CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 'P.Sqmason 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5684.C61 1866 
 
 The Claverings.A riovel. 
 
 3 1924 013 564 970 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013564970 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 ^ Notjel. 
 
 BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 'CAN TOU FORGIVE HEEf" "THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON," "OELET FARM," 
 "THE BELTON ESTATE," &o., &c. 
 
 NEW YOEK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 18 66. 
 
 P 
 
By Anthony TroUope. 
 
 Can You Forgive Her ? A Novel. With 
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THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 JULIA EBABAZON. 
 
 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 elev- 
 enth baronet of that name ; and in these gar- 
 dens, 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 ac- 
 quainted 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 labor are given abundantly, 
 flower-beds will be pretty, and grass will be green, 
 let the weather be what it may ; but care and 
 labor were but scantily bestowed on the Claver- 
 ing Gardens, and every thing was yellow, adust, 
 harsh, and dry. Over the burnt tnrf, toward 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. 
 
 "Of course I am going in, " said the 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 with- 
 in rational bounds, she would not feel herself 
 driven to great anger. 
 
 But though she might be inclined to be play- 
 ful, he was by no means in that mood. "And 
 vnhy 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 herself up, and dismissed the smile from 
 her face, and allowed her eyes to fall upon the 
 ground; "but chieflj 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 ac- 
 quaintances. Now I have been very frank, Mr. 
 Clavering, and I think that that ought to be 
 enough." 
 
 " YoiLare 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. Prom what yon 
 know of me do you think it likely that that will 
 be enough ?" He was now standing in front of 
 her, between her and the gate, and she made no 
 effort to leave him. 
 
 " And what is it you want ? I suppose you 
 do not mean to fight Lord Ongar, and that if 
 you did yoii 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 yon could not ask 
 him without being false to me. " 
 
 "I should have had an example for that, at 
 any rate." 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 " That's nonsense, Mr. Clavering. My false- 
 hood, if you should choose to call me false, is of 
 a very different nature, and is pardonable by all 
 laws known in the world." 
 
 "You are a jilt — that is alh" 
 
 " 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 any thing 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 yon by the world. I have two hundred a 
 year, and I owe af this moment six hundred 
 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 schoolmas- 
 ter, and, if I remained so, 1 might fairly look for- 
 ward to a liberal income. But I am going to 
 give that up." 
 
 " You will not be more fit for matrimony be- 
 cause you are going to give up your profession. 
 Now Lord Ongar has — heaven kiiows what — 
 perhaps sixty thousand a year." 
 
 " In all my life I never heard such effrontery 
 — such barefaced, shameless worldliness." 
 
 ' ' Why should I not love a man with a large 
 income ?" , 
 
 " 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 pei-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 advantage 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 can not deprive 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 injure 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. Lord Ongar certainly wants a wife, 
 and I intend to be true to him — and useful." 
 
 " 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 handsome, HaiTy, 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 I 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, aft- 
 er 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 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 yon 
 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 thousands." 
 
 "Dear Harry, I beg your pardon about the 
 usher. Of course, I know that you are a fellow 
 of your college, 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 you'll 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 pre- 
 fer your lot to mine I 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 
 every thing for yourself." 
 
 "But nothing is any thing without your love." 
 
 "Pshaw! 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 con- 
 tinue a romance which would be absolutely de- 
 structive to me, thougli for a while it might af- 
 ford a pleasant relaxation to your graver stud- 
 ies. Harry, you can choose in the world. You 
 have divinity, and law, and literature, and art. 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Andif dejbarredfrora love nowbytlie exigencies 
 of labor, 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 choose, 
 as I say ; but I have had no choice — no choice 
 but to be married well, or to go out like a snufF 
 of a candle. I don't like the snufF of a can- 
 dle, and, therefore, I am going to be married 
 well." 
 
 " And that suffices ?" 
 
 "It must suffice. And why should it not 
 suffice ? You are very uncivil, cousin, and very 
 unlike the rest of the world. Every body com- 
 pliments 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 ev- 
 ery thing 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 wgn'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 ray refusal just now. 
 It must not be repeat'ed, 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 re- 
 member this ; I have told you all my hopes, 
 and my one trouble. 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 honor as a gentleman to repeat 
 nothing that I have said to you." 
 
 ' ' I am not given, to repeat such things as 
 those." 
 
 "I'm sure you are not. And 1 hope you 
 will not misunderstand the spirit in which they 
 have been spoken. I shair never regret what I 
 have told you now, if it tends to make you per- 
 ceive that we must both regard our past ac- 
 quaintance 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 position, I know, tlian that of an 
 usher, but it doesn't suit me." 
 
 " Oh, HaiTv, that is so cruel ! But you will 
 eome up to the house. Lord Ongar will be 
 
 there on the thirty-first; the day after to-mor- 
 row, 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." 
 
 " Good-by, then, " and she offered Mm her 
 hand. 
 
 " Good-by, if it must be so." 
 
 "I don't know whether you mean to grace 
 my marriage?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I shall be away from Cla- 
 vering, 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 
 shohld succeed in getting up to London . If you 
 ever come to see Hermione 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 toward the rectory. 
 
 Three years before this scene in the gardens 
 at Clavering Park, Lord Brabazon had died at 
 Nice, leaving one unmarried daughter, the lady 
 to whom the reader has just been introduced. 
 One other daughter he had, wTio was then al- 
 ready married to Sir Hugh Clavering, and Lady 
 Clavering was the Hermione of whom mention 
 has already been made. Lord Brabazon, whose 
 peerage had descended to him in a direct line 
 from the times of the Plantagenetg, 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 between his 
 two daughters. The elder had already made 
 an excellent match, as regarded fortune, in mar- 
 rying 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 necessary to say much in the way of descrip- 
 tion. 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 Reverend 
 Henry Clavering, rector of Clavering, uncle of 
 the present Sir Hugh Clavering, and brother of 
 the last Sir Hugh. The Eeverend Henry Cla- 
 vering, and Mrs. Clavering, his wife, and his two 
 daughters, Mary and Fanny Clavering, lived al- 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 ways at CUvering Rectory, on the outskirts of 
 Clavering Park, at a fuU 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 Cla- 
 vering, 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 pleasure and fond of money, I shall have 
 said all that I need now say about the Clavering 
 ^ily at large. 
 
 Julia Brabazon had indulged in some remi- 
 niscence of the romance of her past poetic life 
 when she talked of consinship 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 
 Hngh by making good her footing in his estab- 
 lishment. He was not the man to take up a 
 wife's sister, and make his house her home, out 
 of charity or from domestic love. Lady Cla- 
 vering, 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 the 
 house of a certain fast hunting duke with whom 
 Sir Hugh was intimate ; and at Brighton with 
 her sister, when it suited Sir Hngh to remain 
 alone at the duke's ; and then again up in Lon- 
 don, 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 Bra- 
 bazon 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 Herraione on 
 the subject, the two sisters had been discreet 
 enough to manage that they should go no far- 
 ther. In those short months of Julia's romance 
 Sir Hugh had been away from Clavering, and 
 Hermione 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. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HAERT CLAVEEING CHOOSES HIS PB0FB8SI0N. 
 
 Haebt Claveking might not be an usher, 
 but, nevertheless, he was home for the holidavs. 
 
 And who can say where the usher enjj^s and the 
 schoolmaster begins? He, perhaps, may prop- 
 erly be called an usher who is hired by a pri- 
 vate schoolmaster to assist himself in his private 
 occupation, whereas Harry Clavering had been 
 selected by a public body out of a hundred can- 
 didates, with much real or pretended reference 
 to certificates of qualification. He was certain- 
 ly 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 un- 
 comfortable. He did not like to reflect that he 
 was home for the holidays. 
 
 But he had determined that he would never 
 come home for J;he holidays again. At Christ- 
 mas 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 per- 
 haps 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 pounds ont 
 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 indulge 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 something 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 
 question. 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 in- 
 ternal 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, de- 
 bauched, disreputable lord have the power of 
 taking the cup from his lip, the one morsel of 
 bread which he coveted from Ins 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 arrangement. 
 And in truth Harry (.Havering had so much con- 
 tempt for Lord Ongar that he had no wish to 
 fight so poor a creature. The man had had de- 
 lirium tremens, and was a worn-out, miserable 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 object. So at least Harry Clavering was only 
 too ready to believe. .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 ho could 
 do nothing! He could take no step toward sav- 
 ing 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 forever — 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 perfect- 
 ly 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 
 Bi'abazon 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 it." In the first draft of his letter he 
 said something about ushering, but that he omit- 
 ted afterward. ' ' You may be assured that the 
 inclosed 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 inclosed a check for six 
 hundred pounds. It was the money which he 
 liad 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 mat- 
 ter 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 par- 
 tridge-shooting. The two sisters, therefore, had 
 the house all to themselves. At about twelve 
 they sat down to breakfast together in a little 
 up-stairs chamber adjoining Lady Clavering's 
 own room, Julia Brabazon at that time having 
 her lover's generous letter in her pCcket. She 
 knew that it was as improper as it was gener- 
 ous, 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 absolute- 
 ly angi-y with Han-y, but had, to herself, twenty 
 
 times called him a foolish, indiscreet, dear gen- 
 erous boy. But what was she to do with the 
 check ? 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 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 with the wealth of the man who was 
 to become her husband in six weeks ! Let her 
 marry him, and not pay them, and he probably 
 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 money ; and, to give her such 
 merit as was due to her, she felt the meanness 
 of going to her husband with debts on her shoul- 
 der. 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 law- 
 yer of her trouble when he had bi'ought the pa- 
 per for her to sign; but she had not told him. 
 If Sir Hugh Clavering had been her own broth- 
 er there would have been no difiiculty, 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 Col- 
 clugh's this morning." 
 
 "Just because he knows you'refgoing to be 
 married ; 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." 
 
 "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 for- 
 tune." 
 
 "But the mon»y which will be nothing to 
 Lord Ongar was a good deal to Hugh. You're 
 going to have sixty thousand a year, while wc 
 have to do with seven or eight. Besides, 1 
 hadn't been out in London, and it wasn't likely 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 I should owe mucli 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, BO 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 f " 
 
 This Lady Clavering did ; and had she re- 
 fused to do it, I think that poor Harry Claver- 
 ing's check 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 Brabazon." 
 The effect of this was the receipt of a check for 
 a thousand pounds in a Very pretty note from 
 Lord Ongar, which the lord brought with him 
 to Clavering, and sent up to Julia as he was 
 dressing for dinner. It was an extremely com- 
 fortable arrangement, and Julia was very glad 
 of the money, feeling it to be a portion of that 
 which was her own. And Harry's check had 
 been returned to him on the day of its receipt. 
 " Of course I can not 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 returned. But Miss Brabazon had 
 torn the signature off the check, so that it might 
 be safe, whereas Harry Clavering had taken no 
 precaution with it whatever. Bnt then Harry 
 Clavering had not lived two years in London. 
 
 During the hours that the check was away 
 from him, Harry had told his father that per- 
 haps, 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 pros- 
 perous, 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 or- 
 ders. It would then lead to a living, and would 
 in the mean time afford a livelihood. But, be- 
 yond this, Harry, with an energy which he cer- 
 tainly had not inherited from his father, had be- 
 come a schoolmaster, and was already a rich 
 man. He had done more than well, and there 
 was a great probability that between them they 
 might be able to buy the next presentation 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 
 tlie family at the rectory ; but he might perhaps 
 part with it under such circumstances on favor- 
 able 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 nnenergetic, and having hitherto 
 done little for his son, should dictate to a young 
 man who had been energetic, and who had 
 done much for himself, was out of the question. 
 Harry, therefore, was to be the arbiter of his 
 own fate. But when Harry received back the 
 check from Julia Brabazon, then he again re- 
 turned to his resolution respecting Messrs. Beil- 
 by aiid 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 op- 
 posite to each other, they lit each a cigar. Such 
 was the reverend gentleman's custom in the aft- 
 ernoon, 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 nowaday 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 idle- 
 ness. The world had given him much to eat and 
 drink, but it had given him littla to do, and thus 
 he had gradually fallen away from his early pur- 
 poses, till his energy hardly sufficed for the do- 
 ing of that little. His living gave him eight 
 hundred a year ; his wife's fortune nearly doub- 
 led 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 li- 
 brary 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 fol- 
 lowing his sport as it is followed by moderate 
 sportsmen. Then there had come a new bish- 
 op, 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 color rose to his face, 
 "I think yoti are wrong in this. I think you 
 are specially wrong to interfere with me in this 
 way on your first coming among ns. You feel 
 it to be your duty, no doubt ; but to me it seems 
 that you mistake your duty. But, as the mat- 
 ter 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 move, and probably 
 
THE .CLAVEMNGS: 
 
 smoked u, greater number of cigars in conse- 
 quence. He had 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 liept a most energetic 
 curate, whom he allowed to do almost what he 
 would with the parish. Every-day services he 
 did prohibit, declaring that he would not have 
 the parish church made ridiculous; but in otlier 
 respects his curate was the pastor Once evei-y 
 Sunday he read the service, and once every Sun- 
 day he preached, and he resided in his par 
 sonage 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, ho knew all this of himself, 
 and understood it tlioroughly. "I see a better 
 path, and know how good it is, but I follow ever 
 the worse." Ho was saying that to himself dai- 
 ly, 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 contempt 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 aban- 
 dons his attempts to make his favorite 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 rectory. He understood 
 it all. He knew that he was so far rejected ; 
 and he 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 can not 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 an- 
 other 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 
 person." 
 
 "Yon were going to lend your money to 
 some one?" 
 
 "I must keep it a secret, though ^ou 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 Tuesday." 
 
 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 ex- 
 press 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, altogether, that you do not like 
 the church as a profession ?" he said at last, 
 
 " I think I have, father." 
 
 " And on what grounds ? The grounds which 
 recommend it to you are very strong. Your ed- 
 ucation has adapted you for it. Your success in 
 it is already insured by your fellowship. In a 
 great degree you have entered it as a profession 
 already liy taking a fellowship. What you are 
 doing is not choosing a line in life, but changing 
 one already chosen. You are makmg of your- 
 self 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 prac- 
 tice deportment among the under-graduates." 
 
