah! you'll have to tip that woman." 
 
 "What, with money?" 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder." 
 
 "It would come very expensive." 
 
 "A tenner now and then, you know. She would 
 do your business for you. Give her a brooch first, and 
 then offer to lend her the money. You'd find she'll 
 rise fast enough, if you're any hand for throwing a 
 
 fly-" 
 
 "Oh! I could do it, you know." 
 
 "Do it then, and let 'em both know that you're 
 there. Yes, Parkyns, I'll divide. And, Clavvy, you 
 can come in now in Griggs' place." Then Captain 
 Clavering stripped himself for the battle. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The Blue Posts. 
 
 "Oh; so you 'ave come to see me. I am so glad." 
 With these words Sophie Gordeloup welcomed Harry 
 Clavering to her room in Mount Street early one morn- 
 ing not long aft^r her interview with Captain Archie 
 in Lady Ongar's presence. On the previous evening 
 Harry had received a note from Lady Ongar, in which 
 she upbraided him for having left unperformed her 
 commission with reference to Count Pateroff. The 
 
268 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 letter had begun quite abruptly. "I think it unkind 
 of you that you do not come to me. I asked you to 
 see a certain person on my behalf, and you have not 
 done so. Twice he has been here. Once I was in 
 truth out. He came again the next evening at nine, 
 and I was then ill, and had gone to bed. You under- 
 stand it all, and must know how this annoys me. I 
 thought you would have done this for me, and I 
 thought I should have seen you. — J." This note he 
 found at his lodgings when he returned home at night, 
 and on the following morning he went in his despair 
 direct to Mount Street, on his way to the Adelphi. It 
 was not yet ten o'clock when he was shown into 
 Madame Grordeloup's presence, and as regarded her 
 dress he did not find her to be quite prepared for 
 morning visitors. But he might well be indifferent on 
 that matter as the lady seemed to disregard the cir- 
 cumstances altogether. On her head she wore what he 
 took to be a nightcap, though I will not absolutely 
 undertake to say that she had slept in that very head- 
 dress. There were frills to it, and a certain attempt 
 at prettiness had been made; but then the attempt had 
 been made so long ago, and the frills were so ignorant 
 of starch and all frillish propensities, that it hardly 
 could pretend to decency. A great white wrapper she 
 also wore, which might not have been objectionable 
 had it not been so long worn that it looked like a 
 university college surplice at the end of the long vaca- 
 tion. Her slippers had all the ease which age could 
 give them, and above' the slippers, neatness, to say the 
 least of it, did not predominate. But Sophie herself 
 seemed to be quite at her ease in spite of these de- 
 ficiencies, and received our hero with an eager pointed 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 269 
 
 welcome, which I can hardly describe as affectionate, 
 and which Harry did not at all understand. 
 
 "I have to apologize for troubling you/' he began. 
 Trouble, what trouble? Bah! You give me no 
 trouble. It is you have the trouble to come here. You 
 come early and I have not got my crinoline. If you 
 are contented so am I." Then she smiled, and sat her- 
 self down suddenly, letting herself almost fall into her 
 special corner in the sofa. ''Take a chair, Mr. Harry, 
 then we can talk more comfortable." 
 
 "I want especially to see your brother. Can you 
 give me his address?" 
 
 "What? Edouard — certainly; Travellers' Club." 
 
 "But he is never there." 
 
 "He sends every day for his letters. You want to 
 see him. Why?" 
 
 Harry was at once confounded, having no answer. 
 "A little private business," he said. 
 
 "Ah; a little private business. You do not owe 
 him a little money, I am afraid, or you would not 
 want to see him. Ha, ha! You write to him, and he 
 will see you. There; — there is paper and pen and 
 ink. He shall get your letter this day." 
 
 Harry, nothing suspicious, did as he was bid, and 
 wrote a note in which he simply told the count that 
 he was specially desirous of seeing him. 
 
 "I will go to you anywhere," said Harry, "if you 
 will name a place." 
 
 We, knowing Madame Gordeloup's habits, may feel 
 little doubt but that she thought it her duty to become 
 acquainted with the contents of the note before she 
 sent it out of her house, but we may also know that 
 she learned very little from it. 
 
270 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "It shall go, almost immediately," said Sophie, when 
 the envelope was closed. 
 
 Then Harry got up to depart, having done his 
 work. "What, you are going in that way at once? 
 You are in a hurry?" 
 
 "Well, yes; I am in a hurry, rather, Madame 
 Gordeloup. I have got to be at my office, and I 
 only just came up here to find out your brother's ad- 
 dress." Then he rose and went, leaving the note be- 
 hind him. 
 
 Then Madame Gordeloup, speaking to herself in 
 French, called Harry Clavering a lout, a fool, an awk- 
 ward overgrown boy, and a pig. She declared him to 
 be a pig nine times over, then shook herself in violent 
 disgust, and after that betook herself to the letter. 
 
 The letter was at any rate duly sent to the count, 
 for before Harry had left Mr. Beilby's chambers on 
 that day, PaterofP came to him there. Harry sat in the 
 same room with other men, and therefore went out to 
 see his acquaintance in a little antechamber that was 
 used for such purposes. As he walked from one room 
 to the other, he was conscious of the delicacy and dif- 
 ficulty of the task before him, and the colour was high 
 in his face as he opened the door. But when he had 
 done so, he saw that the count was not alone. A 
 gentleman was with him, whom he did not introduce 
 to Harry, and before whom Harry could not say that 
 which he had to communicate. 
 
 "Pardon me," said the count, "but we are in 
 railroad hurry. Nobody ever was in such a haste as 
 I and my friend. You are not engaged to-morrow? 
 No, T see. You dine with me and my friend at the 
 Blue Posts. You know the Blue Posts?" 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 271 
 
 Harry said he did not know the Blue Posts. 
 
 "Then you shall know the Blue Posts. I will be 
 your instructor. You drink claret. Come and see. 
 You eat beefsteaks? Come and try. You love one 
 glass of port wine with your cheese? No. But you 
 shall love it when you have dined with me at the Blue 
 Posts. We will dine altogether after the English way, 
 — which is the best way in the world when it is quite 
 good. It is quite good at the Blue Posts*, — quite 
 good! Seven o'clock. You are fined when a minute 
 late; an extra glass of port wine a minute. Now I 
 must go. Ah; yes. I am ruined already." 
 
 Then Count Pateroff, holding his watch in his 
 hand, bolted out of the room before Harry could say 
 a word to him. 
 
 He had nothing for it but to go to the dinner, and 
 to the dinner he went. On that same evening, the 
 evening of the day on which he had seen Sophie and 
 her brother, he wrote to Lady Ongar, using to her the 
 same manner of writing that she had used to him, and 
 telling her that he had done his best, that he had now 
 seen him whom he had been desired to see, but that 
 he had not been able to speak to him. He was, how- 
 ever, to dine with him on the following day, — and 
 would call in Bolton Street as soon as possible after 
 that interview. 
 
 Exactly at seven o'clock, Harry, having the fear of 
 the threatened fine before his eyes, was at the Blue 
 Posts; and there standing in the middle of the room, 
 he saw Count Paterojff. TV^ith Count Pateroff was the 
 same gentleman whom Harry had seen at the Adelphi, 
 and whom the count now introduced as Colonel Schmoff; 
 and also a little Englishman with a knowing eye and 
 
272 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 a bull-dog neck, and whiskers cut very short and trim, 
 — a horsey little man, whom the count also introduced. 
 ''Captain Boodle*, says he knows a cousin of yours, 
 Mr. Clavering." 
 
 Then Colonel Schmoff bowed, never yet having 
 spoken a word in Harry's hearing, and our old friend 
 Doodles with glib volubility told Harry how intimate 
 he was with Archie, and how he knew Sir Hu^^h, and 
 how he had met Lady Clavering, and how "doosed" 
 glad he was to meet Harry himself on this present 
 occasion. 
 
 "And now, my boys, we'll set down," said the 
 count. "There's just a little soup, printaniere yes, 
 they can make soup here *, then a cut of salmon and 
 after that the beefsteak. Nothing more. Schmoff, my 
 boy, can you eat beefsteak?" 
 
 Schmoff neither smiled nor spoke, but simply bowed 
 his head gravely, and sitting down, arranged with slow 
 exactness his napkin over his waistcoat and lap. 
 
 "Captain Boodle, can you eat beefsteak," said the 
 count; "Blue Posts' beefsteak?" 
 
 "Try me," said Doodles. "That's all. Try me." 
 
 "I will try you, and I will try Mr. Clavering. 
 Schmoff would eat a horse if he had not a bullock, 
 and a piece of a jackass if he had not a horse." 
 
 "I did eat a horse in Hamboro' once. We was 
 besieged." 
 
 So much said Schmoff, very slowly, in a deep bass 
 voice, speaking from the bottom of his chest, and 
 frowning very heavily as he did so. The exertion was 
 so great that he did not repeat it for a considerable 
 time. 
 
 "Thank God we are not besieged now," said the 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 273 
 
 count, as tlie soup was handed round to them. "Ah, 
 Albert, my friend, that is good soup; very good soup. 
 My compliments to the excellent Stubbs. Mr. Clavering, 
 the excellent Stubbs is the cook. I am quite at home 
 here and they do their best for me. You need not fear 
 you will have any of Schmoff's horse." 
 
 This was all very pleasant, and Harry Clavering 
 sat down to his dinner prepared to enjoy it *, but there 
 was a sense about him during the whole time that he 
 was being taken in and cheated, and that the count 
 would cheat him and actually escape away from him 
 on that evening without his being able to speak a word 
 to him. They were dining in a public room, at a large * 
 table which they had to themselves, while others were 
 dining at small tables round them. Even if Schmoff 
 and Boodle had not been there, he could hardly have 
 discussed Lady Ongar's private affairs in such a room 
 as that. The count had brought him there to dine in 
 this way with a premeditated purpose of throwing him 
 over, pretending to give him the meeting that had 
 been asked for, but intending that it should pass by 
 and be of no avail. Such was Harry's belief, and he 
 resolved that, though he might have to seize Pateroff 
 by the tails of his coat, the count should not escape 
 him without having been forced at any rate to hear 
 what he had to say. In the meantime the dinner went 
 on very pleasantly. 
 
 "Ah," said the count, "there is no fish like salmon 
 early in the year; but not too early. And it should 
 come alive from Grove, and be cooked by Stubbs." 
 
 "And eaten by me," said Boodle. 
 
 "Under my auspices," said the count, "and then 
 all is well. Mr. Clavering, a little bit near the head? 
 
 The Clnverings. I, 18 
 
274 
 
 THE CliAVBRINaS. 
 
 Not care about any particular part? That is wrong. 
 Everybody should always learn what is the best to eat 
 of everything, and get it if they can." 
 
 "By George, I should think so," said Doodles. "I 
 know I do." 
 
 "Not to know the bit out of the neck of the sal- 
 mon from any other bit, is not to know a false note 
 from a true one. Not to distinguish a '51 wine from 
 a '58, is to look at an arm or a leg on the canvas, 
 and to care nothing whether it is in drawing, or out of 
 drawing. Not to know Stubbs' beefsteak from other 
 beefsteaks, is to say that every woman is the same 
 thing to you. Only, Stubbs will let you have his beef- 
 steak if you will pay him, — him or his master. With 
 the beautiful woman it is not always so; — not always. 
 Do I make myself understood?" 
 
 "Clear as mud," said Doodles. "I'm quite along 
 with you there. Why should a man be ashamed of 
 eating what's nice. Everybody does it." 
 
 "No, Captain Boodle ; not everybody. Some can- 
 not get it, and some do not know it when it comes in 
 their way. They are to be pitied. I do pity them 
 from the bottom of my heart. But there is one poor 
 fellow I do pity more even than they." 
 
 There was something in the tone of the count's 
 words, — a simple pathos, and almost a melody, which 
 interested Harry Clavering. No one knew better than 
 Count Pateroff how to use all the inflexions of his 
 voice, and produce from the phrases he used the veiy 
 highest interest which they were capable of producing. 
 He now spoke of his pity in a way that might almost 
 have made a sensitive man weep. "Who is it that 
 jon pity so much?" Harry asked. 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 275 
 
 "The man who cannot digest," said the count, in a 
 low clear voice. Then he bent down his head over the 
 morsel of food on his plate, as though he were desirous 
 of hiding a tear. "The man who cannot digest!" As 
 he repeated the words he raised his head again, and 
 looked round at all their faces. 
 
 ''Yes, yes-, — mein Gott, yes," said Schmoff, and 
 even he appeared as though he were almost moved 
 from the deep quietude of his inward indifference. 
 
 "Ah; talk of blessings! What a blessing is diges- 
 tion!" said the count. "I do not know whether you 
 have ever thought of it. Captain Boodle? You are 
 young, and perhaps not. Or you, Mr. Clavering? It 
 is a subject worthy of your thoughts. To digest! Do 
 you know what it means. It is to have the sun always 
 shining', and the shade always ready for you. It is to 
 be met with smiles, and to be greeted with kisses. It 
 is to hear sweet sounds, to sleep with sweet dreams, to 
 be touched ever by gentle, soft, cool hands. It is to 
 be in paradise. Adam and Eve were in paradise. 
 Why? Their digestion was good. Ah! then they took 
 liberties, ate bad fruit, — things they could not digest. 
 They what we call ruined their constitutions, destroyed 
 their gastric juices, and then they were expelled from 
 paradise by an angel with a flaming sword. The angel 
 with the flaming sword, which turned two ways, was 
 indigestion ! There came a great indigestion upon the 
 earth because the cooks were bad, and they called it a 
 deluge. Ah, I thank God there is to be no more de- 
 luges. All the evils come from this. Macbeth could 
 not sleep. It was the supper, not the murder. His 
 wife talked and walked. It was the supper again. 
 Milton had a bad digestion, because he is always so 
 
 18 '-^ 
 
276 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 cross; and your Carlyle must have the worst digestion 
 in the world, because he never says any good of any- 
 thing. Ah, to digest is to be happy! Believe me, my 
 friends, there is no other way not to be turned out of 
 paradise by a fiery two-handed turning sword." 
 
 "It is true," said Schmoff-, "yes, it is true." 
 
 "I believe you," said Doodles. "And how well 
 the count describes it, don't he, Mr. Clavering? I never 
 looked at it in that light; but, after all, digestion is 
 everything. What is a horse worth, if he won't feed?" 
 
 "I never thought much about it," said Harry. 
 
 "That is very good," said the great preacher. "Not 
 to think about it ever is the best thing in the world. 
 You will be made to think about it if there be neces- 
 sity. A friend of mine told me he did not know 
 whether he had a digestion. My friend, I said, you 
 are like the husbandmen ; you do not know your own 
 blessings. A bit more steak, Mr. Clavering ; see it has 
 come up hot, just to prove that you have the blessing." 
 
 There was a pause in the conversation for a min- 
 ute or two, during which SchmofP and Doodles were 
 very busy giving the required proof; and the count 
 was leaning back in his chair, with a smile of conscious 
 wisdom on his face, looking as though he were in deep 
 consideration of the subject on which he had just 
 spoken with so much eloquence. Harry did not inter- 
 rupt the silence, as, foolishly, he was allowing his mind 
 to carry itself away from the scene of enjoyment that 
 was present, and trouble itself with the coming battle 
 which he would be obliged to fight with the count. 
 Schmoff was the first to speak. "When I was eating 
 a horse at Hamboro' — " he began. 
 
 "Schmoff," said the count, "if we allow you to get 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 277 
 
 behind the ramparts of that besieged city, we shall have 
 to eat that horse for the rest of the evening. Captain 
 Boodle, if you will believe me, I ate that horse once 
 for two hours. Ah, here is the port wine. Now, Mr. 
 Clavering, this is the wine for cheese; — '34. No man 
 should drink above two glasses of '34. If you want 
 port after that, then have '20." 
 
 Schmoff had certainly been hardly treated. He had 
 scarcely spoken a word during dinner, and should, I 
 think, have been allowed to say something of the flavour 
 of the horse. It did not, however, appear from his 
 countenance that he had felt, or that he resented the 
 interference*, though he did not make any further 
 attempt to enliven the conversation. 
 
 They did not sit long over their wine, and the 
 count, in spite of what he had said about the claret, 
 did not drink any. "Captain Boodle," he said, "you 
 must respect my weakness as well as my strength. I 
 know what I can do, and what I cannot. If I were 
 a real hero, like you English, — which means, if I 
 had an ostrich in my inside, — I would drink till twelve 
 every night, and eat broiled bones till six every morn- 
 ing. But alas! the ostrich has not been given to me. 
 As a common man I am pretty well, but I have no 
 heroic capacities. We will have a little chasse, and 
 then we will smoke." 
 