 "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 fel- 
 lowship, 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 fel- 
 lowship 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 conventional rules. A rebellious cler- 
 gyman is, I think, a sorry object. It seems 
 to me that he is a bird fouling his own nest. 
 Now, I know I should be a rehellious clergy- 
 man." 
 
 "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 
 exclude hunting. Bishop Proudie was vulgar 
 and intrusive, 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 noth- 
 ing to do in life nnless he is always preaching 
 and teaching. Look at Saul" — Mr. Saul was 
 the curate of Clavering — " he is always preach- 
 ing and teaching. He is doing the best he can ; 
 and what a life he has of it ! He has literally 
 thrown off all worldly cares, and consequently 
 
10 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 every body laughs at him, and nobody loves 
 liim. I don't believe a better man breathes, 
 but I shouldn't like his life." 
 
 At this point there was another pause, which 
 lasted till the cigars had come to an end. Then, 
 as he threw the stump into the fire, Mr. Claver- 
 ing spoke again. "The truth is, Harry, that 
 you have had, all your life, a bad example be- 
 fore 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 you fancy no life between 
 the 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 contro- 
 versy between ns 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 as man as he. It is not that be mortifies 
 ills fiesh, but that he has no flesh to mortify. 
 He is unconscious of the flavor 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 en- 
 trance of Fanny Clavering, who came to say 
 that Mr. Saul was in the drawing-room. "What 
 does he want, Fanny!" This question Mr. Cla- 
 vering asked half in a whisper, but with some- 
 thing of comic humor in his face, as though part- 
 ly 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 any where he likes on the Green. Howev- 
 er, 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 got into a wick- 
 ed 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 purchased for a hundred and fifty pounds, 
 and Mr. Saul proposed to add to his own duties 
 the pleasing occupation of walking to Cumberly 
 Grreen every Sunday morning before breakfast, 
 and every Wednesday evening after dinner, to 
 perform a service and bring back to the true 
 flock as many of the erring sheep of Cumberly 
 Green as he might be able to catch. Toward 
 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 un- 
 
 graciously, 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 i the girls gave ten shillings each ; Hen- 
 ry Clavering gave five pounds ; and then the 
 parson made up the remainder. But Mr. Saul 
 had journeyed thrice painfully to Bristol, mak- 
 ing the bargain for the church, going and com- 
 ing 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, stop- 
 ping 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." 
 
 "I think you are quite right." 
 "And Mary thinks I am quite wrong." 
 "Mai-y thinks so, of course. So should I 
 too, perhaps, 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 any thing 
 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 fol- 
 lowed their father into the drawing-room. 
 
 " Couldn't you drive Mrs. Clavering over in 
 the pony chair, and settle it between you ?" said 
 Mr. Clavering to his curate. Mr. Saul looked 
 disappointed. In the first place, he hated driv- 
 ing 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. Cla- 
 vering will drive you," said the rector, remem- 
 bering Mr. Saul's objection to the pony. Still 
 Mr. Saul 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 cheek-bones obtruded themselves unpleas- 
 antly. He wore a long rusty-black coat, and a 
 high rusty-black waistcoat, and trowsers that 
 were brown with dirty roads and general ill- 
 usage. Nevertheless, it never occurred to any 
 one that Mr. Saul did not look like a gentleman, 
 not even to himself, to whom no ideas whatever 
 on that subject ever presented themselves. But 
 that he was » gentleman I think he knew well 
 enough, and was able to carry himself before Sir 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 11 
 
 Hugh and his wife witii quite as much ease as 
 he could do in the rectory. Once or twice he 
 had dined at the great house ; but Lady Claver- 
 ing had declared him to be a bore, and Sir Hugh 
 had called him " that most offensive of all ani- 
 mals, a clerical prig." It had therefore been de- 
 cided 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 rare- 
 ly went to his nephew's table. On certain occa- 
 sions he did do so, so that there might be no 
 recognized 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 con- 
 sented 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 mv 
 time up to this." 
 
 "It is more than that, I think, Harry," 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. 
 
 "I doubt it," said Harry, stoutly. "But, 
 however that may be, a man must choose for 
 himself." 
 
 "We all thought you 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 Ae. 
 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 hundred 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 be- 
 fore, and that ought to make him happy. " Aft- 
 er saying this in a tone of high authority befit- 
 ting his dignity as a fellow of his college, 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 con- 
 cerns of a neighboring parish. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 bo- 
 som, a misery within him which no profession 
 could mitigate ! Those dear ones at home guess- 
 ed nothing of this, and he would take care 
 that they shovdd guess nothing. Why should 
 they have the pain of knowing that he had 
 been made wretched forever 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 reveled in his wretchedness, and made much 
 to himself of his misery. He sucked in his sor- 
 row greedily, and was somewhat proud to have 
 had occasion to break his heart. But not the 
 less, because he was thus early blighted, .would 
 he struggle for success 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 impedi- 
 ment 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 escaped him. 
 
 He found Mr. Burton at home, and was not 
 long in concluding his business. Messra. Beil- 
 by 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 
 opinion 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 Parliamentward, 
 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 
 
12 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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 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 become a 
 fellow of a college. Indeed, Harry talked to 
 him quite as though they two were on an equal- 
 ity together; and, before they had parted, Mr. 
 Burton was not sure that Harry did not patron- 
 ize 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 
 married, Mr. Clavering ; and all of them mar- 
 ried to men connected with my own profession. " 
 The color came slightly to Florence Burton's 
 cheeks as she heard her father's words, and Har- 
 ry 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 any thing 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, 
 garrulpus 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 
 every thing was fixed. 
 
 Harry, when he looked at Florence Burton, 
 at once declared to himself that she was plain. 
 Any thing more unlike Julia Brabazon never 
 ' appeared in the guise of a young lady. Julia 
 was tall, with a high brow, a glorious complex- 
 ion, a nose as finely modeled as though a Gre- 
 cian sculptor had cut it, a small mouth, but love- 
 ly 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, 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 Clavering the other 
 day, the afiianced 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. They had been glorious eyes to 
 him, and in those early days he had not known 
 that they lacked aught ; hut 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 feminine 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-look- 
 ing little thing. He could not, as he said to 
 himself on his return home, avoid the compari- 
 son, as she was the first girl he had seen since 
 he had parted from Julia Brabazon. 
 
 "I hope you'll find yourself comfortable at 
 Stratton, sir," said old Mrs. Burton. 
 
 "Thank you," said Harry, "but I want very 
 little myself in that way. Any thing does for 
 me." 
 
 " One young gentleman we had took a "bed- 
 room 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 allow- 
 ance," 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 any where 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 ashilling when sixpence will 
 do as well ; and sixpence saved when a man 
 has nothing but himself, becomes pounds and 
 pounds by the time he has a family about him." 
 
 During all this time Miss Burton said little 
 or nothing, and Harry Clavering himself did not 
 say much. He could not express any intention 
 of rivaling Mr. Scarness's economy in the ar- 
 ticle of butcher's meat, nor could he promise to 
 content himself with Granger's solitary bed- 
 room. But as he rode home he almost began 
 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 college life. But he doubted 
 whether the change from that to the oft-repeat- 
 ed hospitalities of Mrs. Burton might not be too 
 much for him. Scarness's four shillings' worth 
 of butcher's meat had already made him half 
 sick of his new profession, and though Stratton 
 might be the "reasonablest place any where for 
 a young man," he could not look forward to liv- 
 ing there for a year with much delight. As 
 for Miss Burton, it might he quite as well that 
 she was plain, as he wished for none of the de- 
 lights which beauty affords to young men. 
 
 On his return home, however, he made no 
 complaint of Stratton. He was too strong-will- 
 ed to own that he had been in any way wrong. 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 13 
 
 and when early in the following week he start- 
 ed for St. Cuthbert's, he was able to speak with 
 cheerful hope of his new prospects. If ulti- 
 mately 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 afterward, she had instructed 
 herself that it would he best to say nothing of 
 the note ; but she could not refrain from a word, 
 "lam much obliged, my lord, by your kindness 
 and generosity," she said, as she gave him her 
 hand. He merely bowed and smiled, and mut- 
 tered 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 
 tliat the Peerage must have told a falsehood ; 
 it seemed so ,at least to those who 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 de- 
 clared him to be ten years older. This look was 
 produced chiefly by the effect 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 can not 
 say ; but he had lost the hair from the crown 
 of his head; and had pi-eferred wiggery to bald- 
 ness., 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 poor- 
 ness 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, unfortunately, 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 bril- 
 liant settlement. If Lord Ongar should die be- 
 fore her, Ongar Park was to be hers for life, with 
 thousands a year to maintain it. Courton 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 any where 
 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 sur- 
 vive her lord, Ongar Park was to be hers ; and 
 they who saw them both together had hut little 
 doubt that she would come to the enjoyment of 
 this clause in her 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 wom- 
 an in her position. 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 doubtless disagreeable, but she would do it 
 with all the more diligence on that account. 
 
 September passed by, hecatombs of partridges 
 were slalughtered, and the day of the wedding 
 drew nigh. It was pretty to see Lord Ongar 
 and the self-satisfaction 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 any thing stronger than wine, 
 and did not dislike his temperance. There was 
 about him at all hours an air which seemej 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 court- 
 eous badinage which was bestowed 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 al- 
 ways ready to be with him when he wished it. 
 She was never exalted, and yet she bore her 
 high placd as became a woman nobly born and 
 acknowledged to be beautiful. 
 
 "I declare yon 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 On- 
 gar might hold ; but since the prize had been se- 
 cured, 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 com- 
 parisons Vhich might tend to show that after all, 
 well as Julia was doing, she was not doing bet- 
 ter than her elder sister had done. Hermione 
 had married simply a baronet, and not the rich- 
 est 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 debauchee. 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 
 
u 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 not be a romantic young person, and ought not 
 to be encouraged to play that part. 
 
 " I don't know that I have made any thing of 
 him," answered Julia. "I suppose he's much 
 like other men when they're going to be mar- 
 ried." Julia quite understood the ideas that 
 were passing through her sister's mind, and did 
 not feel them to be unnafural. 
 
 "What I mean is, that he has come out so 
 strong in the Romeo line, which we hardly ex- 
 pected, yon know. We shall have him under 
 your bedroom window 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 
 Claveriiig, becoming serious and carefully benev- 
 olent. '' 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 yes- 
 terday, and he put his feet to the ground as firm- 
 ly almost as Hugh does." 
 
 " Did he indeed ? I hope he won't have the 
 habit of putting his hand down firmly as Hugh 
 does sometimes." 
 
 "As for that," said Lady Clavering, with a 
 little tremor, ' ' I don't think there's much dif- 
 ference 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 yon, my dear? 
 But, as I was sayings if Lord Ongar will con- 
 tinue 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 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 every thing 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 
 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, be- 
 cause 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 t^e 
 best I can, Hermy ; you may be sure of thfct. 
 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, Her- 
 
 my — quite as much, I dare say, as you do. But 
 never mind. If Lord Ongar has given up smok- 
 ing, 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." 
 
 " 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 over- 
 bearing 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 
 Thursday." 
 
 "What do you think of his having the impu- 
 dence to tell Cunliffe" — Cunliffe was the head 
 keeper — "before my face, that he didn't know 
 any thing 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 yo« 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 eveiy 
 thing at Claveriiig was done with much splen- 
 dor. Four bridesmaids came down from Lon- 
 don 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, 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 h^ been better pleased that 
 he should be absent. She had not many re- 
 grets herself, but it pleased her to think that he 
 should have them. So Mary and Fanny Claver- 
 ing were a^ked to attend her at the altar. Mary 
 and Fs.miy would both have preferred to decline, 
 but rtuSir mother had told them that they could 
 not^o 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 any 
 thing, 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 behav6 when Mary's time comes." 
 
 The bells were rung lustily all the morning, 
 and all the parish was there, round about the 
 
THE Ca^AVERINGS. 
 
 15 
 
 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 ec- 
 static joy in the parish. There were to be no bon- 
 
 was generally some wrangle between the rector 
 and the steward. " If there's to be all this row 
 about it," the rector had said to the steward, 
 "I'll never ask for it again." "I wish my uncle 
 would only be as good as his word," Sir Hugh 
 had said, when the rector's speech was repeated 
 
 "A puir feckless thing, tottering along like." 
 
 fires, and no eating and drinking at Sir Hugh's 
 ejipense — 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 dependents. 
 A certain stipulated dole was given at Christmas 
 for coals and blankets ; hut even for that there 
 
 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 peo- 
 ple, young and old, did cluster round the church- 
 yard to see the lord lead his bride out of the 
 church. "A puir feckless thing, tottering along 
 like — not lialf the makings of a man. A stout 
 
16 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 lass like she could a most blow him away wi' a 
 puff 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 per- 
 fect. Mercenary ! Of course she had been mer- 
 cenary. Were not all men and women merce- 
 nary upon whom devolved the necessity of earn- 
 ing their bread? 
 
 Then there was a great breakfast at the park 
 — for the quality — and the rector on this occa- 
 sion submitted himself to become the guest of 
 the nephew whom he thoroughly disliked. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FLORENCE BURTON. 
 
 It was now Christmas time at Stratton, or, 
 rather, Christmas time was near at hand; not 
 the Christmas next after the autumn of Lord 
 Ongar'B mamage, 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 
 London, 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 of- 
 fice, 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 din- 
 ner, 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 tjiey had been. He was to 
 start for Clavering early on the following morn- 
 ing, 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 parlor in 
 Mr. Burton's house, and on the table of itlie 
 room there was burning a single candle. It 
 was a dull dingy brown room, furnished with 
 horsehair-covered chairs, an old horsehair sofa, 
 and heavy rusty curtains. I don't know that 
 there was in the room any attempt at orna- 
 ment, 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 es- 
 tablishment. Harry Clavering had had his tea, 
 and had eaten his hot muffin, at the farther 
 side from the fire of the family table, while 
 Florence had poured out the tea, and Mrs. Bur- 
 ton had sat by the fire on one side with a hand- 
 kerchief over her lap, and Mr. Burton had been 
 comfortable 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 God 
 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-enduring 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." 
 