 Harry began to be very nervous. How was he to 
 do it? It had become clearer and clearer to him through 
 every ten minutes of the dinner, that the count did not 
 intend to give him any moment for private conversation. 
 He felt that he was cheaf ed and ill-used, and was wax- 
 ing angry. They were to go and smoke in a public 
 room, and he knew, or thought he knew, what that 
 
278 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS* 
 
 meant. The count would sit there till he went, and 
 had brought the Colonel Schmoff with him, so that he 
 might be sure of some ally to remain by his side and 
 ensure silence. And the count, doubtless, had calculated. 
 that when Captain Boodle went, as he soon would go,, 
 to his billiards, he, Harry Clavering, would feel him- 
 self compelled to go also. No! It should not result in 
 that way. Harry resolved that he would not go. He 
 had his mission to perform and he would perform it, 
 even if he were compelled to do so in the presence of 
 Colonel Schmoff. 
 
 Doodles soon went. He could not sit long with 
 the simple gratification of a cigar, without gin-and-water 
 or other comfort of that kind, even though the eloquence 
 of Count Pateroff might be excited in his favour. He 
 was a man, indeed, who did not love to sit still, even 
 with the comfort of gin-and-water. An active little 
 man was Captain Boodle, always doing something or 
 anxious to do something in his own line of businesso. 
 Small speculations in money, so concocted as to leave 
 the risk against him smaller than the chance on his 
 side, constituted Captain Boodle's trade; and in that 
 trade he was indefatigable, ingenious, and, to a certain 
 extent, successful. The worst of the trade was this; 
 that though he worked at it above twelve hours a day, 
 to the exclusion of all other interests in life, he could 
 only make out of it an income which would have been 
 considered a beggarly failure at any other profession. 
 When he netted a pound a day he considered himself 
 to have done very well; but he could not do that every 
 day in the week. To do it often required unremitting 
 exertion. And then, in spite of all his care, misfortunes; 
 would come. "A cursed garron, of whom nobody had^ 
 
THE BLUE POSTS* 
 
 279 
 
 ever heard the name! If a man mayn't take a liberty 
 with such a brute as that, when is he to take a liberty?" 
 So had he expressed himself plaintively, endeavouring 
 to excuse himself, when on some occasion a race had 
 been won by some outside horse which Captain Boodle 
 had omitted to make safe in his betting-book. He was 
 regarded by his intimate friends as a very successful 
 man; but I think myself that his life was a mistake. 
 To live with one's hands ever daubed with chalk from 
 a billiard-table, to be always spying into stables and 
 rubbing against grooms, to put up with the narrow 
 lodgings which needy men encounter at race meetings, 
 to be day after day on the rails running after platers 
 and steeplechasers, to be conscious on all occasions of 
 the expediency of selling your beast when you are 
 hunting, to be counting up little odds at all your spare 
 moments ; — these things do not, I think, make a satis- 
 factory life for a young man. And for a man that is 
 not young, they are the very devil! Better have no 
 digestion when you are forty than find yourself living 
 such a life as that! Captain Boodle would, I think, 
 have been happier had he contrived to get himself 
 employed as a tax-gatherer or an attorney's clerk. 
 
 On this occasion Doodles soon went, as had been 
 expected, and Harry found himself smoking with the 
 two foreigners. Pateroff was no longer eloquent, but 
 sat with his cigar in his mouth as silent as Colonel 
 Schmoff himself. It was evidently expected of Harry 
 that he should go. 
 
 "Count," he said at last, "you got my note?" 
 There were seven or eight persons sitting in the 
 room besides the party of three to which Harry be- 
 longed. 
 
280 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Your note, Mr. Clavering! which note? Oh, yes; I 
 should not have had the pleasure of seeing you here 
 to-day but for that." 
 
 "Can you give me five minutes in priv te?" 
 
 "What! now! here! this evening! after dinner? 
 Another time I will talk with you by the hour together.'' 
 
 "I fear I must trouble you now. I need not remind 
 you that I could not keep you yesterday morning ; you 
 were so much hurried." 
 
 "And now I am having my little moment of comfort! 
 These special business conversations after dinner are so 
 bad for the digestion!" 
 
 "If I could have caught you before dinner, Count 
 Pateroff, I would have done so." 
 
 "If it must be, it must. Schmoff, will you wait for 
 me ten minutes? I will not be more than ten minutes." 
 And the count as he made this promise looked at his 
 watch. "Waiter," he said, speaking in a sharp tone 
 which Harry had not heard before, "show this gentle- 
 man and me into a private room." Harry got up 
 and led the way out, not forgetting to assure himself 
 that he cared nothing for the sharpness of the count's 
 voice. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Clavering, what is it?" said the count, 
 looking full into Harry's eye. 
 
 "I will tell you in two words." 
 "In one if you can." 
 
 "I came with a message to you from LadyOngar?" 
 "Why are you a messenger from Lady Ongar?" 
 "I have known her long and she is connected with 
 my family." 
 
 "Why does she not send her messages by Sir Hugh, 
 — her brother-in-law?" 
 
THE BLUE POSTS. 
 
 281 
 
 "It is hardly for you to ask that." 
 
 "Yes; it is for me to ask that. I have known 
 Lady Ongar well, and have treated ter with kind- 
 ness. I do not want to have messages by anybody. 
 But go on. If you are a messenger, give your mes- 
 sage." 
 
 "Lady Ongar bids me tell you that she cannot see 
 you." 
 
 "But she must see me. She shall see me!" 
 
 "I am to explain to you that she declines to do so. 
 Surely, Count Pateroff, you must understand — " 
 
 "Ah, bah*, I understand everything*, — in such 
 matters as these, better, perhaps, than you, Mr. Claver- 
 ing. You have given your message. Now, as you are 
 a messenger, will you give mine?" 
 
 "'t'hat will depend altogether on its nature." 
 
 "Sir, I never send uncivil words to a woman, 
 though sometimes I may be tempted to speak them to 
 a man*, when, for instance, a man interferes with me; 
 do you understand? My message is this: — tell her 
 ladyship, with my compliments, that it will be better 
 for her to see me, — better for her, and for me. When 
 that poor lord died, — and he had been, mind, my 
 friend for many years before her ladyship had heard 
 his name, — I was with him; and there were occur- 
 rences of which you know nothing and need know no- 
 thing. I did my best then to be courteous to Lady 
 Ongar, which she returns by shutting her door in my 
 face. I do not mind that. I am not angry with a 
 woman. But tell her that when she has heard what I 
 now say to her by you, she will, I do not doubt, think 
 better of it; and therefore I shall do myself the honour 
 of presenting myself at her door again. Good-night, 
 
282 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Mr. Clavering; au revoir; we will have another of 
 Stubbs' little dinners before long." As be spoke these 
 last words the count's voice was again changed, and 
 the old smile had returned to his face. 
 
 Harry shook hands with him and walked away 
 homewards, not without a feeling that the count had 
 got the better of him, even to the end. He had, how- 
 ever, learned how the land lay, and could explain to 
 Lady Ongar that Count Pateroff now knew her wishes 
 and was determined to disregard them. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Desolation. 
 
 In the meantime there was grief down at the great 
 house of Clavering; and grief, we must suppose also, 
 at the house in Berkeley Square, as soon as the news 
 from his country home had reached Sir Hugh Clavering. 
 Little Hughy, his heir, was dead. Early one morning, 
 Mrs. Clavering, at the rectory, received a message from 
 Lady Clavering, begging that she would go up to the 
 house, and, on arriving there, she found that the poor 
 child was very ill. The doctor was then at Clavering, 
 and had recommended that a message should be sent 
 to the father in London, begging him to come down. 
 This message had been already despatched when Mrs. 
 Clavering arrived. The poor mother was in a state of 
 terrible agony, but at that time there was yet hope. 
 Mrs. Clavering then remained with Lady Clavering for 
 two or three hours*, but just before dinner on the same 
 day another messenger came across to say that hope 
 was past, and that the child had gone. Could Mrs, 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 283 
 
 Clavering come over again, as Lady Clavering was in 
 a sad way? 
 
 "You'll have your dinner first?" said the rector. 
 
 "No, I think not. I shall wish to make her take 
 something, and I can do it better if I ask for tea for 
 myself. I will go at once. Poor dear little boy." 
 
 "It was a blow I always feared," said the rector to 
 his daughter as soon as his wife had left them. "In- 
 deed, I knew that it was coming." 
 
 "And she was always fearing it," said Fanny. 
 "But I do not think he did. He never seems to think 
 that evil will come to him." 
 
 "He will feel this," said the rector. 
 
 "Feel it, papa! Of course he will feel it." 
 
 "I do not think he would, — not deeply, that is, 
 — if there were four or five of them. He is a hard 
 man; — the hardest man I ever knew. Who ever 
 saw him playing with his own child, or with any other? 
 Who ever heard him say a soft word to his wife? But 
 he will be hit now, for this child was his heir. He 
 will be hit hard now, and I pity him." 
 
 Mrs. Clavering went across the park alone, and 
 soon found herself in the poor bereaved mother's room. 
 She was sitting by herself, having driven the old house- 
 keeper away from her; and there were no traces of 
 tears then on her face, though she had wept plentifully 
 when Mrs. Clavering had been with her in the morning. 
 But there had come upon her suddenly a look of age, 
 which nothing but such sorrow as this can produce. 
 Mrs. Clavering was surprised to see that she had dressed 
 herself carefully since the morning, as was her custom 
 to do daily, even when alone 5 and that she was not in 
 
284 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 her bedroom, but in a small sitting-room, which she 
 generally used when Sir Hugh was not at the park. 
 
 "My poor Hermione," said Mrs. Clavering, coming 
 up to her, and taking her by the hand. 
 
 "Yes, I am poor; poor enough. Why have they 
 troubled you to come across again?" 
 
 "Did you not send for me? But it was quite right, 
 whether you sent or no. Of course I should come 
 when I heard it. It cannot be good for you to be all 
 alone." 
 
 "I suppose he will be here to-night?" 
 "Yes, if he got your message before three o'clock." 
 "Oh, he will have received it, and I suppose he 
 will come. You think he will come, eh?" 
 "Of course he will come." 
 
 "I do not know. He does not like coming to the 
 country." 
 
 "He will be sure to come now, Hermione." 
 
 "And who will tell him? Some one must tell him 
 before he comes to me. Should there not be some one 
 to tell him? They have sent another message." 
 
 "Hannah shall be at hand to tell him." Hannah 
 was the old housekeeper, who had been in the family 
 when Sir Hugh was born. "Or, if you wish it, Henry 
 shall come down and remain here. I am sure he will 
 do so, if it will be a comfort." 
 
 "No*, he would, perhaps, be rough to Mr. Claver- 
 ing. He is so very hard. Hannah shall do it. Will 
 you make her understand?" Mrs. Clavering, promised 
 that she would do this, wondering, as she did so, at 
 the wretched, frigid immobility of the unfortunate wo- 
 man before her. She knew Lady Clavering well; — 
 knew her to be in many things weak, to be worldly, 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 285 
 
 listless, and, perhaps somewhat selfish; but she knew 
 also that she had loved her child as mothers always 
 love. Yet, at this moment, it seemed that she was 
 thinking more of her husband than of the bairn she 
 had lost. Mrs. Clavering had sat down by her and 
 taken her hand, and was still so sitting in silence when 
 Lady Clavering spoke again. ''I suppose he will turn 
 me out of his house now," she said. 
 
 "Who will do so? Hugh? Oh, Hermione, how 
 can you speak in such a way?" 
 
 "He scolded me before because my poor darling 
 was not strong. My darling! How could I help it? 
 And he scolded me because there was none other but 
 he. He will turn me out altogether now. Oh, Mrs. 
 Clavering, you do not know how hard he is." 
 
 Anything was better than this, and therefore Mrs. 
 Clavering asked the poor woman to take her into the 
 room where the little body lay in its little cot. If she 
 could induce the mother to weep for the child, even 
 that would be better than this hard persistent fear as 
 to what her husband would say and do. So they both 
 went and stood together over the little fellow whose 
 short sufferings had thus been brought to an end. "My 
 poor dear, what can I say to comfort you?" Mrs. 
 Clavering, as she asked this, knew well that no com- 
 fort could be spoken in words*, but — if she could only 
 make the sufferer weep! 
 
 "Comfort!" said the mother. "There is no comfort 
 now, I believe, in anything. It is long since I knew 
 any comfort; not since Julia went." 
 
 "Have you written to Julia?" 
 
 "No; I have written to no one. I cannot write. I 
 feel as though if it were to bring him back again I 
 
286 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 could not write of it. Mj boy! my boy! my boy!" 
 But still there was not a tear in her eye. 
 
 "I will write to Julia," said Mrs. Clavering; "and 
 I will read to you my letter." 
 
 "No, do not read it me. What is the use? He 
 has made her quarrel with me. Julia cares nothing 
 now for me, or for my angel. Why should she care? 
 When she came home we would not see her. Of 
 course she will not care. Who is there that will care 
 for me?" 
 
 "Do not I care for you, Hermione?" 
 
 "Yes, because you are here; because of the near- 
 ness of the houses. If you lived far away you would 
 not care for me. It is just the custom of the thing." 
 There was something so true in this that Mrs. Claver- 
 ing could make no answer to it. Then they turned to 
 go back into the sitting-room, and as they did so Lady 
 Clavering lingered behind for a moment; but when she 
 w s again with Mrs. Clavering her cheek was still dry. 
 
 "He will be at the station at nine," said Lady Cla- 
 vering. "They must send the brougham for him, or 
 the dog-cart. He will be very angry if he is made to 
 come home in the fly from the public-house." Then 
 the elder lady left the room and gave orders that Sir 
 Hugh should be met by his carriage. What must the 
 wife think of her husband, when she feared that he 
 would be angered by little matters at such a time as 
 this! "Do you think it will make him very unhappy?" 
 Lady Clavering asked. 
 
 "Of course it will make him unhappy. How should 
 it be otherwise?" 
 
 "He had said so often that the child would die. 
 He will have got used to the fear." 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 287 
 
 "His grief will be as fresh now as though he had 
 never thought so, and never said so." 
 
 "He is so hard; and then he has such will, such 
 power. He will thrust it off from him and determine 
 that it shall not oppress him. I know him so well." 
 
 "We should all make some exertion like that in 
 our sorrow, trusting to God's kindness to relieve us. 
 You too, Hermione, should determine also; but not 
 yet, my dear. At first it is better to let sorrow have 
 its way." 
 
 "But he will determine at once. You remember 
 when Meeny went." Meeny had been a little girl who 
 had been born before the boy, and who had died when 
 little more than twelve months old. "He did not ex- 
 pect that; but then he only shook his head, and went 
 out of the room. He has never spoken to me one 
 word of her since that. I think he has forgotten Meeny 
 altogether, — even that she was ever here." 
 
 "He cannot forget the boy who was his heir." 
 
 "Ah, that is where it is. He will say words to 
 me which would make you creep if you could hear 
 them. Yes, my darling was his heir. Archie will 
 marry now, and will have children, and his boy will 
 be the heir. There will be more division and more 
 quarrels, for Hugh will hate his brother now." ^ 
 
 "I do not understand why." 
 
 "Because he is so hard. It is a pity he should 
 ever have married, for he wants nothing that a wife 
 can do for him. He wanted a boy to come after him 
 in the estate, and now that glory has been taken from 
 him. Mrs. Clavering, I often wish that I could die." 
 
 It would be bootless here to repeat the words of 
 wise and loving counsel with which the elder of the 
 
288 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 two ladies endeavoured to comfort tlie younger, and 
 to make her understand what were the duties which 
 still remained to her, and which, if they were rightly 
 performed, would in their performance , soften the 
 misery of her lot. Lady Clavering listened with that 
 dull, useless attention which on such occasions sorrow 
 always gives to the prudent counsels of friendship; but 
 she was thinking ever and always of her husband, and 
 watching the moment of his expected return. In her 
 heart she wished that he might not come on that even- 
 ing. At last, at half-past nine, she exerted herself to 
 send away her visitor. 
 
 "He will be here soon, if he comes to-night," Lady 
 Clavering said, "and it will be better that he should 
 find me alone." 
 
 ''Will it be better?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. Cannot you see how he would frown 
 and shake his head if you were here? I would sooner 
 be alone when he comes. Good-night. You have 
 been very kind to me-, but you are always kind. 
 Things are done kindly always at your house, because 
 there is so much love there. You will write to Julia 
 for me? Good-night." Then Mrs. Clavering kissed 
 her and went, thinking as she walked home in the 
 dark to the rectory, how much she had to be thankful 
 in that these words had been true which her poor neigh- 
 bour had spoken. Her house was full of love. 
 
 For the next half-hour Lady Clavering sat alone 
 listening with eager ear for the sound of her husband's 
 wheels, and at last she had almost told herself that the 
 hour for his coming had gone by, when she heard the 
 rapid grating on the gravel as the dog-cart was driven 
 up to the door. She ran out on to the conidor, but 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 289 
 
 her lieart sank within her as she did so, and she took 
 tightly hold of the balustrade to support herself. For 
 a moment she had thought of running down to meet 
 him; — of trusting to the sadness of the moment to 
 produce in him, if it were but for a minute, something 
 of tender solicitude*, but she remembered that the ser- 
 vants would be there, and knew that he would not be 
 soft before them. She remembered also that the house- 
 keeper had received her instructions, and she feared to 
 disarrange the settled programme. So she went back 
 to the open door of the room, that her retreating step 
 might not be heard by him as he should come up to 
 her, and standing there she still listened. The house 
 was silent and her ears were acute with sorrow. She 
 could hear the movement of the old woman as she 
 gently, trembling, as Lady Clavering knew, made her 
 way down the hall to meet her master. Sir Hugh of 
 course had learned his child's fate already from the 
 servant who had met him; but it was well that the 
 ceremony of such telling should be performed. She 
 felt the cold air come in from the opened front door, 
 and she heard her husband's heavy quick step as he 
 entered. Then she heard the murmur of Hannah's 
 voice; but the first word she heard was in her hus- 
 band's tones, "Where is Lady Clavering?" Then the 
 answer was given, and the wife, knowing that he was 
 coming, retreated back to her chair. 
 
 But still he did not come quite at once. He was 
 pulling off his coat and laying aside his hat and gloves. 
 Then came upon her a feeling that at such a time any 
 other husband and wife would have been at once in 
 each other's arms. And at the moment she thought of 
 all that they had lost. To her her child had been all 
 
 The Claverings. J, 19 
 
290 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 and everything. To him he had been his heir and the 
 prop of his house. The boy had been the only link 
 that had still bound them together. Now he was gone, 
 and there was no longer any link between them. He 
 was gone and she had nothing left to her. He was 
 gone, and the father was also alone in the world with- 
 out any heir and with no prop to his house. She 
 thought of all this as she heard his step coming slowly 
 up the stairs. Slowly he came along the passage, and 
 though she dreaded his coming it almost seemed as 
 though he would never be there. 
 
 When he had entered the room she was the first to 
 speak. "Oh, Hugh!" she exclaimed, "oh, Hugh!" 
 He had closed the door before he uttered a word, and 
 then he threw himself into a chair. There were candles 
 near to him and she could see that his countenance 
 also was altered. He had indeed been stricken hard, 
 and his half-stunned face showed the violence of the 
 blow. The harsh, cruel, selfish man had at last been 
 made to sufi'er. Although he had spoken of it and had 
 expected it, the death of his heir hit him hard, as the 
 rector had said. 
 
 "When did he die?" asked the father. 
 
 "It was past four I think." Then there was again 
 silence, and Lady Clavering went up to her husband 
 and stood close by his shoulder. At last she ventured 
 to put her hand upon him. With all her own misery 
 heavy upon her, she was chiefly thinking at this moment 
 how she might soothe him. She laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder, and by degrees she moved it softly to his 
 breast. Then he raised his own hand and with it 
 moved hers from his person. He did it gently, — but 
 what was the use of such nonsense as that? 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 291 
 
 "The Lord givetli," said the wife, "and the Lord 
 taketh away." Hearing this Sir Hugh made with his 
 head a gesture of impatience. "Blessed be the name 
 of the Lord," continued Lady Clavering. Her voice 
 was low and almost trembling, and she repeated the 
 words as though they were a task which she had set 
 herself. 
 
 "That's all very well in its way," said he, "but 
 what's the special use of it now? I hate twaddle. One 
 must bear one's misfortune as one best can. I don't 
 believe that kind of thing ever makes it lighter." 
 
 "They say it does, Hugh." 
 
 "Ah! they say! Have they ever tried? If you 
 have been living up to that kind of thing all your life, 
 it may be very well; — that is as well at one time as 
 another. But it won't give me back my boy." 
 
 "No, Hugh; he will never come back again; but 
 we may think that he's in Heaven." 
 
 "If that is enough for you, let it be so. But don't 
 talk to me of it. I don't like it. It doesn't suit me. 
 I had only one, and he has gone. It is always the 
 way." He spoke of the child as having been his — 
 not his and hers. She felt this, and understood the 
 want of affection which it conveyed; but she said no- 
 thing of it. 
 
 "Oh, Hugh; what could we do? It was not our 
 fault." 
 
 "Who is talking of any fault? I have said nothing 
 as to fault. He was always poor and sickly. The 
 Claverings, generally, have been so strong. Look at 
 myself, and Archie, and my sisters. Well, it cannot 
 be helped. Thinking of it will not bring him back 
 again. You had better tell some one to get me gome- 
 
 19* 
 
292 
 
 THE CLAVERlNGS. 
 
 thing to eat. I came away, of course, without any 
 dinner." 
 
 She herself had eaten nothing since the morning, 
 but she neither spoke nor thought of that. She rang 
 the bell , and going out into the passage gave the servant 
 the order on the stairs. 
 
 "It is no good my staying here," he said. "I will 
 go and dress. It is the best not to think of such things, 
 — much the best. People call that heartless, of course, 
 but then people are fools. If I were to sit still, and 
 think of it for a week together, what good could 
 I do?" 
 
 "But how not to think of it? that is the thing." 
 
 "Women are different, I suppose. I will dress and 
 then go down to the breakfast-room. Tell Saunders to 
 get me a bottle of champagne. You will be better also 
 if you will take a glass of wine." 
 
 It was the first word he had spoken which showed 
 any care for her, and she was grateful for it. As he 
 arose to go, she came close to him again, and put her 
 hand very gently on his arm. "Hugh," she said, "will 
 you not see him?" 
 
 "What good will that do?" 
 
 "I think you would regret it if you were to let 
 them take him away without looking at him. He is 
 so pretty as he lies in his little bed. I thought you 
 would come with me to see him." He was more gentle 
 with her than she had expected, and she led him away 
 to the room which had been their own, and in which 
 the child had died. 
 
 "Why here?" he said, almost angrily, as he en- 
 tered. 
 
 "I have had him here with me since you went." 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 293 
 
 "He should not be here now/' he said, shuddering. 
 "I wish he had been moved before I came. I will 
 not have this room any more; remember that." She 
 led him up to the foot of the little cot, which stood 
 close by the head of her own bed, and then she re- 
 moved a handkerchief which lay upon the child's 
 face. 
 
 "Oh, Hugh! oh, Hugh!" she said, and, throwing 
 her arms round his neck, she wept violently upon his 
 breast. For a few moments he did not disturb her, 
 but stood looking at his boy's face. "Hugh, Hugh," 
 she repeated, will you not be kind to me? Do be 
 kind to me. It is not my fault that we are child- 
 less." 
 
 Still he endured her for a few moments longer. 
 He spoke no word to her, but he let her remain there, 
 with her head upon his breast. 
 
 "Dear Hugh, I love you so truly!" 
 
 "This is nonsense," said he, "sheer nonsense." His 
 voice was low and very hoarse. "Why do you talk 
 of kindness now?" 
 
 "Because I am so wretched." 
 
 "What have I done to make you wretched?" 
 
 "I do not mean that; but if you will be gentle with 
 me it will comfort me. Do not leave me here all alone, 
 now my darling has been taken from me." 
 
 Then he shook her from him, not violently, but 
 with a persistent action. 
 
 "Do you mean that you want to go up to town?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, no; not that." 
 
 "Then what is it you want? Where would you 
 live, if not here?" 
 
294 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "Anywliere you please, only tliat you should stay 
 with me." 
 
 "All that is nonsense. I wonder that you should 
 talk of such things now. Come away from this, and 
 let me go to my room. All this is trash and nonsense, 
 and I hate it." She put back with careful hands the 
 piece of cambric which she had moved, and then, 
 seating herself on a chair, wept violently, with her 
 hands closed upon her face. "That comes of bringing 
 me here," he said. "Get up, Hermione. I will not 
 have you so foolish. Get up, I say. I will have the 
 room closed till the men come." 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "Get up, I say, and come away." Then she rose, 
 and followed him out of the chamber, and when he 
 went to change his clothes she returned to the room 
 in which he had found her. There she sat and wept, 
 while he went down and dined and drank alone. But 
 the old housekeeper brought her up a morsel of food 
 and a glass of wine, saying that her master desired that 
 she would take it. 
 
 "I will not leave you, my lady, till you have done 
 so," said Hannah. "To fast so long must be bad al- 
 ways." 
 
 Then she ate the food, and drank a drop of wine, 
 and allowed the old woman to take her away to the 
 bed that had been prepared for her. Of her husband 
 she saw no more for four days. On the next morning 
 a note was brought to her, in which Sir Hugh told her 
 that he had returned to London. It was necessary, he 
 said, that he should see his lawyer and his brother. 
 He and Archie would return for the funeral. With 
 reference to that he had already given orders. 
 
DESOLATION. 
 
 295 
 
 During tlie next tkree days, and till her husband's 
 return, Lady Clavering remained at the rectory, and 
 in the comfort of Mrs. Clavering's presence she almost 
 felt that it would be well for her if those days could 
 be prolonged. But she knew the hour at which her 
 husband would return, and she took care to be at 
 home when he arrived. ''You will come and see 
 him?" she said to the rector, as she left the parsonage. 
 "You will come at once*, — in an hour or two?" Mr. 
 Clavering remembered the circumstances of his last 
 visit to the house, and the declaration he had then 
 made that he would not return there. But all that 
 could not now be considered. 
 
 ''Yes," he said, "I will come across this evening. 
 But you had better tell him, so that he need not be 
 troubled to see me if he would rather be alone." 
 
 "Oh, he will see you. Of course he will see you. 
 And you will not remember that he ever offended 
 
 you?" 
 
 Mrs. Clavering had written both to Julia and to 
 Harry, and the day of the funeral had been settled. 
 Harry had already communicated his intention of 
 coming down; and Lady Ongar had replied to Mrs. 
 Clavering's letter, saying that she could not now offer 
 to go to Clavering Park, but that if her sister would 
 go elsewhere with her, — to some place, perhaps, on 
 the sea-side, — she would be glad to accompany her; 
 and she used many arguments in her letter to show 
 that such an arrangement as this had better be made. 
 
 "You will be with my sister," she had said; "and 
 she will understand why I do not write to her myself, 
 and will not think that it comes from coldness." This 
 had been written before Lady Ongar saw Harry Clavering 
 
296 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Mr. Clavering, when lie got to the great house, 
 was immediately shown into the room in which the 
 baronet and his younger brother were sitting. They 
 had, some time since, finished dinner, but the decanters 
 were still on the table before them. "Hugh," said 
 the rector, walking up to his elder nephew, briskly, 
 "I grieve for you. I grieve for you from the bottom 
 of my heart." 
 
 "Yes," said Hugh, "it has been a heavy blow. 
 Sit down, uncle. There is a clean glass there-, or 
 Archie will fetch you one." Then Archie looked out 
 a clean glass and passed the decanter; but of this the 
 rector took no direct notice. 
 
 "It has been a blow, my poor boy, — a heavy 
 blow," said the rector. "None heavier could have 
 fallen. But our sorrows come from Heaven, as do 
 our blessings, and must be accepted." 
 
 "We are all like grass," said Archie, "and must 
 be cut down in our turns." Archie, in saying this, 
 intended to put on his best behaviour. He was as 
 sincere as he knew how to be. 
 
 "Come, Archie, none of that," said his brother. 
 "It is my uncle's trade." 
 
 "Hugh," said the rector, "unless you can think of 
 it so, you will find no comfort." 
 
 "And I expect none, so there is an end of that. 
 Different people think of these things differently, you 
 know, and it is of no more use for me to bother you 
 than it is for you to bother me. My boy has gone, 
 and I know that he will not come back to me. I 
 shall never have another, and it is hard to bear. But, 
 meaning no offence to you, I would sooner be left to 
 bear it in my own way. If I were to talk about the 
 
yes; wRONa; — certainly WRONa. 297 
 
 grass as Archie did just now, it would be humbug, 
 and I hate humbug. No offence to you. Take some 
 wine, uncle." 
 
 But the rector could not drink wine in that pre- 
 sence, and therefore he escaped as soon as he could. 
 He spoke one word of intended comfort to Lady 
 Clavering, and then returned to the rectory. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXL 
 
 Yes; Wrong; — Certainly Wrong. 
 
 Harry Clavering had heard the news of his little 
 cousin's death before he went to Bolton Street to 
 report the result of his negotiation with the count. 
 His mother's letter with the news had come to him 
 in the morning, and on the same evening he called 
 on Lady Ongar. She also had then received Mrs. 
 Clavering's letter, and knew what had occurred at the 
 park. Harry found her alone, having asked the servant 
 whether Madame Gordeloup was with his mistress. 
 Had such been the case he would have gone away, 
 and left his message untold. 
 
 As he entered the room his mind was naturally 
 full of the tidings from Clavering. Count Pateroff 
 and his message had lost some of their importance 
 through this other event, and the emptiness of the 
 childless house was the first subject of conversation 
 between him and Lady Ongar. "I pity my sister 
 greatly," said she. "I feel for her as deeply as I 
 should have done had nothing occurred to separate 
 us; — but I cannot feel for him." 
 
 "I do," said Harry. 
 
298 
 
 THE CLAVEEINaS. 
 
 *'He is your cousin, and perhaps lias been your 
 friend?" 
 
 "No, not especially. He and I have never pulled 
 well together*, but still I pity him deeply." 
 
 "He is not my cousin, but I know him better than 
 you do, Harry. He will not feel much himself, and 
 his sorrow will be for his heir, not for his son. He is 
 a man whose happiness does not depend on the life or 
 death of any one. He likes some people, as he once 
 liked me; but I do not think that he ever loved any 
 human being. He will get over it, and he will simply 
 wish that Hermy may die, that he may marry another 
 wife. Harry, I know him so well!" 
 
 "Archie will marry now," said Harry. 
 
 "Yes; if he can get any one to have him. There 
 are very few men who can't get wives, but I can fancy 
 Archie Clavering to be one of them. He has not 
 humility enough to ask the sort of girl who would be 
 glad to take him. Now, with his improved prospects, 
 he will want a royal princess, or something not much 
 short of it. Money, rank, and blood might have done 
 before, but he'll expect youth, beauty, and wit now, 
 as well as the other things. He may marry after all, 
 for he is just the man to walk out of a church some 
 day with the cookmaid under his arm as his wife." 
 
 "Perhaps he may find something between a princess 
 and a cookmaid." 
 
 "I hope, for your sake, he may not; — neither a 
 princess nor a cookmaid, nor anything between." 
 
 "He has my leave to marry to-morrow. Lady 
 Ongar. If I had my wish, Hugh should have his 
 house full of children." 
 
 "Of course that is the proper thing to say, Harry." 
 
yes; wrono; — certainly wrong. 299 
 
 "I won't stand that from you, Lady Ongar. What 
 I say, I mean; and no one knows that better than 
 you." 
 
 "Won't you, Harry? From whom, then, if not 
 from me? But come, I will do you justice, and be- 
 lieve you to be simple enough to wish anything of 
 the kind. The sort of castle in the air which you 
 build, is not one to be had by inheritance, but to be 
 taken by storm. You must fight for it." 
 
 ''Or work for it." 
 
 "Or win it in some way off your own bat; and no 
 lord ever sat prouder in his castle than you sit in 
 those that you build from day to day in your imagina- 
 tion. And you sally forth and do all manner of 
 magnificent deeds. You help distressed damsels, — poor 
 me, for instance; and you attack enormous dragons; — 
 shall I say that Sophie Gordeloup is the latest dragon? 
 — and you wish well to your enemies, such as Hugh 
 and Archie ; and you cut down enormous forests, which 
 means your coming miracles as an engineer; — and 
 then you fall gloriously in love. When is that last to 
 be, Harry?" 
 
 "I suppose, according to all precedent, that must 
 be done with the distressed damsel," he said, — fool 
 that he was. 
 
 "No, Harry, no; you shall take your young fresh 
 generous heart to a better market than that; not but 
 that the distressed damsel will ever remember what 
 might once have been." 
 
 He knew that he was playing on the edge of a 
 precipice, — that he was fluttering as a moth round a 
 candle. He knew that it behoved him now at once 
 to tell her all his tale as to Stratton and Florence 
 
300 
 
 THE CLAVEKINGS. 
 