 "I almost wish I were. One would agree 
 then as to the necessity of this cursed delay." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 17 
 
 "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 liigh 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'm 
 sure of my bread and butter, till I'm sure of it 
 in another." 
 
 " You say that, Florence, on purpose to tor- 
 ment me." 
 
 "Dear Harry, do you think I want to tor- 
 ment 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 t know. It's almost as 
 bad as humility. " You'll tell me you're 'um- 
 ble next. If you'll only add that you're content- 
 ed, you'll describe yourself as one of the lowest 
 of God's creatures." 
 
 "I don't know about being 'umble, but I am 
 contented. 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 ^et 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." 
 
 "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 ! Wlaat a bless- 
 ed wind it was that blew you here !" 
 
 " Stop a moment — about your getting to Cla- 
 vering. I shall come for you on EaSter-eve." 
 
 " Oh no ; why should you have so much trou- 
 ble and expense ?" 
 
 "I tell you I shall come for you, unless, in- 
 deed, 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 dop'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 
 B 
 
 till you come for me. Dearest Hari-y !" 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 a 
 happy wind that had been which had blown 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 hus- 
 band up stairs. 
 
 "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'H 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 fanpy 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 Scarness took her.'' 
 Thereupon the old lady put her handkerchief 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 engage- 
 ment. 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 though we weren't just married, we 
 were living next door, and saw each other. 
 What'U 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 mat- 
 ters ? Sure if they were to be a little short you 
 could help 'era." To such a suggestion as this 
 Mr. Burton thought it as well to make no an- 
 swer, but with ponderous steps descended to his 
 ofiSce. 
 
 "Well, Harry," said Mr. Burton, "so you're 
 to be off in the morning ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir ; I shall breakfast at home to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Ah ! when I was your age I always used to 
 make an early start. Three hours before break- 
 fast never does any hurt. But it shouldn't be 
 more' than that. The wind gets into the stom- 
 ach." Harry had no remark to make on this, 
 and waited, therefore, till Mr. Burton went on. 
 
18 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 " And you'll be up in London by the 10th of 
 next month ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I intend to be at Mr. Beilby's of- 
 fice 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." 
 
 "I hope you'll find that I'm all right, sir. I 
 don't mean to be idle." 
 
 " Pray don't. Of course, you know, I speak 
 to you very dififevently 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, comparatively 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 avery 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. Yon are so placed that by 
 marrying 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 Flor- 
 ence is to go to your father's house at Easter?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; she has been good enough to prom- 
 ise to come, if you have no objection." 
 
 "It is quite as well that they should know 
 her early. I only hope they will like her as 
 well as we Jike 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. 
 
 On his arrival at Stratton, that idea of perpet- 
 ual misery arising from his blighted affection 
 was still strong within his breast. He had giv- 
 en all his heart to a false woman, who had be- 
 trayed him. He had risked all his fortftne on 
 one cast of the die,, and, gambler-like, had lost 
 every thing. On the day of Julia's marriage he 
 had shut himself up at the school — luckily it was 
 a holiday — and had flattered himself that he 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 sel- 
 dom perpetual, 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 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 himself that a marriage 
 with such a one as Julia Brabazon would have 
 been altogether fatal to his chance of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 And things had occurred and rumors had 
 reached him which assisted him much in adopt- 
 ing 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 On- 
 gar were not happy together, and it had been al- 
 ready said that Lady Ongar had misconducted 
 herself. There was a certain count whose name 
 had come to be mingled with hers in a way that 
 was, to say the least of it, very nnfortunate. Sir 
 Hugh Clavering had declared, in Mrs. Claver- 
 ing's hearing, though but little disposed in gen- 
 eral 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 snid, 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 differ- 
 ent story. The earl too and his wife had not 
 been in England since their marriage, so that 
 tliese rumors 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 inten- 
 tion of suing for a divorce ; but that he sup- 
 posed to be erroneous, as the two were still liv- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Harry 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. He 
 told himself that he had done well to find this 
 out, and that he had been wise to act upon it. 
 His wisdom had in truth consisted in his capac- 
 ity 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 ^ver 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 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 19 
 
 her plain, " There are things that grow to 
 beauty as you look at them — to exquisite beau- 
 ty ; and you are one of them, " he had said to 
 her. "And there are men," she had answer- 
 ed, " who grow 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 hare 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 him- 
 self. But he was a little difiident 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, 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 mar- 
 ried yet, mother," he answered. 
 
 " Do show me a lock of her hair,'' said Fan- 
 ny, 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 mar- 
 riage," 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 appren- 
 tices. Marry your master's daughter, and then 
 become Lord Mayor of London." This was not 
 the view in which it had pleased Harry to re- 
 gard his engagement. All the other "young 
 men" that had gone to Mr. Burton's had mar- 
 ried 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 Bur- 
 tons, with their five girls, were supposed in Strat- 
 ton to have managed their affairs veiy well, and 
 something of these hints had reached Hari-y'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 un- 
 happy on that head. "I don't know much about 
 becoming Lord Mayor," he replied. "That 
 promotion doesn't lie exactly in our line. '' " But 
 marryingyour master's daughter does, it seems," 
 said the rector. 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 
 Clavering, 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 nothing, " said the rec- 
 tor," 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 insult 
 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 some- 
 where. 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." 
 
 So Harry went up to the 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 game, he would be expect- 
 ed 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 hang- 
 er-on at the park, and, to tell the truth, he dis- 
 liked 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 ?" 
 
20 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "She will hhve a little, but very little — a 
 hundred a year." 
 
 " Oh, Harry, is hot that rash of you ? Youn- 
 ger brothers should always get money. You are 
 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 hav- 
 ing a wife with money would not hinder that. 
 A girl is not the worse because she can bring 
 some help. However, I'm sure I hope you'll be 
 happy." 
 
 "WhatI meantwas thati think it bestwhen 
 the money comes from the husband." 
 
 " I'm sure I ought to agree with yon, because 
 we never had any." Then there was a pause. 
 "I suppose 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 can not 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 pretend- 
 ing any thing with you ? You know what peo- 
 ple have said of her." 
 
 " I have never believed it." 
 
 " Yon always loved her, Harry. Oh dear, I 
 remember how unhappy that made me once, 
 and I was so afraid that Hugh would suspect it. 
 She 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 who 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 difBcult and 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 Har- 
 ry, sitting up and shaking hands with his cousin. 
 
 " Then, Harry, you were speaking on a sub- 
 ject that I would rather not have discussed in 
 this house. Do you understand that, Hermi- 
 one ? 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 
 hero to-day, Hany ?" 
 
 "Thank you, no; I have only just come 
 home." 
 
 "And I am just going away. That is, I go 
 to-morrow. I can not stand this place. 1 
 think it is the dullest neighborhood in all En- 
 gland, and the most gloomy house I ever saw. 
 Hermione likes it." 
 
 To this last assertion Lady Clavering ex- 
 pressed no assent, nor did she venture to con- 
 tradict him. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LADT ONGAK'S KETtTRN. 
 
 But Sir Hugh did not get away from Claver- 
 ing Park on the next morning as he had intend- 
 ed. 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 aft- 
 ernoon 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 forgot- 
 ten, " 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 expect any thing 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 last moments. I don't 
 think you ought to be the first to turn against 
 h(?r." 
 
 " 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 accusing her ?" 
 
 "I think you might do something to fight 
 her battle for her." 
 
 " I will dp nothing, unless she takes my ad- 
 vice 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 him- 
 self up, and on the following he went whither 
 he had before intended. 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 21 
 
 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 ti- 
 dings 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 
 Ongai', and were now bound to express some- 
 thing approaching to sorrow. Will any one 
 dare to call this hypocrisy f 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 wom- 
 an who has no such face would at once be ac- 
 cused of heartless impropriety. 
 
 "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 essentially a kindly, easy man, to 
 whom humbug was odious, and who dealt little 
 in the austerities of clerical denunciation, still 
 he had his face of pulpit sorrow for the sins of 
 the people — what I may perhaps call his cler- 
 ical 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 caiUed upon for 
 such action. 
 
 " Poor woman !" said Fanny, thinking of the 
 woman's married sorrows and her early widow- 
 hood. 
 
 " Poor man ! " said Mary, shuddering as she 
 thought of the husband's fate. 
 
 "I hope," said Harry, almost sententious- 
 ly, " that no one in this house will condemn 
 her upon such mere rumors as have been 
 heard." 
 
 " Why should any one in this house condemn 
 her," said the rector, "even if there were more 
 than rumors? 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 can not avoid it. As far as I know, 
 we have not any reason for thinking ill." Then 
 he went out, changed the tone of his counte- 
 nance, among the rectory stables, and lit his 
 cigar. 
 
 Three days after that a second note was 
 brought down from the great house to the rec- 
 toiy, and this was from Lady Clavering to Har- 
 ry. "Dear Harry," 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 heai't 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 something 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 any thing I can, of course. Lady 
 Clavering." 
 
 "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 tlie 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, 1 am not 
 sure but that would be best. At any rate, he 
 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 liave 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 him- 
 self 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 hei', advising her to remain at Florence till 
 the warm weather comes, saying that as she 
 could not specially wish to he in London for the 
 season, I thought she would be more comforta- 
 ble 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 her- 
 self, she would perhaps have staid. But here 
 is a lettsr from her declaring that she will come 
 at once. She will be starting almost as soon 
 
22 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 as my letter gets there, and I am sure she will 
 not niter 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 se- 
 cret ; 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 except 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 apart- 
 ments 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 
 Clavering, 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 Jine, or send me a message 
 to the Hotel Bristol, at Paris. If any thing 
 fails, so that I should not hear, I shall go to the 
 Palace Hotel, and, in that case, should tele- 
 graph for rooms from Paris." 
 
 " Is that all I'm 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 have suffered much, and of course 
 I know that I must snfter more ; but I am de- 
 termined that I will face the worst of it at 
 once. It has been hinted to me that an at- 
 tempt will be made to interfere with the settle- 
 ment — " " Who can ha.ve hinted that ?" said 
 Harry. Lady Clavering suspected who might 
 have done so, but she made no answer. "I 
 can hardly think it possible; but, if it is done, 
 I will not be out of the way. I have done my 
 duty as best I could, and have done it under 
 circumstances that I may truly say were terri- 
 ble ; and I will go on doing it. No one shall 
 say that I am ashamed to show my face and 
 claim my own. Vou 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 any thing; but 
 if I were to do so, he would simply do nothing, 
 and let her go to the totel 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 Claverings ; 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." 
 
 "And she is to be all alone in London, with- 
 out 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, 
 perhaps after a day or two ; but I know he wotdd 
 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 dare say 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 always independent in that way, 
 and would go over the world alone better than 
 many men. But couldn't you run up and man- 
 age about the apartments ? A woman coming 
 home as a widow — and in her position — feels a 
 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 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 Cla- 
 vering, 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 re- 
 peated to himself the excuse that Lady Claver- 
 ing 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 cous- 
 in's wife's sister. But he did not wish to make 
 two journeys to London, nor did he desire 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 Clavering. "You could not 
 know that they were comfortable," 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 
 
THE CLAVEfilNGS. 
 
 23 
 
 Uim. " You had better not say any thing 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 parting with her in the gar- 
 den. How much had happened since then ! 
 She had been married in her glory, had become 
 a countess, and then a widow, and was now re- 
 turning with a tarnished name, almost repudi- 
 ated by those who had been her dearest friends, 
 but with rank 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 mis- 
 ery — so he told himself; but had once more 
 " tricked his beams" — that was his expression 
 to himself — and was now " flaming in the fore- 
 head" of a glorious love. And even if there 
 had been no such love, would a widowed count- 
 ess with a damaged name have suited his am- 
 bition, simply because she had the rich dower 
 of the poor wretch to whom she had sold her- 
 self? 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 
 almost 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 On- 
 gar. 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 every thing 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 almost 
 wished that 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 every thing but the outer world 
 to think at all of such a subject? She had said 
 (hat 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 earlv love for the 
 
 woman Lord Ongar had married, and had de- 
 scribed with rapture his joy that that early pas- 
 sion 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 beau- 
 ty 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 
 dullness," said his father to him when he de- 
 clared his purpose of going up to London, and, 
 in answer to certain questions that were asked 
 him, had hesitated to tell his business. 
 
 " Indeed, it is not so," said Harry, earnestly ; 
 " but I have a commission to execute for a cer- 
 tain person, and I can not explain what it is." 
 
 " 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 mysteri- 
 ous, 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-look- 
 ing, light drawing-room, or, indeed, two draw- 
 ing-rooms, and a small dining-room, and a large 
 bedroom 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 every 
 thing 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 Dimdaif lived 
 there for two years, and nobody ever was so 
 particular about her victuals as Lady Dimdaff. 
 "And would Lady Ongar keep her own car- 
 riage?" As to this Harry could say nothing. 
 Then eame the question of price, and Harry 
 found his commission very difficult. The sum 
 asked seemed to be enormous. " Seven guineas 
 a weelc at that time of the year !" Lady Dim- 
 daff 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 bar- 
 gain for the countess, who probably would care 
 very little what she paid, and therefore assented. 
 But si guinea a day for lodgings did seem a great 
 deal of money. He was prepared to marry and 
 commence housekeeping on a less sum for all 
 his expenses. However, he had done his com- 
 mission, had written to Lady Clavering, and had 
 telegraphed to Paris. He had almost brought 
 himself to wrjte to Lady Ongar, but when the 
 
24 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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 to attend specially to his dress 
 when he went to meet her at the Victoria Sta- 
 tion. 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 Flor- 
 ence every thing ; 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 would 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 occa- 
 sion 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, looking out anx- 
 iously for the vehicle. The man was there, of 
 course, in time, but Harry made himself angiy 
 because he could not get the carriage so placed 
 tliat Lady Ongar might be sure of stepping into 
 it 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 platfonn, and 
 Harry stood there expecting to see Julia Braba- 
 zon'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 hq saw no sign of her presence 
 while the carriages were coming to a stand-still, 
 and the platform was coverei with passengers 
 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 are so stupid here. They 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 yon." 
 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 yon are now." This he 
 did, and afterward 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 con- 
 scious that the interview had not been satisfac- 
 tory. He could not say what more he wanted, 
 but he felt that there was 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 Claver- 
 ing's commission at some little trouble and ex- 
 pense 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 butler 
 might as well have gone to the train. In this 
 mood he returned home, consoling himself with 
 the fitness of things which had given him Flor- 
 ence Burton instead of Julia Brabazon for a 
 wife. 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 THE REV. SAMUEL SAUL. 
 
 DtmiNG Harry's absence in London, a cir- 
 cumstance had occurred at the rectory which 
 had surprised some of them and annoyed oth- 
 ers a good deal. Mr. Saul, the curate, had made 
 an offer to Fanny. The rector and Fanny de- 
 clared themselves to be both surprised and an- 
 noyed. 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, St 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 unrea- 
 sonable. 
 
 " How can you say so, mamma ?" Such had 
 been Fanny's indignant exclamation when Mrs. 
 
THE CLAVEKESrGS. 
 
 25 
 
 Clavering had hinted that Mr. Saul's proceeding 
 had been expected by her. 
 
 " Simply because I saw that he liked you, my 
 dear. Men under such circumstances have dif- 
 ferent ways of showing their liking." 
 
 Tanny, 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 manceuvres, 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 Fan- 
 ny, he had always talked about Mary. He had 
 been a lover of the good, old, plain-spoken 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. Claver- 
 ing. " Then he must be a goose," said Fanny. 
 "I am very son-y 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 noth- 
 ing singular in the fact that Mr. Saul had said 
 more on such matters to Fanny than to her sis- 
 ter. Fanny was eager and active ; and as Mr. 
 Saul was very eager and very active, it was nat- 
 ural that they should have had some interests in 
 common. But there had been no private walk- 
 ings, and no talkings that could properly be 
 called private. There was a certain book which 
 Fanny kept, containing tl^e 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, striving to extract 
 more than twelve pennies out of charity shil- 
 lings, 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 
 honor 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 Claver- 
 ing, striving to make that rheumatic old woman 
 believe that she had not been cheated by a gen- 
 eral conspiracy 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, withher dress well looped 
 up, when Mr. Saul accosted her. 
 
 " I'm afraid you'll be very wet, Miss Claver- 
 ing." 
 
 "That will be better than going without my 
 cup of tea, Mr. Saul, which I should have to do 
 if I staid any longer with Mrs. Tubb. And I 
 have got an umbrella," 
 
 "But it is BO dark and dirty," said he. 
 
 "I'm used to that, as you ought to know." 
 
 "Yes, I do know it,'' said he, 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 com- 
 plimented her before. They had been very in- 
 timate, and had often scolded each other. Fan- 
 ny would accuse him of exacting 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' slny of the 
 awkwardness which on other terms would have 
 arisen between a young man and a young wom- 
 an. But now that he began to praise her with 
 some peculiar intention of meaning in his tone, 
 she was confounded. She had made no im- 
 mediate answer to him, but walked on rapidly 
 through the mud and slush. 
 
 "Yon are very 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 utteyed. 
 And yet she had not the slightest idea of what 
 was coming. If, thoroughly admiring her de- 
 votion and mistaken as to her character, he were 
 to ask her to become a Protestant nun, or sug- 
 gest 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 be- 
 lieved him to be capable. Of the folly which 
 he now committed, she had not believed him to 
 be capable. 
 
 It had 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 her- 
 self thoroughly. 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear," said she; "this is very 
 disagreeable." 
 
 " 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 
 
26 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 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," 
 
 am ill-suited to play the part of a lover — very 
 ill-suited." Then she gave a start, and again 
 splashed hei-self 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 coining. 
 
 Mr. Saul proposes. 
 
 he replied, laising 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 farther away from him with un- 
 thinking irritation; but still he went on with 
 his purpose. "Miss Olavering. I know that I 
 
 "Yes, Miss Clavering, I must go on now; but 
 not on that account would I press you to give 
 me an answer to-dny. I have learned to love 
 you, and if you can love me in return, I will 
 take you by the hand, and you shall be my wife. 
 I have found that in yoli which I have been nn- 
 
THE .CLAVERINGS. 
 
 27 
 
 able not to love — not to covet that I may bind 
 it to myself as my own forever. 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 declara- 
 tion 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 tell- 
 ing' 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 manifest 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 ajso 
 would be better with a husband." 
 
 " Mr. Saul, really that should be for me to 
 think of." 
 
 "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 with- 
 out thinking whether such bonds would be good 
 for her as well as for himself? Of course, you 
 must think for yourself — and so have I thought 
 for you. You should think for yourself, and 
 you sliould think also for me." 
 
 Fanny was quite aware that as regarded her- 
 self, the matter was one which required no more 
 thinking. Mr. Saul was not a man with whom 
 she could bring herself to be in love. She had 
 her own ideas as to what was lovable in men, 
 and the eager curate, splashing through the rain 
 by her side, by no means came up to her stand- 
 ard of excellence. She was unconsciously 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 de- 
 sirous of possessing. Fanny Clavering was in 
 no hurry to get married. I 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 
 liusband should have a, house and an income. 
 She had no reliance on her own power of living 
 on a potato, and with one new dress eveiy 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 quarreled, and, though she did not wish 
 to be hard upon Mr. Saul on account of his mis- 
 take, she did feel that in making his proposition 
 he had blundered. Because she chose to do 
 her duty as a parish clergyman's daughter, he 
 thought himself entitled to regard her as devo- 
 tee, who would be willing to resign every thing 
 to become the wife of a clergyman, who was act- 
 ive, indeed, but who had not one shilling of in- 
 come beyond his curacy. " Mr. Saul," she said, 
 ' ' I can assure you I need take no time for far- 
 ther thinking. It can not 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, 
 indeed, 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 can not, 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 fond- 
 ness 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 farther," 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 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 1 
 have to-day said to you ?" 
 
 " Not on my part — that is, if you will forget 
 it." 
 
 " No, Miss Clavering, I shall not forget. 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 your- 
 self from me because of what has passed. But 
 you will tell your father and your mother, and 
 
28 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 of com-se will be gnided by them. And now, 
 good-night." Then he went, and she was as- 
 tonished at finding that he had had much the 
 best of it in his manner of speaking and con- 
 ducting 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 mis- 
 ery. 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 agreed that Fan- 
 ny had no alternative but to reject the proposi- 
 tion at once. That, indeed, was so thoroughly 
 taken for granted, that the point was not dis- 
 cussed. But there came to be a difference be- 
 tween 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 hare 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 unless there's some reason for 
 it." 
 
 " What on earth did he intend to live on ?" 
 demanded the rector. 
 
 "Edward had nothing to live on, when you 
 first allowed him to come here," said Mary. 
 
 " But Edward had prospects, find 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 de- 
 clared that she was not surprised — that she had 
 suspected it, and had almost made Fanny angiy 
 by saying so. "When Harry eame back two 
 days afterward, the family news was imparted 
 to him, and he immediately ranged himself on 
 his father's side. " Upon my word I think that 
 he ought to be forbidden the house," said Hany. 
 " He has forgotten himself in making such a 
 proposition." 
 
 "That's nonsense, Harry," said his mother. 
 "If he can be comfortable coming here, there 
 can be no reason why he should be uncomfort- 
 able. It would be an injustice 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 lat- 
 ter proposition, and therefore it was quietly ar- 
 
 gued 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 aston- 
 ished at the ease with which he bore himself. 
 It was not that he affected any special 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 degree ashamed of the 
 doing it. The rector's manner to him was stiff 
 and formal ; seeing which Mrs. Clavering 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 aftenvard. "Yon 
 were quite right," said the husband. " Yon al- 
 ways 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 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 income before you spoke of marriage?" 
 
 " I think it might have been better that yon 
 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, 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 any thing 
 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." After this, Harry was more gracious 
 with Mr. Saul, having an idea that tlie 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 mar- 
 ry the daughter of the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, instead of the daughter of the Rector of 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 29 
 
 Clavering, he would not have imagined that Ms 
 doing so needed an apology. 
 
 The day after his return from London Lady 
 Clayering 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 with- 
 out much assistance of that kind. I only just 
 saw her." 
 
 " Julia took it so kindly of you ; but she 
 seems surprised that you did not come to her the 
 following day. She thought you would have 
 called." 
 
 " Oh dear, no. T fancied that she would be 
 too tired and too busy to wish to see any mere 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " 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 tjiat at such 
 a time she would probably wish to see no one 
 but people on business — unless it was some one 
 near to her, like yourself or Hugh." 
 
 " Hugh will not go to her." 
 
 " But you will do so, will you not?" 
 
 ' ' Before long I will. You don't seem to un- 
 derstand, Harry — and, perhaps, it would be odd 
 if you did — that I can't run up to town and back 
 as I please. I ought not to tell you this, I dare 
 say, but one feels as though one wanted to talk 
 to some one about one's affairs. At the present 
 moment, I have not the money to go — even if 
 there were no other reason." These last words 
 she said almost in a whisper, and then she look- 
 ed up into the young man's face, to see what he 
 thought of the communication she had made 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, money!" he said. "You could soon 
 get money. But I hope it won't be long before 
 you go." 
 
 On the next morning but one a letter came 
 by the post for him from Lady Ongar. When 
 he saw the handwriting, which he knew, his 
 heart was at once in his mouth, and he hesi- 
 tated to open his letter at the breakfast-table. 
 He did open it and read it, but, in truth, he 
 hardly understood it or digested it till he had 
 taken it away with him up to his own room. 
 The letter, which was very short, was as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 "Deae Fkieot), — I felt your kindness in 
 coming to me at the station so much! the 
 more, perhaps, because others, who owed me 
 more kindness, have paid me less. Don't sup- 
 pose that. I allude to poor Hermione, for, in 
 truth, I have no intention to complain of her. 
 I thought, perhaps, you would have come to see 
 me before you left London ; but I suppose you 
 were hurried. I hear from Clavering that you 
 are to be up about your new profession in a day 
 or two. Pray come and see me before you have 
 been many days in London. I shall have so 
 much to say to you! The rooms you have 
 
 taken are every thing that I wanted, and I am 
 so grateful! Yours ever, J. 0." 
 
 When Harry had read and had digested this, 
 he became aware that he was again fluttered. 
 "Poor creature !" he said to himself; " it is sad 
 to think how much she is in want of a friend." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SOME SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A COUNTESS. 
 
 Aeotjt the middle of January Hany Claver- 
 ing went up to London, and settled himself to 
 work at Mr. Beilby's oflSce. Mr. Beilby's office 
 consisted of four or five large chambers, over- 
 looking 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. fly- 
 ing 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 be- 
 come 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 toward him which did not quite satisfy him. 
 They probably did not know that he was a fel- 
 low of a college, and treated him almost as they 
 might have done had he come to them direct 
 
so 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 from King's College, in the Strand, or from the 
 London University. Down at Stratton a cer- 
 tain amount of honor 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 acquaintance 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 attained any high 
 position in the science of engineering, manifest- 
 ly 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 complimentary and endearing appel- 
 lations should be used to him only by those who 
 had known him long enough to be aware that 
 he deserved them. Mr. Joseph Walliker cer- 
 tainly 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 brother-in-law, who was now the lead- 
 ing 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. Bur- 
 ton was to come in when his father went out ; 
 and in the mean time 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 higli fore- 
 head, 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-hand- 
 kerchief. Twice Harry saw him do this on the 
 first day of their acquaintance, and he regretted 
 it exceedingly. The cotton gloves, too, were 
 ofiensive, as were also the thick shoes which had 
 been dusted ; but the dusting was the great sin. 
 And there was something 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 Han-y's mind that he had not bound him- 
 self 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 oft- 
 en heard the younger Mr. Burton called by lov- 
 ing 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 Theo- 
 dore's favorite 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 bne 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 
 ^vell enough what a lucky fellow he was to 
 have won such a girl. He was well aware how 
 widely his Florence differed from Carry Scar- 
 ness. He denied to himself indignantly that 
 he had any notion of repenting what he had 
 done. But he did wish that these private mat- 
 ters 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 brother-in-law, and had agreed 
 to dine with him on thi's 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 ever 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 criticised so carefully when he 
 was taking it for its present occupant. 
 
 He was left in the room for five or six min- 
 utes, and was able to make a full mental inven- 
 tory 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 de- 
 sired ; bat since then every thing had been al- 
 tered, at least in appearance. A new piano 
 had been brought in, and the chintz on the fur- 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 31 
 
 niture was surely new. And the room was 
 crowded with small feminine belongings, indic- 
 ative of wealth and luxury. There were or- 
 naments about, and pretty toys, and a thousand 
 knickknacks which none but the rich can pos- 
 sess, 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 death- 
 like demeanor, 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 noth- 
 ing about her of the weariness or of the solem- 
 nity of woe. He hardly saw that her dress was 
 made of crape, or that long white pendents 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 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 ago as 
 those which had come upon it. She seemed to 
 be a woman fitter for womanhood than for girl- 
 hood. Her eyes were brighter than' of yore, 
 and, as Harry thought, larger; and her high 
 forehead and noble stamp of countenance seemed 
 fitted for the dress and headgear which she wore. 
 
 "I have been expecting you," said she, step- 
 ping 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 un- 
 derstand that. And so you are settled in Lon- 
 don 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 somewhat as he named so 
 unfashionable a locality. Old jjirs. Burton had 
 recommended him to the house in which he was 
 located, but he did not find it necessary to ex- 
 plain 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 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, Lady Ongar?" 
 
 "Yes, afraid ; but I don't mean you. I don't 
 believe that yon are coward enough to desert a 
 woman who was once your friend because mis- 
 fortune 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 check ! Do you remem- 
 ber ?" 
 
 "Yes; I remember." 
 
 " So shajl I; always, always. Ifl had taken 
 that money, how often should I have heard of 
 it since ?" 
 
 "Heard of it?" he said. "Do you mean 
 from me?" 
 