 Burton; — that if lie could tell it now, the pang 
 would be over and the danger gone. But he did not 
 tell it. Instead of telling it he thought of Lady 
 Ongar's beauty, of his own early love, of what might 
 have been his had he not gone to Stratton. I think 
 he thought, if not of her wealth, yet of the power and 
 place which would have been his were it now open to 
 him to ask her for her hand. When he had declared 
 that he did not want his cousin's inheritance, he had 
 spoken the simple truth. He was not covetous of 
 another's money. Were Archie to marry as many 
 wives as Henry, and have as many children as Priam, 
 it would be no oflPence to him. His desires did not 
 lie in that line. But in this other case, the woman 
 before him who would so willingly have endowed him 
 with all that she possessed, had been loved by him 
 before he had ever seen Florence Burton. In all his 
 love for Florence, — so he now told himself, but so 
 told himself falsely, — he had ever remembered that 
 Julia Brabazon had been his first love, the love whom 
 he had loved with all his heart. But things had gone 
 with him most unfortunately, — with a misfortune 
 that had never been paralleled. It was thus he was 
 thinking instead of remembering that now was the 
 time in which his tale should be told. 
 
 Lady Ongar, however, soon carried him away from 
 the actual brink of the precipice. "But how about 
 the dragon," she said, ''or rather about the dragon's 
 brother, at whom you were bound to go and tilt on 
 my behalf? Have you tilted, or are you a recreant 
 knight?" 
 
 "I have tilted," said he, "but the he-dragon pro- 
 
yes; WRONa; — certainly wRONa. 301 
 
 fesses that he will not regard himself as killed. In 
 other words he declares that he will see you." 
 
 ''That he will see me?" said Lady Ongar, and as 
 she spoke there came an angry spot on each cheek. 
 "Does he send me that message as a threat?" 
 
 ''He does not send it as a threat, but I think he 
 partly means it so." 
 
 "He will find, Harry, that I will not see him; and 
 that should he force himself into my presence, I shall 
 know how to punish such an outrage. If he sent me 
 any message, let me know it." 
 
 "To tell the truth he was most unwilling to speak 
 to me at all, though he was anxious to be civil to me. 
 When I had inquired for him some time in vain, he 
 came to me with another man, and asked me to din- 
 ner. So I went, and as there were four of us, of 
 course I could not speak to him then. He still had 
 the other man, a foreigner — " 
 
 "Colonel Schmoff, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes; Colonel Schmofi". He kept Colonel Schmoff 
 by him, so as to guard him from being questioned." 
 
 "That is so like him. Everything he does he does 
 with some design, — with some little plan. Well, 
 Harry, you might have ignored Colonel Schmoff for 
 what I should have cared." 
 
 "I got the count to come out into another room at 
 last, and then he was very angry, — with me, you 
 know, — and talked of what he would do to men who 
 interfered with him." 
 
 "You will not quarrel with him, Harry? Promise 
 me that there shall be no nonsense of that sort, — no 
 fighting." 
 
 "Oh, no; we were friends again very soon. But 
 
302 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 he bade me tell you that there was something im- 
 portant for him to say and for yon to hear, whic]\ 
 was no concern of mine, and which required an inter- 
 view." 
 
 "I do not believe him, Harry." 
 "And he said that he had once been very courteous 
 to you — " 
 
 "Yes; once insolent, — and once courteous. I have 
 forgiven the one for the other." 
 
 "He then went on to say that you made him a 
 poor return for his civility by shutting your door in 
 his face, but that he did not doubt you would think 
 better of it when you had heard his message. There- 
 fore, he said, he should call again. That, Lady Ongar, 
 was the whole of it." 
 
 "Shall I tell you what his intention was, Harry?" 
 Again her face became red as she asked this question; 
 but the colour which now came to her cheeks was 
 rather that of shame than of anger. 
 
 "What was his intention?" 
 
 "To make you believe that I am in his power; to 
 make you think that he has been my lov^er; to lower 
 me in your eyes, so that you might believe all that 
 others have believed, — all that Hugh Clavering has 
 pretended to believe. That has been his object, Harry, 
 and perhaps you will tell me what success he has had." 
 
 "Lady Ongar!" 
 
 "You know the old story, that the drop which is 
 ever dropping will wear the stone. And after all 
 why should your faith in me be as hard even as a 
 stone?" 
 
 "Do you believe that what he said had any such 
 eflfect?" 
 
YES; WRONO; CERTAINLY WRONG. 303 
 
 "It is veiy hard to look into another person's 
 heart; and the dearer and nearer that heart is to your 
 own, the greater, I think, is the difficulty. I know 
 that man's heart, — what he calls his heart*, but I 
 don't know yours." 
 
 For a moment or two Clavering made no answer, 
 and then, when he did speak, he went back from him- 
 self to the count. 
 
 "If what you surmise of him be true, he must be 
 a very devil. He cannot be a man — " 
 
 "Man or devil, what matters which J:ie be? Which 
 is the worst, Harry, and what is the difference? The 
 Fausts of this day want no Mephistoplieles to teach 
 them guile or to harden their hearts." 
 
 "I do not believe that there are such men. There 
 may be one." 
 
 "One, Harry! What was Lord Ongar? What is 
 your cousin Hugh? What is this Count Pateroff? Are 
 they not all of the same nature; hard as stone, desirous 
 simply of indulging their own appetites, utterly with- 
 out one generous feeling, incapable even of the idea 
 of caring for any one? Is it not so? In truth this 
 count is the best of the three I have named. With 
 him a woman would stand a better chance than with 
 either of the others." 
 
 "Nevertheless, if that was his motive, he is a 
 devil." 
 
 "He shall be a devil if you say so. He shall be 
 anything you please, so long as he has not made you 
 think evil of me." 
 
 "No; he has not done that." 
 
 "Then I don't care what he has done, or what he 
 may do. You would not have me see him, would 
 
304 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 you?" This she asked with a sudden energy, throw- 
 ing herself forward from her seat with her elbows on 
 the table, and resting her face on her hands, as she 
 had already done more than once when he had been 
 there; so that the attitude, which became her well, was 
 now customary in his eyes. 
 
 ''You will hardly be guided by my opinion in such 
 a matter." 
 
 "By whose, then, will I be guided? Nay, Harry, 
 since you put me to a promise, I will make the pro- 
 mise. I will l^e guided by your opinion. If you bid 
 me see him, I will do it, — though, I own, it would 
 be distressing to me." 
 
 "Why should you see him, if you do not 
 wish it?" 
 
 "I know no reason. In truth there is no reason. 
 What he says about Lord Ongar is simply some 
 part of his scheme. You see what his scheme is, 
 Harry?" 
 
 "What is his scheme?" 
 
 "Simply this — that I should be frightened into 
 becoming his wife. My darling bosom friend Sophie, 
 who, as I take it, has not quite managed to come to 
 satisfactory terms with her brother, — and I have no 
 doubt her price for assistance has been high, — has 
 informed me more than once that her brother desires 
 to do me so much honour. The count, perhaps, thinks 
 that he can manage such a bagatelle without any aid 
 from his sister; and my dearest Sophie seems to feel 
 that she can do better with me herself in my widowed 
 state, than if I were to take another husband. They 
 are so kind and so affectionate; are they not?" 
 
 At this moment tea was brought in, and Clavering 
 
yes; whong; — certainly wnoNa. 
 
 305 
 
 sat for a time silent with his cup in his hand. She, 
 the meanwhile, had resumed the old position with her 
 face upon her hands, which she had abandoned when 
 the servant entered the room, and was now sitting 
 looking at him as he sipped his tea with his eyes 
 averted from her. ^'I cannot understand," at last he 
 said, "why you should persist in your intimacy with 
 such a woman." 
 
 "You have not thought about it, Harry, or you 
 would understand it. It is, I think, very easily under- 
 stood." 
 
 "You know her to be treacherous, false, vulgar, 
 covetous, unprincipled. You cannot like her. You 
 say she is a dragon." 
 
 "A dragon to you, I said." 
 
 "You cannot pretend that she is a lady, and yet 
 you put up with her society." 
 
 "Exactly. And now tell me what you would have 
 me do." 
 
 "I would have you part from her." 
 
 "But how? It is so easy to say, part. Am I to 
 bar my door against her when she has given me no 
 offence? Am I to forget that she did me great ser- 
 vice, when I sorely needed such services? Can I tell 
 her to her face that she is all these things that you 
 say of her, and that therefore I will for the future dis- 
 pense with her company? Or do you believe that 
 people in this world associate only with those they love 
 and esteem?" 
 
 "I would not have one for my intimate friend whom 
 I did not love and esteem." 
 
 "But, Harry, suppose that no one loved and esteemed 
 you; that you had no home down at Clavering with a 
 
 The Claverings. I. 20 
 
306 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 father that admires you and a mother that worships 
 you; no sisters that think you to be almost perfect, no 
 comrades with whom you can work with mutual regard 
 and emulation, no self-confidence, no high hopes of 
 your own, no power of choosing companions whom 
 you can esteem and love; — suppose with you it was 
 Sophie Gordeloup or none, — how would it be with 
 you then?" 
 
 His heart must have been made of stone if this 
 had not melted it. He got up and coming round to 
 her stood over her. "Julia," he said, "it is not so with 
 you." 
 
 "But it is so with Julia," she said. "That is the 
 truth. How am I better than her, and why should I 
 not associate with her?" 
 
 "Better than her! As women you are poles 
 asunder." 
 
 "But as dragons," she said smiling, "we come to- 
 gether." 
 
 "Do you mean that you have no one to love you?" 
 
 "Yes, Harry, that is just what I do mean. I have 
 none to love me. In playing my cards I have won 
 my stakes in money and rank, but have lost the 
 amount ten times told in aflPection, friendship, and that 
 general unpronounced esteem which creates the fellow- 
 ship of men and women in the world. I have a car- 
 riage and horses, and am driven about with grand ser- 
 vants; and people, as they see me, whisper and say 
 that is Lady Ongar, whom nobody knows. I can 
 see it in their eyes till I fancy that I can hear their 
 words." 
 
 "But it is all false." 
 
 "What ^ false? It is not false that I have de- 
 
YES WKONG; — CERTAINLY WRONG. 
 
 307 
 
 served this, I have done that which has made me a 
 fitting companion for such a one as Sophie Gordeloup, 
 though I have not done that which perhaps these people 
 think." 
 
 He paused again before he spoke, still standing 
 near her on the rug. "Lady Ongar — " he said. 
 
 "Nay, Harry; not Lady Ongar when we are to- 
 gether thus. Let me feel that I have one friend who 
 can dare to call me by my name, — from whose 
 mouth I shall be pleased to hear my name. You need 
 not fear that I shall think that it means too much. I 
 will not take it as meaning what it used to mean." 
 
 He did not know how to go on with his speech, or 
 in truth what to say to her. Florence Burton was still 
 present to his mind, and from minute to minute he 
 told himself that he would not become a villain. But 
 now it had come to that with him, that he would have 
 given all that he had in the world that he had never 
 gone to Stratton. He sat down by her in silence, 
 looking away from her at the fire, swearing to himself 
 that he would not become a villain, and yet wishing, 
 almost wishing, that he had the courage to throw his 
 honour overboard. At last, half turning round towards 
 her, he took her hand, or rather took her first by the 
 wrist till he could possess himself of her hand. As he 
 did so he touched her hair and her cheek, and she let 
 her hand drop till it rested in his. "Julia," he said, 
 "what can I do to comfort you?" She did not an- 
 swer him, but looked away from him as she sat, across 
 the table into vacancy. "Julia," he said again, "is 
 there anything that will comfort you?" But still she 
 did not answer him. 
 
 He understood it all as well as the reader will 
 
 20* 
 
308 
 
 THE CLATERINGS. 
 
 understand it. He knew how it was with her, and was 
 aware that he was at this instant false almost equally 
 to her and to Florence. He knew that the question he 
 had asked was one to which there could be made a 
 true and satisfactory answer, but that his safety lay in 
 the fact that that answer was all but impossible for her 
 to give. Could she say, "Yes, you can comfort me. 
 Tell me that you yet love me, and I will be com- 
 forted?" But he had not designed to bring her into 
 such difficulty as this. He had not intended to be 
 cruel. He had drifted into treachery unawares, and 
 was torturing her, not because he was wicked, but be- 
 cause he was weak. He had held her hand now for 
 some minute or two, but still she did not speak to 
 him. Then he raised it and pressed it warmly to his 
 lips. 
 
 "No, Harry," she said, jumping from her seat and 
 drawing her hand rapidly from him; "no; it shall not 
 be like that. Let it be Lady Ongar again if the 
 sound of the other name brings back too closely the 
 memory of other days. Let it be Lady Ongar again. 
 I can understand that it will be better." As she spoke 
 she walked away from him across the room, and he 
 followed her. 
 
 "Are you angry?" he asked her. 
 
 "No, Harry, not angry. How should I be angry 
 with you who alone are left to me of my old friends? 
 But, Harry, you must think for me, and spare me in 
 my difficulty." 
 
 "Spare you, Julia?" 
 
 "Yes, Harry, spare me; you must be good to me 
 and considerate, and make yourself like a brother to 
 me. But people will know you are not a brother, and 
 
YES 5 WRONG CERTAINLY WRONa. 309 
 
 you must remember all that for my sake. But you 
 must not leave me or desert me. Anything that people 
 might say would be better than that." 
 
 "Was I wrong to kiss your hand?" 
 
 "Yes, wrong, certainly wrong; — that is, not wrong, 
 but unmindful." 
 
 "I did it," he said, "because I love you." And as 
 he spoke the tears stood in both his eyes. 
 
 "Yes-, you love me, and I you; but not with love 
 that may show itself in that form. That was the old 
 love, which I threw away, and which has been lost. 
 That was at an end when I • — jilted you. I am not 
 angry; but you will remember that tha^ love exists no 
 longer? You will remember that, Harry?" 
 
 He sat himself down in a chair in a far part of the 
 room, and two tears coursed their way down his 
 cheeks. She stood over him and watched him as he 
 wept. "I did not mean to make you sad," she said. 
 "Come, we will be sad no longer. I understand it all. 
 I know how it is with you. The old love is lost, but 
 we will not the less be friends." Then he rose sud- 
 denly from his chair, and taking her in his arms, 
 and holding her closely to his bosom, pressed his lips 
 to hers. 
 
 He was so quick in this that she had not the power, 
 even if she had the wish, to restrain him. But she 
 struggled in his arms, and held her face aloof from 
 him as she gently rebuked his passion. "No, Harry, 
 no; not so," she said, "it must not be so." 
 
 " Yes, Julia, yes; it shall be so; ever so, — al- 
 ways so." And he was still holding her in his arms, 
 when the door opened, and with stealthy, cat-like steps 
 Sophie Gordeloup entered, the room. Harry imme- 
 
310 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 diately retreated from Lis position, and Lady Ongar 
 turned upon lier friend, and glared upon her with 
 angry eyes. 
 
 "Ah," said the little Franco-Pole, with an expres- 
 sion of infinite delight on her detestable visage, "ah, 
 my dears, is it not well that I thus announce my- 
 self?" 
 
 "No," said Lady Ongar, "it is not well. It is any- 
 thing but well." 
 
 "And why not well, Julie? Come, do not be 
 foolish. Mr. Clavering is only a cousin, and a very 
 handsome cousin, too. What does it signify before 
 me?" 
 
 "It signifies nothing before you," said Lady Ongar. 
 
 "But before the servant, Julie — ?" 
 
 "It would signify nothing before anybody." 
 
 "Come, come, Julie dear; that is nonsense." 
 
 "Nonsense or no nonsense, I would wish to be 
 private when I please. Will you tell me, Madame 
 Gordeloup, what is your pleasure at the present mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 "My pleasure is to beg your pardon and to say 
 you must forgive your poor friend. Your fine man- 
 servant is out, and Bessy let me in. I told Bessy I 
 would go up by myself, and that is all. If I have 
 come too late I beg pardon." 
 
 "Not too late, certainly, — as I am still up." 
 
 "And I wanted to ask you about the pictures to- 
 morrow? You said, perhaps you would go to-morrow, 
 — perhaps not." 
 
 Clavering had found himself to be somewhat awk- 
 wardly situated while Madame Gordeloup was thus ex- 
 plaining the causes of her having come unannounced 
 
YES; WRONa; CERTAINLY WRONG. 
 
 311 
 
 into tlie room; as soon, therefore, as lie found it 
 practicable, he took his leave. "Julia," he said, "as 
 Madame Gordeloup is with you, I will now go." 
 
 "But you will let me see you soon?" 
 
 "Yes, very soon; that is, as soon as I return from 
 Clavering. I leave town early to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Good-by, then," and she put out her hand to 
 him frankly, smiling sweetly on him. As he felt the 
 warm pressure of her hand he hardly knew whether to 
 return it or to reject it. But he had gone too far now 
 for retreat, and he held it firmly for a moment in his 
 own. She smiled again upon him, oh! so passionately, 
 and nodded her head at him. He had never, he 
 thought, seen a woman look so lovely, or more light 
 of heart. How different was her countenance now 
 from that she had worn when she told him, earlier on 
 that fatal evening, of all the sorrows that made her 
 wretched! That nod of hers said so much. "We 
 understand each other now, — do we not? Yes; al- 
 though this spiteful woman has for the moment come 
 between us, we understand each other. And is it not 
 sweet? Ah! the troubles of which I told you; — you, 
 you have cured them all." All that had been said 
 plainly in her farewell salutation, and Harry had 
 not dared to contradict it by any expression of his 
 countenance. 
 