 "Yes; how often from you? 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 sub- 
 ject 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 Lord Ongar'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 
 
32 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 blame Hermy. I suppose she did all she could, 
 and I did not utter one word of reproach of her. 
 Nor should I to him. Indeed, if he came now 
 the servant would deny me to hira. He has in- 
 sulted me, and I shall remember the insult." 
 
 Harry Clavering did not clearly understand 
 what it was that Lady Ongar had desired of her 
 
 dence could approve. "If I had thought that 
 any thing was wanted, I should liave come to 
 you sooner," said he. 
 
 " Every thing is wanted, Harry. Every thing 
 is wanted — except that check for six hundred 
 pounds which you sent me so treacherously. 
 Did you ever think what might have happened 
 
 A friendly Talk. 
 
 brother-in-law — what aid she had required ; nor 
 did he know whether it would ho fitting for him 
 to offer to act in Sir Hugh's place. Any thing 
 that he could do, he felt himself at that moment 
 willing to do, even though the necessary service 
 should demand some sacrifice greater than pru- 
 
 if a certain person had heard of that ? All the 
 world would have declared that you had done it 
 for your own private purposes — all the world, 
 except one.'), 
 
 Harry, as he heard this, felt that he was blush- 
 ing. Did Lady Ongar know of his engagement 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 83 
 
 with Florence Barton ? Lady Clavering knew 
 it, and might probably have told the tidings; 
 but then, again, she might not have told them. 
 Harry at tliis moment wished that he knew how 
 it was. All that Lady Ongar said to him would 
 come with so different a meaning according as 
 she did, or did not know thut fact. But he had 
 no mind to tell her of the fact himself. He de- 
 claimed to himself that he hoped she knew it, as 
 it would serve to make them both more com- 
 fortable together ; but he did not think: that it 
 would do for him to bring fonvard 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. 
 
 "You have never meant ill to me, Harry; 
 though you know you have abused me dreadful- 
 ly before now. I dare say you forget the hard 
 names you have called me. You men do forget 
 such things." 
 
 " I 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, HaiTy, that you and I 
 should be sitting talking together in this way?" 
 She was leaning now toward him, across the 
 table, and one hand was raised to her forehead 
 while her eyes were fixed intently upon his. 
 The attitude was one wliich 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 remem- 
 bered 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 
 conviction that it could not be for long, has 
 saved me from destroying myself. I knew that 
 he must die!" 
 
 "Oh, Lady Ongar!" 
 
 ' ' Yes, indeed ; th at is the name he gave me ; 
 and because I consented to take it from him, he 
 treated me — oh, 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 can not tell it. When 
 he found that he had been wrong in marrying 
 me, that he did not want the thing which he 
 had thought would suit him, that I was a drag 
 C 
 
 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 withdraw his own for a 
 moment from her face. "He strove to get an- 
 other man to take me off his hands ; and when 
 he found that he was failing, he charged mo 
 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! He told me before he was dying 
 — before that last frightful illness, that I was 
 staying with him for his money. Tor your 
 nioney, 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 shirk 
 out of his bargain ? I knew there were some 
 who would say I had been false. Hugh Claver- 
 ing 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 as- 
 sist 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 bran- 
 dy. 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 forever. But 
 I saw it, and tended him through the whole, as 
 though I had 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 understand his words, al- 
 most fainted at what she saw and heard. He 
 was punished, Harry. I need wish no farther 
 
u 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 vengeance on him, even for all his cruelty, his 
 injustice, his unmanly treachery. Is it not fear- 
 ful 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 prom- 
 ised 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 cho- 
 sen to join herself to a man who liad treated 
 her with a cruelty exceeding all that his imag- 
 ination could have conceived. "It is a mercy 
 that he has gone," said he at last. 
 
 "It is a mercy for both. Perhaps you can 
 understand 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 Pateroff. He is a Pole, but he 
 speaks English like an Englishman. In my pres- 
 ence he told Lord Ongar that he was false and 
 brutal. Lord Ongar laughed, with that little, 
 low, sneering laughter which was his nearest 
 approach to merriment, and told Count Pater- 
 off 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!" 
 
 " Well, I will not doubt you again. But as 
 far as I can learn you are nearly alone in your 
 belief. What Hermy thinks I can not 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 advan- 
 tage 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 re- 
 mains. He had written home — would you be- 
 lieve that ? — while I was living with him he had 
 written home to say that evidence 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 forward evidence I 
 could make it all clear as the day. But there 
 needs no care for a woman's honor, though a man 
 may have to guard his by collecting evidence ! " 
 
 "But what he did can not injure you." 
 
 "Yes, Harry, it has injured me; it has all 
 but 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 I 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 welcome 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 po- 
 sition not fit to be my confidant? Why am I 
 telling this to you, Harry?" 
 
 ' ' Because we are old friends, " said he, won- 
 dering again at this moment whether she knew 
 of his engagement to Florence Burton. 
 
 "Yes, we are old friends, and we have al- 
 ways liked each other ; but you must know that, 
 as the world judges, I am wrong to tell all this 
 to you. I 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 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 exact- 
 ly those things which we ourselves like best. 
 You are clever enough to understand that." 
 
 He smiled and looked foolish, and declared 
 that he only offered his assistance because per- 
 haps it might be convenient at the present mo- 
 ment. 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 sel- 
 dom that we want any great thing from our 
 friends. I want nothing of that kind. No one 
 can hurt me much farther now. My money 
 and my rank are safe; and, perhaps, by de- 
 grees, acquaintances, if not friends, will form 
 themselves 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 bewildered now, 
 but you will soon get over that. Don't be long 
 before I see you again." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 35 
 
 Then, feeling that he was bidden to go, he 
 wished her good-by, and went. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT. 
 
 Hakry, as he 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-par- 
 ties, you know. It's all in the family way with 
 \is" — and Harry, therefore, went direct from 
 Bolton Street to Onslow Crescent. But, though 
 he managed to keep the proper course down Pic- 
 cadilly, 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 ingulf 
 him. It was not only that Lady Ongar's his- 
 tory 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 pretense 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 jilt- 
 ed 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, indeed, she knew of his engage- 
 ment. But if she knew it, why had she not 
 spoken of it ? 
 
 And could it be that she had no friends — 
 that every body 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 punishment. 
 "I stuck to him through it all," she had said 
 to him ; and then he endeavored to picture to 
 himself that bedside by which Julia Brabazon, 
 his Julia Brabazon, had remained firm, when 
 hospital attendants had been scared by the hor- 
 rors 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 sto- 
 ries told that to one's self, the hearer, are mani- 
 
 festly false ; and one hears stories as to the truth 
 '. or falsehood of which one is in doubt, and sto- 
 ries 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 l)ad said ; and 
 had Sir Hugh heard it — even Sir Hugh, who 
 doubted all men and regarded all women as be- 
 ing false beyond doubt — even he, I think, would 
 have believed it. 
 
 But she had deserved the sufferings which 
 had come upon her. Even Hariy, whose heart 
 was very tender toward her, owned as much as 
 that. She had 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 al- 
 tar. What scorn had there been upon her face 
 when she spoke of the beginning of their mar- 
 ried miseries ! With what eloquence of expres- 
 sion had she pronounced him to be vile, worth- 
 less, 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 suffer- 
 ed ; 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 they 
 had been together, sauntering round the gar- 
 dens at Clavering, he had rebuked her for her 
 treachery to him. Now she came to him al- 
 most open-armed, free, full of her cares, swear- 
 ing 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 po- 
 sition. 
 
 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 part of this gratification was 
 owing to her rank and wealth. To be the one 
 friend of a widowed countess, young, rich, and 
 beautiful, was something much out of the com- 
 mon way. Such confidence lifted him far above 
 the Waflikers 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 
 
36 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 had he never seen Florence Burton. First he 
 asked himself whether, under any circumstan-, 
 oes, 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 imagin- 
 able number of thousands a year, could he so 
 sweet, so nice, so good, so fitting for him as his 
 own Florence Burton? Then he endeavored 
 to reflect what happened when a commoner 
 married the widow of a peer. She was still 
 called, he believed, by her old title, unless she 
 should choose to abandon it. Any such ar- 
 rangement was now out of the question ; but 
 he thought that he would prefer that slie 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 part or on his, of abandoning any thing 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 pictured to himself an un- 
 tidy, ugly house, with an untidy, motherly wom- 
 an going about with a baby in her arms. Such 
 would naturally be the home of a man who dust- 
 ed bis shoes with his pocket-handkerchief. But 
 to his surprise he found himself in as pretty a 
 drawing-room as lie 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 pretense 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 de- 
 clared that he was happy to learn that he had 
 been considered worth talking about. 
 
 " If you were worth accepting you were worth 
 talking 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 perfect girl I ever saw, I don't suppose 
 she would be ■ guilty of mating a bad choice. 
 Cissy, dear, this is Mr. Clavering." 
 
 Cissy got up from her chair, and came up 
 to him. " Mamma 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 veiy much, "said Har- 
 ry, taking 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 every-day 
 family occurrence. There was not much reti- 
 cence among the Burtons. He could not but 
 feel t&is, 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 
 Vert.". 
 
 " I'm not Miss Pert," said the little soft round 
 ball of a girl from the chair. "I'm Sophy Bur- 
 ton. Oh! you mustn't tittle." 
 
 Harry found himself quite at home in ten 
 minutes ; and, before Mr. Burton had returned, 
 had been taken up stairs into the nursery to see 
 Theodore Burton Junior in his cradle, Theo- 
 dore Burton Junior being as yet only some few 
 months old. "Now you've seen us all," said 
 Mrs. Burton, "and we'll go down stairs and 
 wait for my husband. I must let you into a se- 
 cret, too. We don't dine till past seven ; you 
 may as well remember that for the future. Bat 
 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 every 
 thing?" 
 
 " I tell her every thing," said Harry, feeling 
 himself, however, to be a little conscience-smit- 
 ten at the moment, as he remembered his inter- 
 view with Lady Ongar. Things had occurred 
 this very day which he certainly could not tell 
 her. 
 
 "Do — do — always do that," said Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, 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 every thing. Theodore tells me 
 every thing. I don't think there's a drain plan- 
 ned under a railway-bank, but tha» 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." 
 
 " We can't both be perfect, you know." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 37 
 
 " Ah ! well, of course you'll laugh at me. 
 Theodore always langhs 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 I. 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 preach- 
 ing 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 sor- 
 row ? Whatever they have to live on, they al- 
 ways have enough. Did you ever know a wom- 
 an who has done better with her children, or has 
 known how to do better, than Theodore's moth- 
 er? 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. "I'm so glad that you 
 have been here a little before him, because now 
 I feel that I know you. When he's here I 
 sha'n'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-handkerchief. 
 
 There were soon steps again upon the stairs, 
 and Burton returned bringing witli him anoth- 
 er man, whom he introduced to Harry as Mr. 
 Jones. "I didn't know my brother was com- 
 ing," 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-ed- 
 itor, or co-editor of some influential daily news- 
 paper. "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 oc- 
 casion bring himself to call her Cecilia. He 
 might have done so had not her husband been 
 present, but he was ashamed to do ithefore 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 ed- 
 itor. Editors were, he thought, influential peo- 
 ple, who had the world very much under their 
 feet — being, as he 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 forehead of 
 a clever man, was very quiet, and seemed almost 
 submissive to his sister and brother-in-law. 
 
 The linner was plain, but good, and Han'v 
 after a while became happy and satisfied, al- 
 though he had come to the house with some- 
 thing almost like a resolution to find fault. 
 Men, and women also, do frequently go abolit 
 in such a mood, having unconsciously from some 
 small circumstance prejudged their acquaint- 
 ances, and made up their mind that their ac- 
 quaintances 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 oflT 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 pro- 
 cess 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 oper- 
 ation 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 lean get the 
 materials. One doesn't bother one's self about a 
 cold leg of mtitton, you know, which is my usual 
 dinner when 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, your- 
 self, when you are writing your article to-nipht." 
 
 "No, none for me, Theodore," said Mrs. Bur- 
 ton. 
 
 "Cissy!" 
 
 " I have dined really. If I had remembered 
 that yon were going to display your cookeiy, I 
 would have kept some of my energy ; but I for- 
 got it." 
 
 "As a rule," said Burton, "I don't think 
 women recognize any diiference in flavors. 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." 
 
38 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "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?" JHarry 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 in- 
 correct 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 Bur- 
 ton, and so saying he left the room. 
 
 "I'm very glad you have come to-day," said 
 Jones, with much gravity. "He never gives 
 me any of that wine when I'm 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 it; 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 scrutin- 
 ized 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 comfortable. 
 
 "Ah!" said Burton, stretching out his slip- 
 pered feet, " why can't it all be after dinner, in- 
 stead of that weary room at the Adelphi ?" 
 
 "And all old p'ort?" 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 ac- 
 company 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 always does. What a wonderful scheme 
 it is when one looks at it all ! No man can fol- 
 low pleasure long continually. When a man 
 strives to do so, he turns his pleasure at once 
 into business, and works at that. Come, Harrj-, 
 we mustn't have another bottle, as Jones 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 region of St. Giles to his 
 home in Bloomsbury Square, he satisfied him- 
 self that the life of Onslow Crescent was a better 
 manner of life than that which was likely to pre- 
 vail in Bolton Street. 
 
 When he was gone his character was of course 
 discussed between the husband and wife in Ons- 
 low Crescent. " What do you think of him ?" 
 said the husband. 
 
 ' ' I like him so much ! He is so much nicer 
 than 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 onee." 
 
 " 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 a while 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 disposi- 
 tion? Think of all that he has done already." 
 
 "That's just 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, 
 TJieodore." 
 
 "1 know well what such men are, and I 
 know the evil that is done to them by the cram- 
 ming they endure. 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 demands much mem- 
 ory ; and when they have loaded themselves in 
 this way, they think that they are instructed in 
 all things. After all, what can they do that is 
 of real use to mankind ? What can they cre- 
 ate?" 
 
 " I suppose they are of use." 
 
 " I don't know it. A man will tell you, ov 
 pi'etend 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 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 39 
 
 first, or something of the kind. Then he thinks 
 he has completed every thing, and is too rain to 
 learn any thing afterward. The truth is, that 
 at twenty-four no man has done more than ac- 
 quire the rudiments of his education. The 
 system is bad from beginning to end. All that 
 competition makes false and imperfect growth. 
 Come, I'll go to bed." 
 
 What would Harry have said if he had heard 
 all this from the man who dusted his hoots with 
 his handkerchief? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TOO PRUDENT BT HALF. 
 
 Flokbncb Bueton thought herself the hap- 
 piest girl in the world. There was nothing 
 wanting to the perfection 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 genfleman at 
 all points than either Scarness or any of the 
 others. She liked her sisters' husbands very 
 well, and in former days, before Harry Claver- 
 ing had come to Stratton, she had never taught 
 herself to think that she, if she manied, would 
 want any thing different from that which Prov- 
 idence 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 fem- 
 inine 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 appi'e- 
 ciate Jier worth, had long been of opinion that 
 she deserved some specially favored lot in life. 
 The question with them would be, whether Har- 
 ry Clavering was good enough for her. 
 
 Every body at Stratton knew that she was en- 
 gaged, and when they wished her joy she made 
 no coy denials. Her sisters had all been en- 
 gaged in the same way, and their marriages had 
 gone off in regular sequence to their engage- 
 ments. There had never been any secret with 
 them about their affairs. On this *iatter the 
 practice is very various among different people. 
 There are families who think it almost indelicate 
 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, al- 
 though the thing were an established fact. The 
 
 engaged young ladies only 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 retirement 
 of their own rooms. But there are other fami- 
 lies in which there is no vestige of such mys- 
 tery, 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 arrangements, 
 was that of the Burtons at Stratton. The re- 
 serve in the reserved families is usually atoned 
 for by the magnificence of the bridal arrange- 
 ments, when the marriage is at last solemnized ; 
 whereas, among the other set — the people who 
 have no resei-ve — the marriage when it comes, 
 is customarily an affair of much less outward 
 ceremony. They are married without blast of 
 trumpet, with very little profit to the confec- 
 tioner, 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, impatient, restless being. 
 She was slower, and more given to considera- 
 tion. 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 
 always in a house in which money was much 
 regarded, and among people who were of inex- 
 pensive 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 hap- 
 py as a poor man — without comforts around 
 him, 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 playful 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 en- 
 gagements 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 house- 
 keeping, we only had one girl of fifteen to do 
 every thing ; and we hadn't a nursemaid regu- 
 lar till Theodore was born ; and there were 
 three before him." 
 
 Florence could not say how many maid-serv- 
 ants 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 
 
40 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 Harry, she knew, would not like it ; and there- 1 
 fore 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 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 ig tired of his work, 
 as a married man should do. Do you know 
 that I am not sure that a little flirtation would 
 not be very good for him ?" 
 "Oh, my dear!" 
 
 " It should be vei^ 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 butteifly, that may do 
 just as it pleases in the sunshine." 
 
 During the three months which Henry re- 
 mained 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 favorable circumstances 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 in- 
 troduced to him, but ho had learned from her 
 speech that she was a foreigner. On that occa- 
 sion Lady Ongar had made herself gracious and 
 pleasant, but nothing had passed which interest- 
 ed him, and, most unreasonably, he had felt 
 himself to be provoked. When next he went to 
 Bolton Street he found that 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 
 Clavcring's reasoning, and having so reasoned, 
 he declared 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 abandon that high- 
 toned resolve which he had made some time 
 since that he would never draw any part of his 
 income from the parental cofferg. His father 
 had again offered it, and he had accepted it. 
 Old Mr. Burton was to add a hundred, and Hai-- 
 ry was of opinion that they could do very well. 
 Cecilia thought the same, he said, and therefore 
 Florence surely would not refuse. But Flor- 
 ence received, direct from Onslow Crescent, Ce- 
 cilia's own version of her thoughts, and did re- 
 fuse. 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 disposition. So she wrote to Harry 
 with much care, and as her letter had some in- 
 fluence on the story to be told, the reader shall 
 read it — if the reader so pleases. 
 
 " Stratton. Mnrch, 18S-. 
 
 "Dear Haeey,— I received your letter this 
 morning, and answer it at once, because I kridw 
 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 ofa woman. And 
 Theodore is every bit as good as Cecilia, though 
 I know you don't think so, because you don't say 
 so. 1 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 
 yon that no care for father or mother shall make 
 me put off my marriage. Of course I owe ev- 
 ery thing to you now ; and as they have ap- 
 proved it, T 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 mar- 
 riages 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 sui-e that there is 
 no lame one in the brood. You must not there- 
 fore think that it is mamma ; nor is it papa, as 
 regards himself — 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 huriy? 
 I know wlfcit you wilj 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 thom to be full. I know I can't 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 41 
 
 write nice letters myself, and it makes me un- 
 happy. 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 
 marrying yet. I know that you are willing to 
 sacrifice every thing, but I ought not on that ac- 
 count to accept a sacrifice. I could not bear to 
 see you poor and uncomfortable ; and we should 
 be very poor in London nowadays with such an 
 income as we should have. If we were going 
 to live here at Stratton perhaps we might man- 
 age, but 1 feel sure that it would be imprudent 
 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 pleas- 
 ure 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 from Fanny the oth- 
 er 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 let- 
 ters from Cecilia for one scrap that Theodore 
 ever sends me. Perhaps some of these days I 
 shall be the chief correspondent 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 any 
 body again after 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 Cis- 
 sy, or how much from Cecilia. 
 
 ' ' God 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 Bdrton." 
 
 Harry Clavering was very angry when 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 f&red for 
 herself, but he was indignant with her because 
 of her fear for him. What right had she to ac- 
 cuse him of wanting to be comfortable ? Had 
 he not for her sake consented to be very uncom- 
 fortable at that old house at Stratton ? Was he 
 not willing to give up his fellowship, and the 
 society of Lady Ongar, and every thing 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 wrote 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 of day, he did not know what was good for 
 himself! It was in that way that he regarded 
 Florence's pertinacity. 
 
 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 Ongar 
 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 devot- 
 ing 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 mai'- 
 riage. Now he had no consolation, except that 
 of complaining to Mrs. Burton, and going fre- 
 quently to the theatre. To Mrs. Burton he did 
 complain a great deal, pulling her worsteds and 
 threads about the while, sitting in idleness 
 while she was working, just as Theodore Bur- 
 ton had predicted that he would do. 
 
 "I won't have you so idle, Harry, " Mrs. Bur- 
 ton said to him one day. "You know you 
 ought to be at your office now." It must be ad- 
 mitted 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 be- 
 come quite domesticated at the Burtons' house 
 during the ten weeks that he had been in Lon." 
 don, and knew his way to Onslow Crescent al- 
 most 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 piece of worsted with a pair of scissors as 
 he spoke. " She's too prudent by half." 
 
 " Poor 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 mean time he punished Florence by 
 sending her no special answer to her letter. He 
 
42 
 
 THE CLAVEBINGS. 
 
 wrote to her as usual, but he made no reference 
 to his last proposal, 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 toClavering; 
 gave her some account of a play he had seen ; 
 described a little dinner-party in Onslow Cres- 
 cent; 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 mamage; He intended that this 
 should be felt 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 Pateroff. He re- 
 membered the name well as soon as he saw it, 
 though he had never thought of it since the sol- 
 itary 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 find- 
 ing an answer. Of course he must have heard 
 it from Lady Ongar. Count Pateroff had now 
 left London ! Had he gone to Ongar '<Park ? 
 Harry Clavering's mind was instantly filled with 
 suspicion, and he became jealous in spite of 
 Plorence 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 behavior ? He 
 was very angry. He knew that he was angry, 
 but he did not at all know that he was jealous. 
 Was he 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 per- 
 haps the count might not be at Ongar Park ; 
 but he must, at any rate, have had some dealing 
 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 regarded himself, 
 he knew that he had nothing to offer to Lady 
 Ongar but a brotherly friendship ; but, neverthe- 
 
 less, 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 postman ; a letter, or, rather, a very short 
 note. Guilford was the post-mark, and he knew 
 at once that it was from Lady Ongar : 
 
 "Dear Me. Claveking (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 din- 
 ner. 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 yon 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, though I do not know that I 
 am able to say much more in his favor. 
 
 "Ever yours, J. 0." 
 
 When he had read this he was quite an alter- 
 ed man. See Count Pateroff! Of course he 
 would see him. What task could be more fit- 
 ting for a friend than this, of seeing such a man 
 under such circumstances ? Before he left Lon- 
 don he wrote a note for Count Pateroff, to be 
 given to the count by the people at the lodgings 
 should he call during Hany's absence from Lon- 
 don. 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 entertain- 
 ed much kinder ideas about Lady Ongar than 
 he had previously done since seeing Count Pa- 
 teroff's card. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FLORENCE BtlKTON AT THE RECTOEY. 
 
 Haeet Claveeing 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 Flor- 
 ence, 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 rectoiy, 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 
 any thing should be said. He meant to cany 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 43 
 
 on his revenge by being dumb on that subject. 
 But such was not Florence's intention. She 
 desired not only tq 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 cere- 
 mony before the necessity for it was over. They 
 both agreed that this mode of traveling 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 circumstances. And. it must be under- 
 stood that Harry, though no doubt he was still 
 taking his revenge 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 latter— written 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 
 
 discuss, I know what you meant by not an- 
 swering me. You meant to punish me — did 
 you not, for having an opinion different from 
 yours ? Is not that true, Harry ?" 
 
 " Punish 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 any thing more about it now." 
 
 "Ah, but, Harry, I want you to talk about it. 
 Is it not every thing to me — every thing 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 believe me when I say that it is not of my- 
 self 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 in- 
 come we've got. If you'll consent to marry this 
 summer, I won't be glum, as you call it, a mo- 
 ment 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 any thing more 
 about it." 
 
 " Look here, Harry, if an engagement of 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 without being unhappy, I will release 
 you from your 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 engagement with him, that he would give 
 her no loophole of escape from him, that he in- 
 tended 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 Jjoth 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 
 
44 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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 Induced 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 decla- 
 ration 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 occasionally change their minds, and Harry 
 Clavering was a man who often changed his. 
 
 Florence, as he made the declaration above 
 described, 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 jour- 
 ney was made very pleasantly, and when Flor- 
 ence 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 na- 
 ture in his character. It will, perhaps, be com- 
 plained 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 regard- 
 ed 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 adven- 
 tures. 
 
 If this tale should ever Ibe read by any lady 
 who, in the course of her career, has entered a 
 house under circumstances similar to those which 
 had brought Florence Burton to Clavering Rec- 
 tory, she will understand how anxious must have 
 been that young lady wjieu 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 her- 
 self 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 a 
 one to he 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 gen- 
 tleman kissed her, who, no doubt, was Mr. Cla- 
 veringsenior. Aftarth at another clerical gentle- 
 man, very much younger and very much slighter. 
 
 shook hands with her. He n)ight 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 be- 
 come her husband in three days' time. 
 
 "Now, Florence," said Fanny, "come up 
 stairs 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 up stairs, 
 and found herself seated by a fire, while three 
 pairs of hands 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 make 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 sententious. It's only put on as a sort of 
 company air, but we don't mean to make com- 
 pany of yon." 
 
 " 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 tho 
 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 down stairs 
 she was intimate with both the girls, and had 
 BO 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. 
 
 " 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 disappointment. 
 
 "I've no doubt we shall like her very much. 
 What money is she to have ?" 
 
 "A hxmdred a year while her father lives." 
 
 "That's notmuch." 
 
 "Much or little, it made no difference with 
 me. I should never have thought of marrying 
 a girl for lier money. It's a kind of thing that 
 I hate. I almost wish she was to have nothing.",^ 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 45 
 
 "I shouldn't refuse it if I were you." 
 
 " Of course, I sha'n't refuse it ; but what I 
 mean is that 1 never thought about it when I 
 asked her to have me ; and I sliouldn'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 every thing, 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 peqple are a 
 f?reat 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 why London should be more expens- 
 ive than any other place. You can get exactly 
 what you want in London, and make your half- 
 pence go farther there than any where else." 
 
 " And your sovereigns go quicker," said the 
 rector. 
 
 "All 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 ho 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 without 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 Havj;y 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 Cla- 
 vering 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 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 differ- 
 ence 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 any thing 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 every 
 body do what he bids them at Clavering — ex- 
 cept papa, sometimes. 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 any thing. 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 every thing right, for 
 he never scolds her." 
 
 " There is no talk of his going away," 
 
 "None at all. I think we should all be 
 sorry, because he does so much good." 
 
 Florence reigned supreme in the estimation 
 of the rectory family all the evening of her 
 arrival and till after breakfast the next morning, 
 but then the bride 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 veiy nice, and 
 pretty, and comfortable ; and the people of 
 Clavering were much better satisfied with it 
 than they had been with that other marriage 
 which had been mentioned as having been cele- 
 brated in Clavering Church. The rectory fam- 
 ily was generally popular, and every body wished 
 well to the daughter who was being given arway. 
 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 conspicu- 
 ous rivalry with his father. But Mr. Saul's 
 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 expressed a hope 
 that his friend Mr. Fielding might be enabled 
 to bear the trials of this life with fortitude, it 
 was felt by them all that the speaking had bet- 
 ter be brought to an end. 
 
 "You shouldn't laugh at him, Harry," Fan- 
 ny said to her brother afterward, almost seri- 
 ously. " 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 Fan- 
 ny turned away with a look of great offense. 
 " No one but a brother," said she, "would say 
 such a thing as that to me, because I don't like 
 
46 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 to hear the poor man ridiculed -without cause." 
 That evening, when they were alone, Fanny 
 told Florence the whole story about Mr. Saul. 
 "I tell you, you know, because you're like one 
 of ourselves now. It has never been mention- 
 ed 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, in- 
 dependently 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 attach- 
 ed 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 trouhle 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 man- 
 ner whether he has given np thinking about it. 
 I suppose he has. Indeed, of course he has, 
 because he must know that it would be of no 
 soit of use. But he is one of those men of 
 whom you can never say whether they are hap- 
 py or not ; and you never can be quite sure 
 what may he 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 unhap- 
 py," said Fanny. "That is, he could go if he 
 
 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 al- 
 ways 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 fam- 
 ily, 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 1" 
 
 "I hear thait Archie is very heavy on him." 
 