 "By, by, Mr. Claverin," said Sophie. 
 
 "Good evening, Madame Gordeloup," said Harry, 
 turning upon her a look of bitter anger. Then he 
 went, leaving the two women together, and walked 
 home to Bloomsbury Square, — not with the heart of 
 a joyous thriving lover. 
 
312 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 The Day of tlie Funeral. 
 
 Harry Clavering, when lie walked away from 
 Bolton Street after the scene in which he had been 
 interrupted by Sophie Gordeloup, was not in a happy 
 frame of mind, nor did he make his journey down to 
 Clavering with much comfort to himself. Whether or 
 no he was now to be regarded as a villain, at any rate 
 he was not a villain capable of doing his villany with- 
 out extreme remorse and agony of mind. It did not 
 seem to him to be even yet possible that he should be 
 altogether untrue to Florence. It hardly occurred to 
 him to think that he could free himself from the con- 
 tract by which he was bound to her. No; it was to- 
 wards Lady Ongar that his treachery must be exhibited 
 — towards the woman whom he had sworn to befriend, 
 and whom he now , in his distress , imagined to be the 
 dearer to him of the two. He should, according to his 
 custom, have written to Florence a day or two before 
 he left London, and, as he went to Bolton Street, had 
 determined to do so that evening on his return home; 
 but when he reached his rooms he found it impossible 
 to write such a letter. What could he say to her that 
 would not be false? How could he tell her that he 
 loved her, and speak as he was wont to do of his 
 impatience, after that which had just occurred in Bolton 
 Street? 
 
 But what was he to do in regard to Julia? He 
 was bound to let her know at once what was his posi- 
 tion, and to tell her that in treating her as he had 
 treated her, he had simply insulted her. That look of 
 gratified contentment with which she had greeted him 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 313 
 
 as he was leaving her, clung to his memory and tor- 
 mented him. Of that contentment he must now rob 
 her, and he was bound to do so with as little delay 
 as was possible. Early in the morning before he 
 started on his journey he did make an attempt, a vain 
 attempt, to write, not to Florence but to Julia. The 
 letter would not get itself written. He had not the 
 hardihood to inform her that he had amused himself 
 with her sorrows, and that he had injured her by the 
 exhibition of his love. And then that horrid Franco- 
 Pole, whose prying eyes Julia had dared to disregard, 
 because she had been proud of his love! If she had 
 not been there, the case might have been easier. Harry, 
 as he thought of this, forgot to remind himself that if 
 Sophie had not interrupted him he would have floun- 
 dered on from one danger to another till he would 
 have committed himself more thoroughly even than he 
 had done, and have made promises which it would 
 have been as shameful to break as it would be to keep 
 them. But even as it was, had he not made such 
 promises? Was there not such a promise in that em- 
 brace, in the half-forgotten word or two which he had 
 spoken while she was in his arms, and in the parting 
 grasp of his hand? He could not write that letter 
 then, on that morning, hurried as he was with the 
 necessity of his journey, and he started for Clavering 
 resolving that it should be written from his father's 
 house. 
 
 It was a tedious, sad journey to him, and he was 
 silent and out of spirits when he reached his home; 
 but he had gone there for the purpose of his cousin's 
 funeral, and his mood was not at first noticed, as it 
 might have been had the occasion been different. His 
 
314 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 father's countenance wore that well-known look of 
 customary solemnity which is found to be necessary 
 on such occasions, and his mother was still thinking 
 of the sorrows of Lady Clavering, who had been at 
 the rectory for the last day or two. 
 
 "Have you seen Lady Ongar since she heard of 
 the poor child's death?" his mother asked. 
 
 "Yes, I was with her yesterday evening." 
 
 "Do you see her often?" Fanny inquired. 
 
 "What do you call often? No; not often. I went 
 to her last night because she had given me a com- 
 mission. I have seen her three or four times alto- 
 gether." 
 
 "Is she as handsome as she used to be?" said 
 Fanny. 
 
 "I cannot tell; I do not know." 
 
 "You used to think her very handsome, Harry." 
 
 "Of course she is handsome. There has never 
 been a doubt about that; but when a woman is in 
 deep mourning one hardly thinks about her beauty." 
 Oh, Harry, Harry, how could you be so false? 
 
 "I thought young widows were always particularly 
 charming," said Fanny; "and when one remembers 
 about Lord Ongar one does not think of her being a 
 widow so much as one would do if he had been dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 "I don't know anything about that," said he. He 
 felt that he was stupid, and that he blundered in every 
 word, but he could not help himself It was impos- 
 sible that he should talk about Lady Ongar with proper 
 composure. Fanny saw that the subject annoyed him 
 and that it made him cross, and she therefore ceased. 
 "She wrote a very nice letter to your mother about 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 315 
 
 the poor child, and about her sister," said the rector. 
 ^'I wish with all my heart that Hermione could go to 
 her for a time." 
 
 ''I fear that he will not let her," said Mrs. Claver- 
 ing. "I do not understand it all, but Hermione says 
 that the rancour between Hugh and her sister is stronger 
 now than ever." 
 
 "And Hugh will not be the first to put rancour 
 out of his heart," said the rector. 
 
 On the following day was the funeral and Harry 
 went with his father and cousins to the child's grave. 
 When he met Sir Hugh in the dining-room in the 
 Great House the baronet hardly spoke to him. "A 
 sad occasion; is it not?" said Archie; "very sad; very 
 sad." Then Harry could see that Hugh scowled at 
 his brother angrily, hating his humbug, and hating it 
 the more because in Archie's case it was doubly hum- 
 bug. Archie was now heir to the property and to the 
 title. 
 
 After the funeral Harry went to see Lady Claver- 
 ing, and again had to endure a conversation about 
 Lady Ongar. Indeed, he had been specially commis- 
 sioned by Julia to press upon her sister the expediency 
 of leaving Clavering for a while. This had been early 
 on that last evening in Bolton Street, long before Ma- 
 dame Gordeloup had made her appearance. "Tell her 
 from me," Lady Ongar had said, "that I will go any- 
 where that she may wish if she will go with me, — 
 she and I alone; and, Harry, tell her this as though I 
 meant it. I do mean it. She will understand why I 
 do not write myself I know that he sees all her 
 letters when he is with her." This task Harry was 
 now to perform, and the result he was bound to com- 
 
316 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 municate to Lady Ongar. The message he might give; 
 but delivering the answer to Lady Ongar would be 
 another thing. 
 
 Lady Clavering listened to what he said, but when 
 he pressed her for a reply she shook her head. "And 
 why not, Lady Clavering?" 
 
 "People can't always leave their houses and go 
 away, Harry." 
 
 "But I should have thought that you could have 
 done so now, — that is, before long. Will Sir Hugh 
 remain here at Clavering?" 
 
 " He has not told me that he means to go." 
 
 "If he stays, I suppose you will stay, but if he 
 goes up to London again, I cannot see why you and 
 your sister should not go away together. She men- 
 tioned Tenby as being very quiet, but she would be 
 guided by you in that altogether." 
 
 "I do not think it will be possible, Harry. Tell 
 her with my love, that I am truly obliged to her, but 
 that I do not think it will be possible. She is free, 
 you know, to do what she pleases." 
 
 "Yes, she is free. But do you mean — ?" 
 
 "I mean, Harry, that I had better stay where I 
 am. What is the use of a scene, and of being refused 
 at last? Do not say more about it, but tell her that 
 it cannot be so." This Harry promised to do, and 
 after a while was rising to go, when she suddenly 
 asked him a question. "Do you remember what I 
 was saying about Julia and Archie when you were 
 here last?" 
 
 "Yes; I remember." 
 
 "Well, would he have a chance? It seems that you 
 see more of her .now than any one else." 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 317 
 
 "No chance at all, I should say.'' And Harry, as 
 he answered, could not repress a feeling of most un- 
 reasonable jealousy. 
 
 "Ah, you have always thought little of Archie. 
 Archie's position is changed now, Harry, since my 
 darling was taken from me. Of course he will marry, 
 and Hugh, I think, would like him to marry Julia. 
 It was he proposed it. He never likes anything un- 
 less he has proposed it himself." 
 
 "It was he proposed the marriage with Lady Ongar. 
 Does he like that?" 
 
 "Well; you know, Julia has got her money." 
 Harry, as he heard this, turned away sick at heart. 
 The poor baby whose mother was now speaking to 
 him, had only been buried that morning, and she was 
 already making fresh schemes for family wealth. Julia 
 has got her money! That had seemed to her, even in 
 her sorrow, to be sufficient compensation for all that 
 her sister had endured and was enduring. Poor soul! 
 Harry did not reflect as he should have done, that in 
 all her schemes she was only scheming for that peace 
 which might perhaps come to her if her husband were 
 satisfied. "And why should not Julia take him?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I cannot tell why, but she never will," said Harry, 
 almost in anger. At that moment the door was opened, 
 and Sir Hugh came into the room. "I did not know 
 that you were here," Sir Hugh said, turning to the 
 visitor. 
 
 "I could not be down here without saying a few 
 words to Lady Clavering." 
 
 "The less said the better, I suppose, just at pre- 
 sent," said Sir Hugh. But there was no offence in the 
 
318 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 tone of his voice, or in his countenance, and Harry- 
 took the words as meaning none. 
 
 "I was telling Lady Clavering that as soon as she 
 can, she would be better if she left home for awhile." 
 
 ''And why should you tell Lady Clavering that?" 
 
 "I have told him that I would not go," said the 
 poor woman. 
 
 ''Why should she go, and where; and why have 
 you proposed it? And how does it come to pass that 
 her going or not going, should be a matter of solici- 
 tude to you?" Now, as Sir Hugh asked these ques- 
 tions of his cousin , there was much of offence in his 
 tone, — of intended offence, — and in his eye, and 
 in all his bearing. He had turned his back upon his 
 wife, and was looking full into Harry's face. "Lady 
 Clavering, no doubt, is much obliged to you," he said, 
 *'but why is it that you specially have interfered to 
 recommend her to leave her home at such a time as 
 this?" 
 
 Harry had not spoken as he did to Sir Hugh with- 
 out having made some calculation in his own mind as 
 to the result of what he was about to say. He did 
 not, as regarded himself, care for his cousin or his 
 cousin's anger. His object at present was simply that 
 of carrying out Lady Ongar's wish, and he had thought 
 that perhaps Sir Hugh might not object to the proposal 
 which his wife was too timid to make to him. 
 
 "It was a message from her sister," said Harry, 
 "sent by me." 
 
 "Upon my word she is very kind. And what 
 was the message, — unless it be a secret between you 
 three?" 
 
 "I have had no secret, Hugh," said his wife. 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 319 
 
 "Let me hear what he has to say," said Sir Hugh. 
 
 "Lady Ongar thought that it might be well that 
 her sister should leave Clavering for a short time, and 
 has offered to go anywhere with her for a few weeks. 
 That is all." 
 
 " And why the devil should Hermione leave her 
 own house? And if she were to leave it, why should 
 she go with a woman that has misconducted herself?" 
 
 "Oh, Hugh!" exclaimed Lady Clavering. 
 
 "Lady Ongar has never misconducted herself," said 
 Harry. 
 
 "Are you her champion?" asked Sir Hugh. 
 
 "As far as that, I am. She has never misconducted 
 herself; and what is more, she has been cruelly used 
 since she came home." 
 
 "By whom; by whom?" said Sir Hugh, stepping 
 close up to his cousin and looking with angry eyes 
 into his face. 
 
 But Harry Clavering was not a man to be intimi- 
 dated by the angry eyes of any man. "By you," he 
 said, "her brother-in-law; — by you, who made up 
 her wretched marriage, and who, of all others, were 
 the most bound to protect her." 
 
 "Oh, Harry, don't, don't!" shrieked Lady Cla- 
 vering. 
 
 "Hermione, hold your tongue," said the imperious 
 husband; "or, rather, go away and leave us. I have 
 a word or two to say to Harry Clavering, which had 
 better be said in private." 
 
 "I will not go if you are going to quarrel." 
 
 "Harry," said Sir Hugh, "I will trouble you to 
 go downstairs before me. If you will step into the 
 breakfast-room I will come to you." 
 
320 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Harry Clavering did as he was bid, and in a few 
 minutes was joined by bis cousin in tbe breakfast- 
 room. 
 
 "No doubt you intended to insult me by what you 
 said upstairs." The baronet began in this way after 
 he had carefully shut the door, and had slowly walked 
 up to the rug before the fire, and had there taken his 
 position. 
 
 "Not at all; I intended to take the part of an ill- 
 used woman whom you had calumniated." 
 
 "Now look here, Harry, I will have no interference 
 on your part in my affairs, either here or elsewhere. 
 You are a very fine fellow, no doubt, but it is not 
 part of your business to set me or my house in order. 
 After what you have just said before Lady Clavering, 
 you will do well not to come here in my absence." 
 
 "Neither in your absence nor in your presence." 
 
 "As to the latter you may do as you please. And 
 now touching my sister-in-law, I will simply recommend 
 you to look after your own affairs." 
 
 "I shall look after what affairs I please." 
 
 "Of Lady Ongar and her life since her marriage I 
 daresay you know as little as anybody in the world, 
 and I do not suppose it likely that you will learn much 
 from her. She made a fool of you once, and it is on 
 the cards that she may do so again." 
 
 "You said just now that you would brook no inter- 
 ference in your affairs. Neither will I." 
 
 "I don't know that you have any affairs in which 
 any one can interfere. I have been given to under- 
 stand that you are engaged to marry that young lady 
 whom your mother brought here one day to dinner. Tf 
 that be so, I do not see how you can reconcile it to 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 321 
 
 yourself to become the champion, as you call it, of 
 Lady Ongar." 
 
 ''I never said anything of the kind." 
 
 ''Yes, you did." 
 
 ''No; it was you who asked me whether I was her 
 champion." 
 
 "And you said you were." 
 
 "So far as to defend her name when I heard it 
 traduced by you." 
 
 "By heavens, your impudence is beautiful. Who 
 knows her best, do you think, — you or I? Whose 
 sister-in-law is she? You have told me I was cruel to 
 her. Now to that I will not submit, and I require you 
 to apologize to me." 
 
 "I have no apology to make, and nothing to re- 
 tract." 
 
 "Then I shall tell your father of your gross miscon- 
 duct, and shall warn him that you have made it neces- 
 sary for me to turn his son out of my house. You are 
 an impertinent, overbearing puppy, and if your name 
 were not the same as my own, I would tell the grooms 
 to horsewhip you ofP the place." 
 
 "Which order, you know, the grooms would not 
 obey. They would a deal sooner horsewhip you. 
 Sometimes I think they will, when I hear you speak 
 to them." 
 
 "Now go!" 
 
 "Of course I shall go. What would keep me 
 here?" 
 
 Sir Hugh then opened the door, and Harry passed 
 through it, not without a cautious look over his 
 shoulder, so that he might be on his guard if any 
 violence were contemplated. But Hugh knew better 
 
 The Claverings. /. 21 
 
322 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 tlian that, and allowed his cousin to walk out of the 
 room, and out of the house, unmolested. 
 
 And this had happened on the day of the funeral! 
 Harry Clavering had quarrelled thus with the father 
 within a few hours of the moment in which they two 
 had stood together over the grave of that father's only 
 child! As he thought of this while he walked across 
 the park he became sick at heart. How vile, wretched 
 and miserable was the world around him! How ter- 
 ribly vicious were the people with whom he was deal- 
 ing! And what could he think of himself, — of 
 himself, who was engaged to Florence Burton, and 
 engaged also, as he certainly was, to Lady Ongar? 
 Even his cousin had rebuked him for his treachery to 
 Florence; but what would his cousin have said had he 
 known all? And then what good had he done; — or 
 rather, what evil had he not done? In his attempt on 
 behalf of Lady Clavering had he not , in truth, inter- 
 fered without proper excuse, and fairly laid himself 
 open to anger from his cousin? And he felt that he 
 had been an ass, a fool, a conceited ass, thinking that 
 he could produce good, when his interference could be 
 efficacious only for evil. Why could he not have held 
 his tongue when Sir Hugh came in , instead of making 
 that vain suggestion as to Lady Clavering? But even 
 this trouble was but an addition to the great trouble 
 that overwhelmed him. How was he to escape the 
 position which he had made for himself in reference to 
 Lady Ongar? As he had left London he had pro- 
 mised to himself that he would write to her that same 
 night and tell her everything as to Florence; but the 
 night had passed, and the next day was nearly gone, 
 and no such letter had been written. 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 323 
 
 As he sat with his father that evening, he told the 
 story of his quarrel with his cousin. His father 
 shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "You 
 are a bolder man than I am," he said. "I certainly 
 should not have dared to advise Hugh as to what he 
 should do with his wife." 
 