 "I don't befieve 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 come to an end very soon, 
 if what I hear is true. They tell me he is al- 
 ways at Newmarket, and that he always loses." 
 
 But though Sir Hugh was thus nncourteous 
 to the rector and to the rector's daughter, he 
 was so far prepared 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 hon- 
 or of Harry's sweetheart. Florence Burton 
 was specially invited with Lady Clavering'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 personally 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 in- 
 vitation in this way, and whether all invitations 
 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 dinnerrgiver who 
 catches his guests 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 in- 
 stance, however. Lady Clavering's little speech- 
 es were made only to Mrs. Clavering and Flor- 
 ence. She said nothing personally to the rec- 
 tor, and he therefore might have escaped. Bat 
 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 matoh." 
 
 " I don't approve or disapprove of it. He's 
 his own master." 
 
 "But you do approve, you know, as you 
 countenance it ; and there can not possibly be 
 a sweeter girl than Florence Burton. We all 
 like her, and I am sure you seem to take to her 
 thoroughly." 
 
 " Take to her ; yes, I take to her veiy well. 
 She's ladylike, and though she's no beauty, she 
 looks pretty, and is spirited. I dare say 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 any 
 thing in vain, and the rector agreed to go. He 
 apologized for this afterward to his son by ex- 
 plaining 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 Claver- 
 ing, and the dinner was to take place the even- 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 47 
 
 ing 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 5f giving her a full history of 
 the Clavering family, "We none of us like 
 ray 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 any thing but strong." 
 
 " And Sir Hugh has one brother." 
 
 "Yes; Archie Clavering. I think Archie 
 is a worse fellow even than Hugh. He makes 
 more attempts 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 any body." 
 
 "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 XI. 
 
 SIR HUGH AND HIS BROTHER ARCHIE. 
 
 There was a numerous gathering of Claver- 
 ings in the drawing-room of the great house 
 when the family from the rectory arrived, com- 
 prising 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 Harry 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 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 offense 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 im- 
 pertinent 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, aft- 
 er having also shaken hands with her ; " doos- 
 ed good-looking, I call her." 
 
 "I"m glad you think so," said Harry, dryly. 
 " Let's see ; where was it yon 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 liv- 
 ing that has always belonged to a Clavering." 
 
 "■What would yonr brother have said if I 
 had asked him to give it to me ?" 
 
 ' ' He wouldn't have given it, of course. No- 
 body does give any thing to any body nowa- 
 days. Livings are a sort of thing that people 
 buy. But you'd have got it under favorable cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 " The fact is, Archie, I'm not very fond of 
 the church, as a profession." 
 
 " I 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 wait- 
 ing ; 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 atiy thing that any master 
 had ever attempted to te^ch him, although he 
 had shown considerable aptitude in picking up 
 acquirements for which no regular 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 that the turf had been profitable to him. 
 That it might become profitable at some future 
 time, was possible ; but Captain Archib^'Cla- 
 vering had not yet reached the profitable stage 
 in the career of a betting man, though perhaps 
 he was beginning to qualify himself for it. He 
 was not bad-looking, though his face was un- 
 prepossessing to a judge of character. He was 
 slight and well, made, about five feet nine in 
 
48 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 height, with light brown hair, which had already 
 left the top of his head bald, with slight whis- 
 kers, and a well -formed mustache. But the 
 peculiarity of his face was in his eyes. His 
 eyebrows were light - colored aud 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 speculating, counting up 
 the odds, and calculating whether any thing 
 could be done with the events then present be- 
 fore 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 
 win the bet or wrangle in the losing of it. He 
 would wrangle, but would do so noiselessly, nev- 
 er 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 
 Ills brother, but I do not know that he was there- 
 fore 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 with 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 business of the world, 
 a match for most men in money matters, not 
 ignorant, though he rarely opened a book, self- 
 ish,'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 ?" 
 
 " Nearly a week," said Florence. 
 
 "Ah! you came to the wedding ; I was sor- 
 ry I couldn't be here. It went off very well, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 "Very well indeed, I think." 
 
 "They're tiresome things in general — wed- 
 dings. 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 
 yourself, 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 profession as Harry." 
 
 "Quite a family affair," said Sir Hugh. Har- 
 ry, who was sitting on the other side of Florence, 
 heard this, and would have preferred that Flor- 
 ence 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, who saw no shame in the fact that 
 they were all engaged in tbe same business. 
 
 "Good heaven!" exclaimed Sir Hugh, and 
 after that he did not say much more to Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 The rector had taken Lady Clavering into 
 dinner, and they two did manage to carry on 
 between them some conversation respecting the 
 parish affairs. 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 neighbor's good will to make herself agree- 
 able. 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 satis- 
 faction must rest on very poor grounds. ' "Thor- 
 oughlj' satisfied," said Mrs. Clavering, drawing 
 herself up and looking very unlike the usual 
 Mrs. Clavering of the rectory. After that there 
 was no farther 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 be- 
 gin 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 mar- 
 riage, a subject which he economized carefully, 
 so that he brought it down to the roast saddle of 
 mutton, ho 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. Claver- 
 ing with considerable energy declared that any 
 thing of that kind would be a misfortune of 
 which there seemed to be no chance whatever, 
 he recovered himself as he thought very skill- 
 fully. "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-laborer in his con- 
 versation because he never allowed one of them 
 to pass without an answer. He always recog- 
 nized the fact that he was working hard on be- 
 half of society, and, as he used to say himself, 
 that he had no idea of pulling all the conch up' 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 49 
 
 the hill by his own shoulders. Whenever there- 
 fore lie had made his effort he waited for his 
 companion's, looking closely into her face, cun- 
 ningly 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, Fan- 
 ny, and Lady Ongar, of all of whom mentidn 
 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 oth- 
 er persons. But Mrs. Clavering was not com- 
 pelled 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 any thing 1 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 banker's accounts, so that no bank- 
 er's clerk might know how he stood as regarded 
 i-eady money, and hardly treated even his law- 
 yer 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." 
 
 "You're rather short of foxes, are you not?" 
 said the rector, making an attempt to join the 
 conversation. 
 
 "Upon my word I don't know any thing 
 about it," said Sir Hugh. 
 
 " There are foxes at Clavering," said Archie, 
 recommencing 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 
 D 
 
 guinea we kill ; that is, you know, if they'll ru- 
 ally look for a fox." 
 
 The rector had been willing to fall into a lit- 
 tle 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 sha'n't stay here after to- 
 morrow," said Sir Hugh, still addressing him- 
 self 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, al- 
 most angrily. 
 
 "Liberty Hall, "said Sir Hugh; "everybody 
 does as they like about that. I mean to have 
 another bottle of claret. Archie, ring the hell, 
 will yon ?" Captain Clavering, though he was 
 farther 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 attempted to say something. Sir 
 Hugh answered him by a monosyllable, and 
 Archie offered to bet him two to one that he 
 was wrong. 
 
 "I'll go into the drawing-room," said the rec- 
 tor, getting up. 
 
 "All right," said Sir Hugh; "you'll find 
 coffee there, I dare say. 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 em- 
 bargo 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 any thing the matter with him, Har- 
 ry?" 
 
 "Nothing, as far as I know." 
 
 "If I were left at Clavering all the year, 
 with nothing 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 here out of cere- 
 mony, you know, if you want to go after Miss 
 Burton." Harry took him at his word, and 
 went after Miss Burton, leaving the brothers to- 
 gether 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 alto- 
 gether. ' ' Archie, " he had said, " pray under- 
 stand that there is no money to be made out of 
 me, at any 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 fo bet had become with Archie 
 
50 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 so much a matter of course, that he did not gen- 
 erally intend any real speculation by his offers ; 
 but with his brother he had dropped even the 
 habit. And he seldom began any conversation 
 with Hugh unless he had some point to gain — 
 an advance of money to ask, or some favor 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 expressing 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, 
 therefore, 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 rectoiy altogether." 
 
 " He never had much to say for himself." 
 
 "But 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 veiy small, then, and I sup- 
 pose Fanny will marry that prig they have here. 
 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 maiTy such 
 a girl as this, without money, good looks, or 
 breeding ? It's well for you he is 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 
 color, and it may almost be said of him that he 
 blushed. Why he was so affected in so singu- 
 lar 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 even- 
 ing. 
 
 When Harry reached the drawing-room he 
 went up to Lady Clavering, but she said noth- 
 ing to him then of especial notice. She was 
 talking to Mrs. Clavering 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 a while 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 
 tliat 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 ?" Har- 
 
 ry paused a moment, and then acknowledged 
 that he did know it. 
 
 " I hope you did not advise her to refuse." 
 
 " I advise her ! Oh dear, no. She did not 
 ask me any thing about it." 
 
 " But she has refused. Don't you think she 
 has been very wrong?" 
 
 " 1 1 is hard to say, "said Harry. " You know 
 I thought it very cruel that Hugh did not re- 
 ceive her immediately on her return. If I liad 
 been him I should have gone to Paris to meet 
 l^er." 
 
 "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, be- 
 cause 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 CJavei- 
 ing'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 coursel know 
 that you were fond of her, but all that can be 
 nothing now." 
 
 " No," said HaiTy, " that can be nothing 
 now." 
 
 " 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 
 veiy badly off when he has settled with Hugh 
 about all their money dealings. Of course Ju- 
 lia'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 dare say." 
 
 "And why shouldn't it be so? She can't 
 live alone by herself always. Of course she 
 never could have really loved Lord Ongai'." 
 
 "Never, I should think," said Harry. 
 
 " And Archie is good-natured, and good-tem- 
 pered, 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 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 61 
 
 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 pro- 
 posal. 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 assist- 
 ance. She 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 any thing to say." 
 
 " But I know you can help us. When I was 
 with her the last time she declared that yon 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 
 Jier unless 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 Loi'd 
 Ongar had absolutely determined 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 be- 
 lieve any thing against my own sister when 
 nothing is proved. But that makes no differ- 
 ence, if the world believes it. They say now 
 that if he had lived three months longer she 
 never would have got the money." 
 
 " Tlien they say lies. Who is it says so ? 
 A parcel of old women who delight 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 far- 
 ther 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 I 
 the thing as impossible." 
 
 "Perhaps it is, Harry, that you — ^you your- 
 self 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 any thing 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 Clavering 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 farther, 
 she obeyed her husband's summons. "What 
 the mischief keeps you in there?" he said. It 
 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 pres- 
 ent." 
 
 "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 connections. 
 Archie made a frantic attempt to raise some 
 conversation with Mrs. Clavering about the 
 weather. Mrs. Clavering, paying no attention 
 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 showing it." 
 
 Tlien it was that Sir Hugh had made a diver- 
 sion 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 immediately saw that things were 
 unpleasant. "Archie," she said, "will you ring 
 for tea ?" And Archie did ring. The tea was 
 brought, and a cup was taken all round, almost 
 in silence. 
 
 Harry in the mean time remained by himself 
 thinking of what he had heard from Lady Cla- 
 vering. Archie Clavering marry Lady Ongar — 
 marry his Julia 1 It was impossible. He could 
 not bring himself even to think of such an ar- 
 rangement with equanimity. He was almost 
 frantic with anger as he thought of this proposi- 
 tion to restore Lady Ongar to the position in the 
 
52 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 world's repute which she had a right to claim, 
 by such a marriage as that. " She would in- 
 deed be disgraced then," said Harry to himself. 
 But he knew that it was impossible. He could 
 see what would be the nature of Julia's coun- 
 tenance if Archie should ever get near enough 
 to her to make his proposal ! Archie, indeed ! 
 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 man- 
 ger ; 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, 
 wonld have been distasteful 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 soreness 
 was occasioned by the thought that any second 
 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 Clavering, 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 asser- 
 tion," 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 can not 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I/ADT ONGAE TAKES POSSESSION. 
 
 I DO not know that there is in England a 
 more complete gentleman's residence than On- 
 
 gar Park, nor could there be one in better repair, 
 or more fit for immediate habitation than was 
 that house when it came into the hands of the 
 young widow. The park was not large, con- 
 taining 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 an 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 
 bedrooms were sufficiently numerous to make 
 an auctioneer's mouth water. But the great 
 charm of Ongar Park lay in the grounds im- 
 mediately 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 shrub- 
 beries and walks were extensive. It was a place 
 costly to maintain in its present perfect condi- 
 tion, but when that was said against it, all was 
 said ayainst it which its bitterest enemies could 
 allege. 
 
 But Lady Ongar, with her large jointure, and 
 with no external expenses whatever, could af- 
 ford this delight without imprudence. Every 
 thing in and about the 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 imme- 
 diate return to England, her lawyer had told lier 
 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 acquiescence as to her income. 
 But she had declared that she would not sub- 
 mit — that she would have house, and income, 
 and all ; and she had been successful. "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 oppo- 
 nents — 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, vfhen 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 immediately on their marriage, 
 and now she had returned a widow to take pos- 
 session of his house. There she was in posses- 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 63 
 
 sion of it all. The furniture in the rooms, the 
 books in the eases, the gilded clocks and grand 
 mirrors about the house, all the implements of 
 wealthy care about the gardens, the corn in the 
 granaries and the ricks in the hay-yard, the 
 horses in the stable, and the cows lowing in 
 the fields — they were all hers. She had per- 
 formed 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 ex- 
 tent of her riches in this world's goods ; nor, in 
 truth, had she at once the courage to ask ques- 
 tions 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 luoky. 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 sta- 
 tion after dark, and even then had felt that the 
 eyes of many were upon her as she went out tq 
 lier 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 per- 
 haps consoled her. The housekeeper who re- 
 ceived 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 sol- 
 emn in her demeanor. " I hope you have good 
 fires, Mrs. Button." "Yes, my lady." "I 
 think I will have some tea ; I don't want any 
 thing else to-night." "Very well, my lady." 
 Mrs. Button, maintaining a solemn counte- 
 nance, 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 
 serving 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 un- 
 derstand the farm ; that she would know the la- 
 borers ; that she would assist the poor ; that she 
 would have a school ; and, above all, that she 
 would make all the privileges of ownership her 
 own. Was not the price in her hand, and would 
 she not use it? She felt that it was very good 
 that something of the price had come to her 
 thus in the shape of land, and beeves, and wide, 
 heavy outside 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 desolation to assuage, 
 and she would not be prodigal of her resources. 
 As she looked around her while she walked, al- 
 most furtively, lest some gardener, as he spied 
 her, might guess her thoughts and tell how my 
 lady was reveling 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 be- 
 come 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 
 herself amid 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 stip- 
 ulated 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 nev- 
 er seen, and that they sliould speak evil of her 
 seemed to be only natural. But her own relar 
 tives were removed from her by a gulf nearly 
 equally wide. OfBrabazon 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 nafairally 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 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 lil^e 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 understand that 
 Lady Ongar would not become, a suppliant to 
 him for mercy. She was sti-iving 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 ? 
 