 ''But I did not advise him. I only said that I had 
 been talking to her about it. If he were to say to you 
 that he had been recommending my mother to do this 
 or that, you would not take it amiss." 
 
 "But Hugh is a peculiar man." 
 
 "No man has a right to be peculiar. Every man 
 is bound to accept such usage as is customary in the 
 world." 
 
 "I don't suppose that it will signify much," said 
 the rector. "To have your cousin's doors barred 
 against you, either here or in London, will not injure 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, no*, it will not injure me; but I do not wish 
 you to think that I have been unreasonable." 
 
 The night went by and so did the next day, and 
 still the letter did not get itself written. On the third 
 morning after the funeral he heard that Sir Hugh had 
 gone away; but he, of course, did not go up to the 
 house, remembering well that he had been warned by 
 the master not to do so in the master's absence. His 
 mother, however, went to Lady Clavering, and some 
 intercourse between the families was renewed. He had 
 intended to stay but one day after the funeral, but at 
 the end of a week he was still at the rectory. It was 
 Whitsuntide he said, and he might as well take his 
 holiday as he was down there. Of course they were 
 glad that he should remain with them, but they did 
 
 21^ 
 
32t 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 not fail to perceive that things with him were not alto- 
 gether right; nor had Fanny failed to perceive that he 
 had not once mentioned Florence's name since he had 
 been at the rectory. 
 
 "Harry," she said, "there is nothing wrong between 
 you and Florence?" 
 
 "Wrong! what should there be wrong? What do 
 you mean by wrong?" 
 
 "I had a letter from her to-day and she asks where 
 you are." 
 
 "Women expect such a lot of letter-writing ! But 
 I have been remiss I know. I got out of my business 
 way of doing things when I came down here and have 
 neglected it. Do you write to her to-morrow, and tell 
 her that she shall hear from me directly I get back to 
 town.'' 
 
 "But why should you not write to her from here?" 
 
 "Because I can get you to do it for me." 
 
 Fanny felt that this was not at all like a lover, 
 and not at all like such a lover as her brother had 
 been. Wliile Florence had been at Clavering he had 
 been most constant with his letters, and Fanny had 
 often heard Florence boast of them as being perfect in 
 their way. She did not say anything further at the 
 present moment, but she knew that things were not 
 altogether right. Tilings were by no means right. He 
 had written neither t<? Lady Ongar nor to Florence^ 
 and the longer he put off the task the more burden- 
 some did it become. He was now telling himself that 
 he would write to neither till he got back to London. 
 
 On the day before he went, there came to him a 
 letter from Stratton. Fanny was with him when he 
 received it, and observed that he put it into his pocket 
 
THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 325 
 
 without opening it. In his pocket he carried it un- 
 opened half the day, till he was ashamed of his own 
 weakness. At last, almost in despair with himself, he 
 broke the seal and forced himself to read it. There 
 was nothing in it that need have alarmed him. It 
 contained hardly a word that was intended for a re- 
 buke. 
 
 "I wonder why you should have been two whole 
 weeks without writing," she said. "It seems so odd 
 to me, because you have spoiled me by your customary ' 
 goodness. I know that other men when they are en- 
 gaged do not trouble themselves with constant letter- 
 writing. Even Theodore, who according to Cecilia is 
 perfect, would not write to her then very often; and 
 now, when he is away, his letters are only three lines. 
 I suppose you are teaching me not to be exacting. 
 If so, I will kiss the rod like a good child; but I feel 
 it the more because the lesson has not come soon 
 enough." 
 
 Then she went on in her usual strain, telling him 
 of what she had done, what she had read, and what 
 she had thought. There was no suspicion in her 
 letter, no fear, no hint at jealousy. And she should 
 have no further cause for jealousy! One of the two 
 must be sacrificed, and it was most fitting that Julia 
 should be the sacrifice. Julia should be sacrificed, — 
 Julia and himself! But still he could not write to 
 Florence till he had written to Julia. He could not 
 bring himself to send soft, pretty, loving words to one 
 woman while the other was still regarding him as her 
 affianced lover. 
 
 Was your letter from Florence this morning?" 
 Fanny asked him. 
 
326 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "Yes; it was." 
 
 "Had she received mine?" 
 
 "I don't know. Of course she had. If you sent 
 it by post of course she got it." 
 
 "She might have mentioned it, perhaps." 
 
 "I daresay she did. I don't remember." 
 
 "Well, Harry; you need not be cross with me be- 
 cause I love the girl who is going to be your wife. 
 You would not like it if I did not care about her." 
 
 "I hate being called cross." 
 
 "Suppose I were to say that I hated your being 
 cross. I'm sure I do; — - and you are going away to- 
 morrow, too. You have hardly said a nice word to me 
 since you have been home." 
 
 Harry threw himself back into a chair almost in 
 despair. He was not enough a hypocrite to say nice 
 words when his heart within him was not at ease. He 
 could not bring himself to pretend that things were pleasant. 
 
 "If you are in trouble, Harry, I will not go on 
 teasing you." 
 
 "I am in trouble," he said. 
 
 "And cannot I help you?" 
 
 "No; you cannot help me. No one can help me. 
 But do not ask any questions." 
 
 "Oh, Harry! is it about money?" 
 
 "No, uo; it has nothing to do with money." 
 
 "You have not really quarrelled with Florence?" 
 
 "No; I have not quarrelled with her at all. But I 
 will not answer more questions. And, Fanny, do not 
 speak of this to my father or mother. I will be over 
 before long, and then, if possible, I will tell you." 
 
 "Harry, you are not going to fight with Hugh?" 
 
 "Fight with Hugh! no. Not that I should mind it; 
 
CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD. 
 
 327 
 
 but he is not fool enougli for that. If he wanted fight- 
 ing done, he would do it by deputy. But there is no- 
 thing of that kind." 
 
 She asked him no more questions, and on the next 
 morning he returned to London. On his table he found 
 a note which he at once knew to be from Lady Ongar, 
 and which had come only that afternoon. 
 
 "Come to me at once; — at once." That was all 
 that the note contained. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 Ciimberly Lane without the Mud. 
 
 Fanny Clavering, while she was inquiring of her 
 brother about his troubles, had not been without 
 troubles of^her own. For some days past she had been 
 aware, — almost aware, — that Mr. Saul's love was 
 not among the things that were past. I am not pre- 
 pared to say that this conviction on her part was alto- 
 gether an unalloyed trouble, or that there might have 
 been no faint touch of sadness, of silent melancholy 
 about her, had it been otherwise. But Mr. Saul was 
 undoubtedly a trouble to her; and Mr. Saul with his 
 love in activity would be more troublesome than Mr. 
 Saul with his love in abeyance. "It would be mad 
 ness either in him or in me," Fanny had said to her- 
 self very often; "he has not a shilling in the world." 
 But she thought no more in these days of the awk- 
 wardness of his gait, or of his rusty clothes, or his ab- 
 stracted manner; and for his doings as a clergyman 
 her admiration had become very great. Her mother 
 saw something of all this, and cautioned her; but 
 Fanny's demure manner deceived Mrs. Clavering. "Oh, 
 
328 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 mamma, of course I know that anything of the kind 
 must be impossible; and I am sure he does not think 
 of it himself any longer." When she had said this, 
 Mrs. Clavering had believed that it was all right. The 
 reader must not suppose that Fanny had been a hypo- 
 crite. There had been no hypocrisy in her words to 
 her mother. At that moment the conviction that Mr. 
 Saul's love was not among past events had not reached 
 her; and as regarded herself, she was quite sincere 
 when she said that anything of the kind must be im- 
 possible. 
 
 It will be remembered that Florence Burton had 
 advised Mr. Saul to try again, and that Mr. Saul had 
 resolved that he would do so, — resolving, also, that 
 should he try in vain he must leave Clavering, and 
 seek another home. He was a solemn, earnest, thought- 
 ful man; to whom such a matter as this was a phase 
 of life very serious, causing infinite present trouble; 
 nay, causing tribulation, and, to the same extent, ca- 
 pable of causing infinite joy. From day to day he went 
 about his work, seeing her amidst his ministrations al- 
 most daily. And never during these days did he say 
 a word to her of his love, — never since that day in 
 which he had plainly pleaded his cause in the muddy 
 lane. To no one but Florence Burton had he since 
 spoken of it, and Florence had certainly been true to 
 her trust; but, notwithstanding all that, Fanny's convic- 
 tion was very strong. 
 
 Florence had counselled Mr. Saul to tiy again, and 
 Mr. Saul was prepared to make the attempt; but he 
 was a man who allowed himself to do nothing in a 
 hurry. He thought much of the matter before he could 
 prepare himself to recur to the subject; doubting, some- 
 
CUMBEHLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD. 329 
 
 times, whether he would be right to do so without first 
 speaking to Fanny's father; doubting, afterwards, 
 whether he might not best serve, his cause by asking 
 the assistance of Fanny's mother. But he resolved at 
 last that he would depend on himself alone. As to the 
 rector, if his suit to Fanny were a fault against Mr. 
 Clavering as Fanny's father, that fault had been al- 
 ready committed. But Mr. Saul would not admit to 
 himself that it was a fault. I fancy that he considered 
 himself to have, as a gentleman, a right to address 
 himself to any lady with whom he was thrown into 
 close contact. I fancy that he ignored all want of 
 worldly preparation, — never for a moment attempting 
 to place himself on a footing with men who were 
 richer than himself, and, as the world goes, brighter, 
 but still feeling himself to be in no way lower than 
 they. If any woman so lived as to show that she 
 thought his line better than their line, it was open to 
 him to ask such woman to join her lot to his. If he 
 failed, the misfortune was his; and the misfortune, as 
 he well knew, was one which it was hard to bear. And 
 as to the mother, though he had learned to love Mrs. 
 Clavering dearly, — appreciating her kindness to all 
 those around her, her conduct to her husband, her so- 
 licitude in the parish, all her genuine goodness, still he 
 was averse to trust to her for any part of his success. 
 Though Mr. Saul was no knight, though he had no- 
 thing knightly about him, though he was a poor curate 
 in very rusty clothes and with manner strangely un- 
 fitted for much communion with the outer world, still 
 he had a feeling that the spoil which he desired to win 
 should be won by his own spear, and that its triumph 
 would lose half its glory if it were not achieved by his 
 
330 
 
 THE CLAVERINaS. 
 
 own prowess. He was no coward, either in such matter 
 as this or in any other. When circumstances demanded 
 that he should speak he could speak his mind freely, 
 with manly vigour, and sometimes not without a cer- 
 tain manly grace. 
 
 How did Fanny know that it was coming? She did 
 know it, though he had said nothing to her beyond his 
 usual parish communications. He was often with her 
 in the two schools*, often returned with her in the 
 sweet spring evenings along the lane that led back to 
 the rectory from Cumberly Green; often inspected with 
 her the little amounts of parish charities and entries 
 of pence collected from such parents as could pay. He 
 had never reverted to that other subject. But yet 
 Fanny knew that it was coming, and when she had 
 questioned Harry about his troubles she had been 
 thinking also of her own. 
 
 It was now the middle of May, and the spring was 
 giving way to the early summer almost before the 
 spring had itself arrived. It is so, I think, in these 
 latter years. The sharpness of March prolongs itself 
 almost through April*, and then, while we are still 
 hoping for the spring, there falls upon us suddenly a 
 bright, dangerous, delicious gleam of summer. The 
 lane from Cumberly Green was no longer muddy, and 
 Fanny could go backwards and forwards between the 
 parsonage and her distant school without that wading 
 for which feminine apparel is so unsuited. One even- 
 ing, just as she had finished her work, Mr. Saul's head 
 appeared at the school-door, and he asked her whether 
 she were about to return home. As soon as she saw 
 his eye and heard his voice, she feared that the day 
 was come. She was prepared with no new answer, 
 
CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD. 331 
 
 and could only give tlie answer that she had given be- 
 fore. She had always told herself that it was impos- 
 sible; and as to all other questions, about her own 
 heart or such like, she had put such questions away 
 from her as being unnecessary, and, perhaps, unseemly. 
 The thing was impossible, and should therefore be put 
 away out of thought, as a matter completed and at an 
 end. But now the time was come, and she almost 
 wished that she had been more definite in her own re- 
 solutions. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Saul, I have just done." 
 
 "I will walk with you, if you will let me." Then 
 Fanny spoke some words of experienced wisdom to two 
 or three girls, in order that she might show to them, to 
 him, and to herself that she was quite collected. She 
 lingered in the room for a few minutes, and was very 
 wise and very experienced. "I am quite ready now, 
 Mr. Saul." So saying, she came forth upon the green 
 lane, and he followed her. 
 
 They walked on in silence for a little way, and 
 then he asked her some question about Florence Bur- 
 ton. Fanny told him that she had heard from Stratton 
 two days since, and that Florence was well. 
 
 "I liked her very much," said Mr. Saul. 
 
 "So did we all. She is coming here again in the 
 autumn*, so it will not be very long before you see her 
 again." 
 
 "How that may be I cannot tell, but if you see 
 her that will be of more consequence." 
 
 "We shall all see her, of course." 
 
 " It was here, in this lane, that I was with her last, 
 and wished her good-by. She did not tell you of my 
 having parted with her, then?" 
 
332 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Not especially, that I remember." 
 
 "Ah, you would have remembered if she had told 
 you; but she was quite right not to tell you." Fanny 
 was now a little confused, so that she could not exactly 
 calculate what all this meant. Mr. Saul walked on 
 by her side, and for some moments nothing was said. 
 After a while he recurred again to his parting from 
 Florence. "I asked her advice on that occasion, and 
 she gave it me clearly, — with a clear purpose and 
 an assured voice. I like a person who will do that. 
 You are sure then that you are getting the truth out 
 of your friend, even if it be a simple negative, or a 
 refusal to give any reply to the question asked." 
 
 "Florence Burton is always clear in what she says." 
 
 "I had asked her if she thought that I might ven- 
 ture to hope for a more favourable answer if I urged 
 my suit to you again." 
 
 "She cannot have said yes to that, Mr. Saul*, she 
 cannot have done so!" 
 
 "She did not do so. She simply bade me ask 
 yourself. And she was right. On such a matter there 
 is no one to whom I can with propriety address my- 
 self, but to yourself. Therefore I now ask you 
 the question. May I venture to have any hope?" 
 
 His voice was so solemn , and there was so much 
 of eager seriousness in his face that Fanny could not 
 bring herself to answer him with quickness. The answer 
 that was in her mind was in truth this: "How can 
 you ask me to try to love a man who has but seventy 
 pounds a year in the world, while I myself have no- 
 thing?" But there was something in his demeanour, 
 — something that was almost gi-and in its gravity, — 
 ^diich made it quite impossible that she should speak 
 
CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD. 333 
 
 to him in that tone. But lie, having asked his ques- 
 tion, waited for an answer; and she was well aware 
 that the longer she delayed it, the weaker became the 
 ground on which she was standing. 
 
 "It is quite impossible," she said at last. 
 
 "If it really be so, — if you will say again that 
 it is so after hearing me out to an end, I will desist. 
 In that case I will desist and leave you, — and leave 
 Clavering." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Saul, do not do that, — for papa's sake, 
 and because of the parish." 
 
 "I would do much for your father, and as to the 
 parish I love it well. I do not think I can make you 
 understand how well I love it. It seems to me that I 
 can never again have the same feeling for any place 
 that I have for this. There is not a house, a field, a 
 green lane, that is not dear to me. It is like a first 
 love. With some people a first love will come so 
 strongly that it makes a renewal of the passion impos- 
 sible." He did not say that it would be so with him- 
 self, but it seemed to her that he intended that she 
 should so understand him. 
 
 "I do not see why you should leave Clavering," 
 she said. 
 
 "If you knew the nature of my regard for your- 
 self, you would see why it should be so. I do not say 
 that there ought to be any such necessity. If I were 
 strong there would be no such need. But I am weak, 
 — weak in this; and I could not hold myself under 
 such control as is wanted for the work I have to do." 
 When he had spoken of his love for the place, — for 
 the parish, there had been something of passion in his 
 language; but now in the words which he spoke of 
 
334 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS, 
 
 himself and of his feeling for her, he was calm and 
 reasonable and tranquil, and talked of his going away 
 from her as he might have talked had some change of 
 air been declared necessary for his health. She felt 
 that this was so, and was almost angry with him. 
 
 "Of course you must know what will be best for 
 yourself," she said. 
 
 "Yes; I know now what I must do, if such is to 
 be your answer. I have made up my mind as to that. 
 I cannot remain at Clavering, if I am told that I may 
 never hope that you will become my wife." 
 
 "But, Mr. Saul—" 
 
 "Well; I am listening. But before you speak, re- 
 member how all-important your words will be to me." 
 
 "ISTo; they cannot be all-important." 
 
 "As regards my present happiness and rest in this 
 world they will be so. Of course I know that nothing 
 you can say or do will hurt me beyond that. But 
 you might help me even to that further and greater 
 bliss. You might help me too in that, — as I also 
 might help you." 
 
 "But, Mr. Saul — " she began again, and then, 
 feeling that she must go on, she forced herself to utter 
 words which at the time she felt to be commonplace. 
 "People cannot marry without an income. Mr. Field- 
 ing did not think of such a thing till he had a living 
 assured to him." 
 
 "But, independently of that, might I hope?" She 
 ventured for an instant to glance at his face, and saw 
 that his eyes were glistening with a wonderful brightness. 
 
 "How can I answer you further? Is not that rea- 
 son enough why such a thing should not be even dis- 
 cussed?" 
 
CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD. 
 
 335 
 
 "No, Miss Clavering, it is not reason enough. If 
 you were to tell me that you could never love me, — 
 me, personally, — that you could never regard me with 
 affection, that would be reason why I should desist*, — 
 why I should abandon all my hope here, and go away 
 from Clavering for ever. Nothing else can be reason 
 enough. My being poor ought not to make you throw 
 me aside if you loved me. If it were so that you 
 loved me, I think you would owe it to me to say so, 
 let me be ever so poor." 
 
 "I do not like you the less because you are poor." 
 
 "But do you like me at all? Can you bring your- 
 self to love me? Would you make the effort if I had 
 such an income as you thought necessary? If I had 
 such riches, could you teach yourself to regard me as 
 him whom you were to love better than all the world 
 beside? I call upon you to answer me that question 
 truly, and if you tell me that it could be so, I will not 
 despair, and I will not go away.'' 
 
 As he said this they came to a turn in the road which 
 brought the parsonage gate within their view. Fanny 
 knew that she would leave him there and go in alone, 
 but she knew also that she must say something further 
 to him before she could thus escape. She did not wish 
 to give him an assurance of her positive indifference to 
 him, — and still less did she wish to tell him that he 
 might hope. It could not be possible that such an en- 
 gagement should be approved by her father, nor could 
 she bring herself to think that she could be quite con- 
 tented with a lover such as Mr. Saul. When he had 
 first proposed to her she had almost ridiculed his pro- 
 position in her heart. Even now there was something 
 in it that was almost ridiculous; — and yet there was 
 
336 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 something in it also tliat touched her as being sublime. 
 The man was honest, good, and true, — perhaps the 
 best and truest man that she had ever known. She 
 could not bring herself to say to him any word that 
 should banish him for ever from the place he loved so 
 well. 
 
 "If you knew your own heart well enough to an- 
 swer me, you should do so,'' he went on to say. "If 
 you do not, say so, and I will be content to wait your 
 own time." 
 
 "It would be better, Mr. Saul, that you should not 
 think of this any more." 
 
 "No, Miss Clavering-, that would not be better, — 
 not for me*, for it would prove me to be utterly heart- 
 less. I am not heartless. I love you dearly. I will 
 not say that I cannot live without you; but it is my 
 one great hope as regards this world, that I should 
 have you at some future day as my own. It may be 
 that I am too prone to hope; but surely, if that were 
 altogether beyond hope, you would have found words 
 to tell me so by this time." They had now come to 
 the gateway, and he paused as she put her trembling- 
 hand upon the latch. 
 
 "I cannot say more to you now," she said. 
 
 "Then let it be so. But, Miss Clavering, I shall 
 not leave this place till you have said more than that. 
 And I will speak the truth to you, even though it 
 may offend you. I have more of hope now than 1 have 
 ever had before, — more hope that you may possibly 
 learn to love me. In a few days I will ask you again 
 whether I may be allowed to speak upon the subject 
 to your father. Now I will say farewell, and may 
 God bless you: and remember this, — that my only 
 
CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD. 337 
 
 earthly wish and ambition is in your hands." Then 
 he went on his way towards his own lodgings, and she 
 entered the parsonage garden by herself. 
 
 What should she now do, and how should she carry 
 herself? She would have gone to her mother at once, 
 were it not that she could not resolve what words she 
 would speak to her mother. When her mother should 
 ask her how she regarded the man, in what way should 
 she answer that question? She could not tell herself 
 that she loved Mr. Saul ; and yet, if she surely did not 
 love him, — if such love were impossible, — why had 
 she not said as much to him? We, however, may de- 
 clare that that inclination to ridicule his passion, to 
 think of him as a man who had no right to love, was 
 gone for ever. She conceded to him clearly that right, 
 and knew that he had exercised it well. She knew 
 that he was good and true, and honest, and recognized 
 in him also manly courage and spirited resolution. She 
 would not tell herself that it was impossible that she 
 should love him. 
 
 She went up at last to her room doubting, un- 
 happy, and ill at ease. To have such a secret long 
 kept from her mother would make her life unendurable 
 to her. But she felt that, in speaking to her mother, 
 only one aspect of the affair would be possible. Even 
 though she loved him, how could she marry a curato 
 whose only income was seventy pounds a year? 
 
 The Claverings, L 
 
 22 
 
338 
 
 THE CLAVERINGSo 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The Russian Spy. 
 
 When the baby died at Clavering Park, somebody 
 hinted that Sir Hugh would certainly quarrel with his 
 brother as soon as Archie should become the father of 
 a presumptive heir to the title and property. That 
 such would be the case those who best knew Sir Hugh 
 would not doubt. That Archie should have that of 
 which he himself had been robbed, would of itself be 
 enough to make him hate Archie. But, nevertheless, 
 at this present time, he continued to instigate his bro- 
 ther in that matter of the proposed marriage with Lady 
 Ongar. Hugh, as well as others, felt that Archie's 
 prospects were now improved, and that he could de- 
 mand the hand of a wealthy lady with more of seem- 
 ing propriety than would have belonged to such a 
 proposition while the poor child was living. No one 
 would understand this better than Lady Ongar, who 
 knew so well all the circumstances of the family. The 
 day after the funeral the two brothers returned to Lon- 
 don together, and Hugh spoke his mind in the railway 
 carriage. "It will be no good for you to hang on 
 about Bolton Street, off and on, as though she were a 
 girl of seventeen," he said. 
 
 "I'm quite up to that," said Archie. "I must let 
 her know I'm there, of course. I understand all that." 
 
 "Then why don't you do it? I thought you meant 
 to go to her at once when we were talking about it 
 before in London." 
 
 "So I did go to her, and got on with her very 
 well, too, considering that I hadn't been there long 
 when another woman came in." 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 339 
 
 "But you didn't tell her what you had come 
 about?" 
 
 "No; not exactly. You see it doesn't do to pop 
 at once to a widow like her. Ongar, you know, hasn't 
 been dead six months. One has to be a little delicate 
 in these things." 
 
 "Believe me, Archie, you had better give up all 
 notions of being delicate, and tell her what you want 
 at once, — plainly and fairly. You may be sure that 
 she will not think of her former husband, if you 
 don't." 
 
 "Oh! I don't think about him at all." 
 
 "Who was the woman you say was there?" 
 
 "That little Frenchwoman, — the sister of the 
 man; — Sophie she calls her. Sophie Gordeloup is 
 her name. They are bosom friends." 
 
 "The sister of that count?" 
 
 "Yes*, his sister. Such a woman for talking! She 
 said ever so much about your keeping Hermione down 
 in the country." 
 
 "The devil she did! What business -was that of 
 hers? That is Julia's doing." 
 
 "Well*, no, I don't think so. Julia didn't say a 
 word about it. In fact, I don't know how it came up. 
 But you never heard such a woman to talk, — an 
 ugly, old, hideous little creature! But the two are 
 always together." 
 
 "If you don't take care you'll find that Julia is 
 married to the count while you are thinking about it." 
 
 Then Archie began to consider whether he might 
 not as well tell his brother of his present scheme with 
 reference to Julia. Having discussed the matter at 
 great length with his confidential friend. Captain Boodle, 
 
 22* 
 
340 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 he had come to the conclusion that his safest course 
 would be to bribe Madame Gordeloup, and creep into 
 Julia's favour by that lady's aid. Now, on his return 
 to London, he was about at once to play that game, 
 and had already provided himself with funds for the 
 purpose. The parting with ready money was a grievous 
 thing to Archie, though in this case the misery would 
 be somewhat palliated by the feeling that it was a 
 bon^ fide sporting transaction. He would be lessening 
 the odds against himself by a judicious hedging of his 
 bets. "You must stand to lose something always by 
 the horse you mean to win," Doodles had said to him, 
 and Archie had recognized the propriety of the remark. 
 He had, therefore, with some difficulty, provided him- 
 self with funds, and was prepared to set about his 
 hedging operations as soon as he could find Madame 
 Gordeloup on his return to London. He had already 
 ascertained her address through Doodles, and had as- 
 certained by the unparalleled acuteness of his friend 
 that the lady was — a Russian spy. It would have 
 been beautiful to have seen Archie's face when this 
 information was whispered into his ear, in private, at 
 the club. It was as though he had then been made 
 acquainted with some great turf secret, unknown to the 
 sporting world in general. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, drawing a long breath, "noj — 
 by George, is she?" 
 
 The same story had been told everywhere in Lon- 
 don of the little woman for the last half dozen years, 
 whether truly or untruly I am not prepared to say; 
 but it had not hitherto reached Archie Clavering ; and 
 now, on hearing it, he felt that he was becoming a 
 participator in the deepest diplomatic secrets of Europe. 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 341 
 
 "By George," said he, "is slie really?" 
 
 And his respect for the little woman rose a thou- 
 sand per cent. 
 
 "That's what she is," said Doodles, "and it's a 
 doosed fine thing for you, you know! Of course you 
 can make her safe, and that will be everything." 
 
 Archie resolved at once that he would use the 
 great advantage which chance and the ingenuity of his 
 friend had thrown in his way; but that necessity of 
 putting money in his purse was a sore grievance to 
 him, and it occurred to him that it would be a grand 
 thing if he could induce his brother to help him in 
 this special matter. If he could only make Hugh see 
 the immense advantage of an alliance with the Russian 
 spy, Hugh could hardly avoid contributing to the ex- 
 pense, — of course on the understanding that all such 
 moneys were to be repaid when the Russian spy's work 
 had been brought to a successful result. Russian spy! 
 There was in the very sound of the words something 
 so charming that it almost made Archie in love with 
 the outlay. A female Russian spy too 1 Sophie Gorde- 
 loup certainly retained but very few of the charms of 
 womanhood, nor had her presence as a lady affected 
 Archie with any special pleasure; but yet he felt in- 
 finitely more pleased with the affair than he would 
 have been had she been a man spy. The intrigue was 
 deeper. His sense of delight in the mysterious wicked- 
 ness of the thing was enhanced by an additional ^ice. 
 It is not given to every man to employ the services of 
 a political Russian lady-spy in his love affairs ! As he 
 thought of it in all its bearings, he felt that he was 
 almost a Talleyrand, or, at any rate, a Palmerston. 
 
 Should he tell his brother? If he could represent 
 
342 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 the matter in such a light to his brother as to induce 
 Hugh to produce the funds for purchasing the spy's 
 services, the whole thing would be complete with a 
 completeness that has rarely been equalled. But he 
 doubted. Hugh was a hard man, — a hard, unimagi- 
 native man, and might possibly altogether refuse to 
 believe in the Eussian spy. Hugh believed in little 
 but what he himself saw, and usually kept a very firm 
 grasp upon his money. 
 
 "That Madame Gordeloup is always with Julia," 
 Archie said, trying the way, as it were, before he told 
 his plan. 
 
 "Of course she will help her brother's views." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that. Some of these foreign 
 women ain't like other women at all. They go deeper; 
 — a doosed sight deeper." 
 
 "Into men's pockets, you mean." 
 
 "They play a deep game altogether. Wliat do 
 you suppose she is, now?" This question Archie asked 
 in a whisper, bending his head forward towards his 
 brother, though there was no one else in the carriage 
 with them. 
 
 "What she is? A thief of some kind probably. 
 I've no doubt she's up to any roguery." 
 "She's a — Eussian spy." 
 
 "Oh, I've heard of that for the last dozen years. 
 All the ugly old Frenchwomen in London are Eussian 
 spies, according to what people say; but the Eussians 
 know how to use their money better than that. If 
 they employ spies, they employ people who can spy 
 something." 
 
 Archie felt this to be cruel, — very cruel, but he 
 said nothing further about it. His brother was stupid, 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 343 
 
 pigheaded, obstinate, and quite unfitted by nature for 
 affairs of intrigue. It was, alas, certain tliat his brother 
 would provide no money for such a purpose as that he 
 now projected 5 but, thinking of this, he found some 
 consolation in the reflection that Hugh would not be a 
 participator with him in his great secret. When he 
 should have bought the Russian spy, he and Doodles 
 would rejoice together in privacy without any third 
 confederate. Triumviri might be very well; Archie 
 also had heard of triumviri-, but two were company, 
 and three were none. Thus he consoled himself when 
 his pigheaded brother expressed his disbelief in the 
 Russian spy. 
 
 There was nothing more said between them in the 
 railway carriage, and, as they parted at the door in 
 Berkeley Square, Hugh swore to himself that this 
 should be the last season in which -^he would harbour 
 his brother in London. After this he must have a 
 house of his own there, or have no house at all. Then 
 Archie went down to his club, and finally arranged 
 with Doodles that the first visit to the Spy should be 
 made on the following morning. After much consulta- 
 tion it was agreed between them that the way should 
 be paved by a diplomatic note. The diplomatic note 
 was therefore written by Doodles and copied by 
 Archie. 
 
 "Captain Clavering presents his compliments to 
 Madame Gordeloup, and proposes to call upon her to- 
 morrow morning at twelve o'clock, if that hour will 
 be convenient. Captain Clavering is desirous of con- 
 sulting Madame Gordeloup on an affair of much im- 
 portance." "Consult me!" said Sophie to herself, when 
 she got the letter. "For what should he consult me? 
 
344 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 It is that stupid man I saw witli Julie. Ah, well; 
 never mind. The stupid man shall come." The com- 
 missioner, therefore, who had taken the letter to 
 Mount Street, returned to the club with a note in 
 which Madame Gordeloup expressed her willingness to 
 undergo the proposed interview. Archie felt that the 
 letter, — a letter from a Russian spy addressed po- 
 sitively to himself, — gave him already diplomatic rank, 
 and he kept it as a treasure in his breast coat-pocket. 
 
 It then became necessary that he and his friend 
 should discuss the manner in which the Spy should be 
 managed. Doodles had his misgivings that Archie 
 would be awkward, and almost angered his friend by 
 the repetition of his cautions. "You mustn't chuck 
 your money at her head, you know,'' said Doodles. 
 
 "Of course not; but when the time comes I shall 
 slip the notes into her hand, — with a little pressure 
 perhaps." 
 
 "It would be better to leave them near her on the 
 table." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; a great deal. It's always done in that 
 way." 
 
 "But perhaps she wouldn't see them, — or wouldn't 
 know where they came from." 
 "Let her alone for that." 
 
 "But I must make her understand what I want of 
 her, — in return, you know. I ain't going to give 
 her twenty pounds for nothing." 
 
 "You must explain that at first; tell her that you 
 expect her aid, and that she will find you a grateful 
 friend. — a grateful friend, say; — mind you re- 
 member that." 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPT. 
 
 845 
 
 "Yes; ril remember that. I suppose it would be 
 as good a way as any." 
 
 "It's the only way, unless you want lier to ring 
 for tlie servant to kick you out of the bouse. It's as 
 well understood as ABC, among tbe people who do 
 these things. I should say take jewellery instead of 
 money if she were anything but a Eussian spy, but 
 they understand the thing so well, that you may go 
 farther with them than with others." 
 
 Archie's admiration for Sophie became still higher 
 as he heard this. "I do like people," said he, "who 
 understand what's what, and no mistake." 
 
 "But even with her you must be very careful." 
 
 "Oh, yes; that's a matter of course." 
 
 "When I was declaring for the last time that she 
 would find me a grateful friend, just at the word grate- 
 ful, I would put down the four fivers on the table, 
 smoothing them with my hand like that." Then 
 Doodles acted the part, putting a great deal of em- 
 phasis on the word grateful, as he went through the 
 smoothing ceremony with two or three sheets of club 
 notepaper. "That's your game, you may be sure. If 
 you put them into her hand she may feel herself ob- 
 liged to pretend to be angry; but she can't be angry 
 simply because you put your money on her table. 
 Do you see that, old fellow?" Archie declared that 
 he did see it very plainly. "If she does not choose to 
 undertake the job, she'll merely have to tell you that you 
 have left something behind you." 
 
 "But there's no fear of that, I suppose?" 
 
 "I can't say. Her hands may be full, you know, 
 or she may think you don't go high enough." 
 
 "But I mean to tip her again, of course." 
 
346 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Again! I should think so. I suppose she must 
 have about a couple of hundred before the end of next 
 month if she's to do any good. After a bit you'll be 
 able to explain that she shall have a sum down when 
 the marriage has come off." 
 
 "She won't take the money and do nothing; will 
 she?" 
 
 "Oh, no; they never sell you like that. It would 
 spoil their own business if they were to play that game. 
 If you can make it worth her while, she'll do the work 
 for you. But you must be careful; — do remember 
 that." Archie shook his head, almost in anger, and 
 then went home for his night's rest. 
 
 On the next morning he dressed himself in his best, 
 and presented himself at the door in Mount Street, ex- 
 actly as the clock struck twelve. He had an idea that 
 these people were very punctilious as to time. Who 
 could say but that the French ambassador might have 
 an appointment with Madame Gordeloup at half-past 
 one, — or perhaps some emissary from the Pope! He 
 had resolved that he would not take his left glove off 
 his hand, and he had thrust the notes in under the 
 palm of his glove, thinking he could get at them easier 
 from there, should they be wanted in a moment, than 
 he could do from his waistcoat pocket. He knocked 
 at the door, knowing that he trembled as he did so, 
 and felt considerable relief when he found himself to 
 be alone in the room to which he was shown. He 
 knew that men conversant with intrigues always go to 
 work with their eyes open, and, therefore, at once he 
 began to look about him. Could he not put the money 
 into some convenient hiding-place, — now at once? 
 There, in one corner, was the spot in which she would 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 347 
 
 seat herself upon tlie sofa. He saw plainly enough, 
 as with the eye of a Talleyrand, the marks thereon of 
 her constant sitting. So he seized the moment to place 
 a chair suitable for himself, and cleared a few inches 
 on the table near to it, for the smoothing of the bank- 
 notes, — feeling, while so employed, that he was doing 
 great things. He had almost made up his mind to slip 
 one note between the pages of a book, not with any 
 well-defined plan as to the utility of such a measure, 
 but because it seemed to be such a diplomatic thing to 
 do! But while this grand idea was still flashing back- 
 wards and forwards across his brain the door opened, 
 and he found himself in the presence of — the Rus- 
 sian spy. 
 
 He at once saw that the Russian spy was very dirty, 
 and that she wore a nightcap, but he liked her the 
 better on that account. A female Russian spy should, 
 he felt, differ much in her attire from other women. 
 If possible, she should be arrayed in diamonds, and 
 pearl ear-drops, with as little else upon her as might 
 be; but failing that costume, which might be regarded 
 as the appropriate evening Spy costume, — a tumbled 
 nightcap, and a dirty white wrapper, old cloth slippers, 
 and objectionable stockings were just what they should be. 
 
 ''Ah!" said the lady, "you are Captain Clavering. 
 Yes, I remember." 
 
 "I am Captain Clavering. I had the honour of 
 meeting you at Lady Ongar's." 
 
 "And now you wish to consult me on an affair of 
 great importance. Very well. You may consult me. 
 Will you sit down — there." And Madame Gordeloup 
 indicated to him a chair just opposite to herself, and 
 far removed from that convenient spot which Archie 
 
348 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 had prepared for tlie smoothing of the bank-notes. Near 
 to the place now assigned to him there was no table 
 whatever, and he felt that he would in that position 
 be so completely raked by the fire of her keen eyes, 
 that he would not be able to carry on his battle upon 
 good terms. In spite, therefore, of the lady's very- 
 plain instructions, he made an attempt to take posses- 
 sion of the chair which he had himself placed; but it 
 was an ineffectual attempt, for the Spy was very 
 peremptory with him. There, Captain Clavering; there; 
 there; you will be best there." Then he did as he was 
 bid, and seated himself, as it were, quite out at sea, 
 with nothing but an ocean of carpet around him, and 
 with no possibility of manipulating his notes except 
 under the raking fire of those terribly sharp eyes. "And 
 now," said Madame Gordeloup, "you can commence to 
 consult me. What is the business?" 
 
 Ah; what was the business? That was now the 
 difficulty. In discussing the proper way of tendering 
 the bank-notes, I fear the two captains had forgotten 
 the nicest point of the whole negotiation. How was 
 he to tell her what it was that he wanted to do him- 
 self, and what that she was to be required to do for 
 him? It behoved him above all things not to be awk- 
 ward! That he remembered. But how not to be awk- 
 ward? "Well!" she said; and there was something 
 almost of crossness in her tone. Her time, no doubt, 
 was valuable. The French ambassador might even now 
 be coming. "Well?" 
 
 "I think, Madame Gordeloup, you know my brother's 
 sister-in-law. Lady Ongar?" 
 
 "What, Julie? Of course I know Julie. Julie and 
 I are dear friends." 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 349 
 
 "So I supposed. That is the reason why I liave 
 come to you." 
 
 "Well;— well;— well?" 
 
 "Lady Ongar is a person whom I have known for 
 a long time, and for whom I have a great, — I may 
 say a very deep regard." 
 
 "Ah! yes. What a jointure she has! and what a 
 park! Thousands and thousands of pounds, — and so 
 beautiful! If I was a man I should have a very deep 
 regard too. Yes." 
 
 "A most beautiful creature; — is she not?" 
 
 "Ah; if you had seen her in Florence, as I used to 
 see her, in the long summer evenings! Her lovely hair 
 was all loose to the wind, and she would sit hour after 
 hour looking, oh, at the stars ! Have you seen the stars 
 in Italy?" 
 
 Captain Clavering couldn't say that he had, but he 
 had seen them uncommon bright in Norway, when he 
 had been fishing there. 
 
 "Or the moon?" continued Sophie, not regarding 
 his answer. "Ah; that is to live! And he, her husband, 
 the rich lord, he was dying, — in a little room just 
 inside, you know. It was very melancholy. Captain 
 Clavering. But when she was looking at the moon, 
 with her hair all dishevelled," and Sophie put her 
 hands up to her own dirty nightcap, " she was just like 
 a Magdalen; yes, just the same; — just the same." 
 
 The exact strength of the picture, and the nature 
 of the comparison drawn, were perhaps lost upon Archie; 
 and indeed, Sophie herself probably trusted more to 
 the tone of her words, than to any idea which they 
 contained; but their tone was perfect, and she felt that 
 if anything could make him talk, he would talk now. 
 
350 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Dear me! you don't say so. I have always admired 
 her very much, Madame Gordeloup.'' 
 "Well?" 
 
 The French ambassador was probably in the next 
 street already, and if Archie was to tell his tale at all 
 he must do it now. 
 
 "You will keep my secret if I tell it you?" he asked. 
 
 "Is it me you ask that? Did you ever hear of 
 me that I tell a gentleman's secret? I think not. If 
 you have a secret, and will trust me, that will be 
 good; if you will not trust me, — that will be good 
 also." 
 
 "Of course I will trust you. That is why I have 
 come here." 
 
 "Then out with it. I am not a little girl. You need 
 not be bashful. Two and two make four. I know that. 
 But some people want them to make five. I know that 
 too. So speak out what you have to say." 
 
 "I am going to ask Lady Ongar to — to — to — 
 marry me." 
 
 "Ah, indeed; with all the thousands of pounds and 
 the beautiful park! But the beautiful hair is more than 
 all the thousands of pounds. Is it not so?" 
 
 "Well, as to that, they all go together, you know." 
 
 "And that is so lucky! If they was to be separated, 
 which would you take?" 
 
 The little woman grinned as she asked this question, 
 and Archie, had he at all understood her character, 
 might at once have put himself on a pleasant footing 
 with her; but he was still confused and ill at ease, and 
 only muttered something about the truth of his love for 
 Julia. 
 
 "And you want to get her to marry you?" 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 351 
 
 "Yes; that's just it." 
 
 "And you want me to help you?" 
 
 "That's just it again." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Upon my word, if you'll stick to me, you know, 
 and see me through it, and all that kind of thing, 
 you'll find in me a most grateful friend; — indeed, a 
 most grateful friend." And Archie, as from his position 
 he was debarred from attempting the smoothing process, 
 began to work with his right forefinger under the glove 
 on his left hand. 
 
 "What have you got there?" said Madame Gorde- 
 loup, looking at him with all her eyes. 
 
 Captain Clavering instantly discontinued the work 
 with his finger, and became terribly confused. Her 
 voice on asking the question had become very sharp; 
 and it seemed to him that if he brought out his money 
 in that awkward, barefaced way which now seemed to 
 be necessary, she would display all the wrath of which 
 a Russian spy could be capable. Would it not be 
 better that he should let the money rest for the present, 
 and trust to his promise of gratitude? Ah, how he 
 wished that he had slipped at any rate one note between 
 the pages of a book! 
 
 "What have you got there?" she demanded again, 
 very sharply. 
 
 "Oh, nothing." 
 
 "It is not nothing. What have you got there? If 
 you have got nothing, take off your glove. Come." 
 
 Captain Clavering became very red in the face, and 
 was altogether at a loss what to say or do. "Is it 
 money you have got there?" she asked. "Let me see 
 how much. Come." 
 
352 
 
 'the CLAVERINaS. 
 
 "It is just a few bank-notes I put in tere to be 
 handy," he said. 
 
 "Ah; that is very handy, certainly. I never saw 
 that custom before. Let me look." Then she took 
 his hand, and with her own hooked finger clawed out 
 the notes. "Ah! five, ten, fifteen, twenty pounds. 
 Twenty pounds is not a great deal, but it is very nice 
 to have even that always handy. I was wanting so 
 much money as that myself; perhaps you will make it 
 handy to me?" 
 
 " Upon my word I shall be most happy. Nothing 
 on earth would give me more pleasure." 
 
 "Fifty pounds would give me more pleasure; just 
 twice as much pleasure." Archie had begun to rejoice 
 greatly at the safe disposition of the money, and to 
 think how excellently well this Spy did her business; 
 but now there came upon him suddenly an idea that 
 spies perhaps might do their business too well. " Twenty 
 pounds in this country goes a very little way; you are 
 all so rich," said the Spy. 
 
 "By George, I ain't. I ain't rich, indeed." 
 
 "But you mean to be — with Julie's money?" 
 
 "Oh — ah — yes: and you ought to know, Madame 
 Gordeloup, that I am now the heir to the family estate 
 and title." 
 
 "Yes; the poor little baby is dead, in spite of the 
 pills and the powders, the daisies and the buttercups! 
 Poor little baby! I had a baby of my own once, and 
 that died also." Whereupon Madame Gordeloup, put- 
 ting up her hand to her eyes, wiped away a real tear 
 with the bank-notes which she still held. "And I am 
 to remind Julie that you will be the heir?" 
 
 "She will know all about that already." 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 353 
 
 ^'But I will tell her. It will be something to say, 
 at any rate, — and that, perhaps, will be the difficulty/' 
 Just so! I didn't look at it in that light before." 
 
 "And am I to propose it to her first?" 
 
 "Well; I don't know. Perhaps as you are so clever, 
 it might be as well." 
 
 "And at once?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly; at once. You see, Madame Gorde- 
 loup, there may be so many buzzing about her." 
 
 "Exactly; and some of them perhaps will have more 
 than twenty pounds handy. Some will buzz better than 
 that." 
 
 "Of course I didn't mean that for anything more 
 than just a little compliment to begin with." 
 
 "Oh, ah; just a little compliment for beginning. 
 And when will it be making a progress and going on?" 
 
 "Making a progress?" 
 
 "Yes; when will the compliment become a little 
 bigger? Twenty pounds! Oh! it's just for a few gloves, 
 you know; nothing more." 
 
 "Nothing more than that, of course," said poor Archie. 
 
 "Well; when will the compliment grow bigger? Let 
 me see. Julie has seven thousands of pounds, what 
 you call, per annum. And have you seen that beauti- 
 ful parkr^ Oh! And if you can make her to look at 
 the moon with her hair down, — oh! When will that 
 compliment grow bigger? Twenty pounds! I am 
 ashamed, you know." 
 
 "When will you see her, Madame Gordeloup?" 
 
 "See her! I see her every day, always. I will 
 be there to-day, and to-morrow, and the next day." 
 
 "You might say a word then at once, — this afternoon." 
 
 "What! for twenty pounds! Seven thousands of 
 
 The Claverings, I. 23 
 
854 
 
 / 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 pounds per annum; and you give me twenty pounds! 
 Fie, Captain Clavering, It is only just for me to speak 
 to you, — this! That is all. Come; when will you 
 bring me fifty?" 
 
 "By George, — fifty!" 
 
 "Yes, fifty; — for another beginning. What; seven 
 thousands of pounds per annum, and make difficulty 
 for fifty pounds! You have a handy way with your 
 glove. Will you come with fifty pounds to-morrow?" 
 Archie, with the drops of perspiration standing on his 
 brow, and now desirous of getting out again into the 
 street, promised that he would come again on the follow- 
 ing day with the required sum. 
 
 "Just for another beginning! And now, good- 
 morning, Captain Clavering. I will do my possible 
 with Julie. Julie is very fond of me, and I think you 
 have been right in coming here. But twenty pounds 
 was too little, even for a beginning." Mercenary 
 wretch; hungry, greedy, ill-conditioned woman, — 
 altogether of the harpy breed! As Archie Clavering 
 looked into her grey eyes, and saw there her greed 
 and her hunger, his flesh crept upon his bones. Should 
 he not succeed with Julia, how much would this ex 
 eellent lady cost him? 
 
 As soon as he was gone the excellent lady made 
 an intolerable grimace, shaking herself and shrugging 
 her shoulders, nd walking up and down the room with 
 her dirty wrapper held close round her. "Bah," she 
 said. "Bah!" And as she thought of the heavy 
 stupidity of her late visitor she shrugged herself and 
 shook herself again violently, and clutched up her robe 
 still more closely. "Bah!" It was intolerable to her 
 that a man should be such a fool, even though she 
 
THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 355 
 
 was to make money by liim. And then, that such a 
 man should conceive it to be possible that he should 
 become the husband of a woman with seven thousand 
 pounds a year! Bah! 
 
 Archie, as he walked away from Mount Street, 
 found it difficult to create a triumphant feeling within 
 his own bosom. He had been awkward, slow, and 
 embarrassed, and the Spy had been too much for him.. 
 He was quite aware of that, and he was aware also 
 that even the sagacious Doodles had been wrong. There 
 had, at any rate, been no necessity for making a diffi- 
 culty about the money. The Kussian Spy had known 
 her business too well to raise troublesome scruples on 
 that point. That she was very good at her trade he 
 was prepared to acknowledge; but a fear came upon 
 him that he would find the article too costly for his own 
 purposes. He remembered the determined tone in which 
 she had demanded the fifty pounds merely as a further 
 beginning. 
 
 And then he could not but reflect how much had 
 been said at the interview about money, — about 
 money for her, and how very little had been said as 
 to the assistance to be given, — as to the return to be 
 made for the money. No plan had been laid down, 
 no times fixed, no facilities for making love suggested 
 to him. He had sjmply paid over his twenty pounds, 
 and been desired to bring another fifty. The other 
 fifty he was to take to Mount Street on the morrow. 
 What if she were to require fifty pounds every day, 
 and declare that she could not stir in the matter for 
 less? Doodles, no doubt, had told him that these first- 
 class Eussian spies did well the work for which they 
 were paid; and no doubt, if paid according to her own 
 
 23* 
 
356 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 tariff, Madame Gordeloup would work well for him; 
 but such a tariff as that was altogether beyond his 
 means! It would be imperatively necessary that he 
 should come to some distinct settlement with her as to 
 price. The twenty pounds, of course, were gone; but 
 would it not be better that he should come to some 
 final understanding with her before he gave her the 
 further fifty? But then, as he thought of this, he was 
 aware that she was too clever to allow him to do as he 
 desired. If he went into that room with the fifty pounds 
 in his pockets, or in his glove, or, indeed, anywhere 
 about his person, she would have it from him, let his 
 own resolution to make a previous bargain be what it 
 might. His respect for the woman rose almost to venera- 
 tion, but with the veneration was mixed a strong feeling 
 of fear. 
 
 But, in spite of all this, he did venture to triumph 
 a little when he met Doodles at the club. He had 
 employed the Russian Spy, and had paid her twenty 
 pounds, and was enrolled in the corps of diplomatic 
 and mysterious personages who do their work by mys- 
 terious agencies. He did not tell Doodles anything 
 about the glove, or the way in Avhich the money was 
 taken from him; but he did say that he was to see the 
 Spy again to-morrow, and that he intended to take with 
 him another present of fifty pounds. 
 
 "By George, Clavvy, you are going it! " said Doodles, 
 in a voice that was delightfully envious to the ears of 
 Captain Archie. When he heard that envious tone he 
 felt that he was entitled to be triumphant. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PRINTINa OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.