54 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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, 
 
 very far removed from gossiping. Only once 
 was Mrs. Button moved to betray any emotion. 
 " That, my lady, was ray lord's mother's room, 
 after my lord died-^my lord's father that was ; 
 may God bless her." Then Lady Ongar re- 
 flected that from her husband she had never 
 heard a word either of his father or his moth- 
 
 Was not the price in hor hand ? 
 
 but again declined to accept her lady's conde- 
 scension. 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 Onpar would listen to her; 
 but every word -was spoken in a solemn voice, 
 
 er. She wished that she could seat herself 
 with that woman in some small up-stairs 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 ex- 
 plain to Mrs. Button that she had never known 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 55 
 
 any thing of the belongings of her own hus- 
 band. 
 
 When she had seen the upper part of the house, 
 Mrs. Button oftered to convoy her through the 
 kitchens and servants' apartments, but she de- 
 clined this for the present. She had done enough 
 for the day, So she dismissed Mrs. Button, and 
 took herself to the libi-ary. How often had she 
 heard that books aiForded 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, be- 
 fore 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 re- 
 sources must be those which she could find out- 
 side the house. 
 
 Peering about, she made her way behind the 
 stables, which were attached to the house, to a 
 fiu-m-yard 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 laborer, 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 old, who had brought 
 him his meal tied up in a handkerchief, 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 farm- 
 yard paling, and so she could reach them and 
 speak to them without difficulty. There was 
 apparently no other person near enough to list- 
 en, 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 with- 
 out 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 rheuma- 
 tism, he only got eight shillings a week. He 
 had a daughter, the mother of Patty, who work- 
 ed in the fields, and got six shillings a week. 
 Every thing about the poor Gubbys seemed to 
 be very wretclied and miserable. Sometimes 
 he could hardly drag himself about, he was so 
 bad with the rheumatics. Then she thought 
 that she would make one person happy, and 
 told him tliat his wages should be raised to ten 
 shillings a week. No matter whether he earn- 
 ed it or not, or what Mr. Giles might say, he 
 should have ten shillings a week. Enoch Gub- 
 by bowed, and rubbed his head, and stared, and 
 
 was in truth thankful because of the sixpence 
 in ready money ; but he believed nothing about 
 the ten shillings. He did not especially disbe- 
 lieve, but simply felt confident that he under- 
 stood nothing that was said to him. That kind- 
 ness was intended, and that the sixpence was 
 there, he did understand. 
 
 But Enoch Gubby got his weekly ten shil- 
 lings, though Lady Ongar hardly realized the 
 pleasure that she had expected from the trans- 
 action. She sent that afternoon for 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. Every body about the place 
 would expect an addition, and those people who 
 did earn what they received, would think them- 
 selves 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 ladyshi)). 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 amid the shrubberies, no 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 owner- 
 ship of the haystacks had become a thing tame 
 to her, and the great cart-horses, as to every one 
 of which she had intended to feel an interest, 
 were matters of indifference to her. She ob- 
 served 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 ap- 
 ples 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 walk- 
 
66 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 ed there without any attendant. She had, how- 
 ever, 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 walk- 
 ed 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 hus- 
 band. 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, 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, i 
 also, she told herself. But she went through it, I 
 and walked out of the church among the village 
 crowd with her head on high. | 
 
 Three days afterward she wrote to the clergy- 
 man, 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 excellent, but if there was 
 any thing required, she hoped he would tell hei'. 
 On the following morning the clergyman called, 
 and, with many thanks for her generosity, listen- 
 ed to her plans, and accepted her subsidies. But 
 he was a married man, and he said nothing of 
 his wife, nor during the next week did his wife 
 come to call on her. She was to be left deso- 
 late by all, because men had told lies of her ! 
 
 She had the price in her hands, but she felt 
 herself tempted to do as Judas did — to go out 
 and hang herself. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAE 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 Pateroif, a 
 man of whom he had only heard, up to that mo- 
 ment, as the friend of the late Lord Ongar. At 
 first he had been very angry with 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 in- 
 convenience 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 communicated the 
 fact to her friend. This other person was a 
 sister of the count's, who was now living in Lon- 
 don, one Madame Gbrdeloup — 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 rela- 
 tive in London. 
 
 Lady Ongar had been a fortnight in the coun- 
 try before she received Madame Gordeloup's let- 
 ter. In that letter the sister had declared her- 
 self to be most anxious that her brother should 
 see Lady Ongar. The letter had been in 3?rerch, 
 and had been very eloquent — more eloquent in 
 its cause than any letter with the same object 
 could have been if written by an Englishwoman 
 in English ; and the eloquence was less offensive 
 than it might, under all concurrent circum- 
 stances, have been had it reached Lady Ongar 
 in English. The reader must not, however, sup- 
 pose that the letter contained a word that was 
 intended to snpport a lover's suit. It was very 
 far indeed from that, and spoke of the count 
 simply as a friend ; but its eloquence went to 
 show that nothing that had passed should- bo 
 construed by Lady Ongar as offering any bar to 
 a fair friendship. What the world said ! Bah ! 
 Did not she know — she, Sophie — and did nbt 
 her friend know — her friend Julie — that the 
 world was a great liar ? Was it not even now 
 telling wicked, venomous lies about her friend 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 57 
 
 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 slie 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 prepared to shape her conduct 
 in accordance with her friend Sophie's advice, 
 and especially not so when that advice had ref- 
 erence to Sophie's bi'other. She had, there- 
 fore, said very little in return to the lady's elo- 
 quence, answering the letter on that matter very 
 vaguely ; but, having a purpose of her own, had 
 begged that Count Pateroff might be asked to 
 call upon Hairy Clavering. Count Pateroff did 
 not feel himself to cafe very much about Harry 
 Clavering, but wishing to do as he was bidden, 
 did leave his card in Bloomsbury 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 fixed withl\er 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 wom- 
 an was not heartless because she had once, in one 
 great epoch of her life, betrayed her own heart ; 
 nor was she altogether false because she had 
 once lied ; nor altogether vile because she had 
 once taught herself that for such a one as her 
 riches were a necessity. It might be that the 
 punishment of her sin could meet with no re- 
 mission 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 ex- 
 plained to Harry — as she had then thought so 
 successfully — that they two, 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 plat- 
 form 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 de- 
 spised her when, with her easy philosophy, she 
 had made the^est of her own mercenary per- 
 fidy. He had called her a jilt to her face, and 
 she had 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, hut even 
 now she had not reached her six-and-tweutieth 
 year. 
 
 The apples at her rich country-seat had quick- 
 ly become ashes between her teeth, but some- 
 thing 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 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 remem- 
 ber them. She had loved him, and him only. 
 To none other had she ever pretended love. 
 From none other had love been offered to her. 
 Between Iier and that wretched being to whom 
 she had sold herself, who had been half dead 
 before she had seen him, there had been no pre- 
 tense of love. But 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. Har- 
 ry had been offended to the quick, and had call- 
 ed her a jilt ; but yet it might be possible that he 
 would return to her. 
 
 It should not be supposed that since her re- 
 turn to England she had had one settled, definite 
 object before her eyes with regard to tliis renew- 
 al 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 her- 
 self! Not for all the wealth that woman ever 
 
58 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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 charac- 
 ter too highly. Of Florence Burton she had as 
 vet heard nothing, though had. she heard of her, 
 it may well be that she would not on that ac- 
 count 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 Har- 
 ry 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 disappoint- 
 ment, that it bore the name of Count Pateroff. 
 No ; she was not going to he 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 that ! " Tell 
 the gentleman, with my compliments," she 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 accusation 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 open- 
 ly 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, when all 
 alone in Bolton Street, she had in her desolation 
 welcomed his sister Sophie, she would have pre- 
 ferred that Sophie should not have come to her, 
 
 • claiihing to <renew their friendship. But with 
 tlie count she would hold no communion now, 
 even though he should find his way into the 
 room. 
 
 A few minutes passed before the servant re- 
 turned, 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 
 can not 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 On- 
 gar. I still hope that you will admit me.— P." 
 Having read these words while standin;;, 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 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 
 something about this count that she had respect- 
 ed, 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 On- 
 gar 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 show- 
 ing any disgust to the servant, either by his de- 
 meanor or in his countenance. On that even- 
 ing she received from him a long letter, written 
 at the neighboring inn, expostulating with her 
 as to her conduct toward him, and saying in the 
 last line that it was impossible now that they 
 should be strangers to each other. "Impos- 
 sible that we should be strangers," she said al- 
 most out loud. " Why impossible ? I know 
 no such impossibility." After that she careful- 
 ly burned botli 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 clergy- 
 man 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 
 circumstances as those now in question, the ordi- 
 nary social rules were not ordinarily broken — 
 whether a countess should not call on a clergy- 
 man'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, therefore, no hint; she 
 said no word of Mrs. Sturm, though her heart 
 was longing for a kind word from some wom- 
 an'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 farther attempt to interfere with the wages of 
 the persons employed. Into the houses of some 
 of the poor she had made her way, but she fancied 
 that they were not glad to see her. They might, 
 perhaps, have all heard of her reputation, and 
 Gubhy'sdaughter may have congratulated her- 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 59 
 
 self that there was another in the parish as bad 
 as herself, or perhaps, happily, worse. The own- 
 er 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 
 altogether declined the employment, although, 
 as her mistress had ascertained, she herself per- 
 formed her own little missions of charity with 
 zeal. Before the fortnight was over. Lady Ou- 
 gar was sick of her house and her park, utterly 
 disregardful of her horses and oxen, and un- 
 mindful 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 unfortunately communicated the fact to 
 Madame Gordeloup. 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 any thing 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 
 sweet-bread — and just one glass of Champagne ? 
 And might she share the banquet ? There was 
 not a word in the note about the too obtrusive 
 brother, either as to the offense committed by 
 him, or the offense 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 chick- 
 en and the bread sauce, and the sweet-bread, 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 the fact that she was not alone ; but the 
 satisfaction was not satisfactory. When Sophie 
 had left her at ten o'clock, running off by her- 
 self to her lodgings in Mount Street, Lady On- 
 gar, after but one moment's thought, sat down 
 and wrote a note to Harry Clavering. 
 
 "DearHaeey, — 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 married 
 man ; but Harry felt that he had no right to 
 intrude upon madame, so he simply left his card. 
 Wishing, however, really to have this interview, 
 and having been lately elected at a club of which 
 he was rather proud, he wrote to the count ask- 
 ing him to dine with him at the Beaufort. He 
 explained that there was o, 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 apolo- 
 gizing for proposing to the count to dine with- 
 out other guests. , Pateroff^ accepted the invita- 
 tion, and Harry, never having done such a thing 
 before, ordered his dinner with much nervous- 
 ness. 
 
 The count was punctual, and the two men 
 introduced themselves. Harry had expected to 
 see a handsome foreigner, with black hair, pol- 
 ished whiskers, and probably a hook nose — forty 
 years of age or thereabout, but so got up as to 
 look not much more than thirty. But his guest 
 was by no means a man of that stamp. Except- 
 ing that the count's age was altogether uncer- 
 tain, no correctness of guess on that matter be- 
 ing possible by means of his appearance, Harry's 
 preconceived 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 mustache which was not gray, but per- 
 fectly 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 rest- 
 lessness in his eye, any one would have taken 
 him for an Englishman. And his speech hardly 
 betrayed that he was not English. Harry, 
 knowing that he was a foreigner, noticed now 
 and again some little acquired distinctness of 
 speech which is hardly natural to a native ; but 
 otherwise 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 Har- 
 rv. Clavering declared that he had incurred 
 no trouble, and declared 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, he 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 
 
60 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 being simply a young Englishman, he was much 
 too awkward for any such courtesy as that. 
 The count observed 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 mem- 
 ber of the Travelers' ; he liked every thing En- 
 glish, 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 plow- 
 men with their plows. Englishmen sported, 
 he said, as though more than their bread — as 
 though their honor, their wives, their souls, de- 
 pended 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 con- 
 versation 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 re- 
 quest, and therefore, as he thought, the count 
 should have been the first to mention her. But 
 the count seemed to be enjoying his dinner with- 
 out 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 thor- 
 oughly, and made himself very agreeable. When 
 tlie wine was discussed he told Harry that a cer- 
 tain vintage of Moselle was very famous at the 
 Beaufort. Harry ordered the wine, of course, 
 and was delighted to give his guest the best of 
 every thing; 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, conscious pleasure which 
 young men never attain in eating and drinking, 
 and which men as they grow older so often for- 
 get to acquire. But the count never 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 fash- 
 ion the count was a rich man. 
 
 " You don't sit after dinner here, I suppose," 
 said the count, when he had completed an elab- 
 orate washing of his mouth and mustache. " I 
 like this club because 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 suf- 
 ficiently satisfactory to the guest. Harry, there- 
 fore, suggested one bottle of claret. The count 
 agreed, expressing an opinion that the 51 La- 
 fitte was unexceptional. The 51 Lafitte was or- 
 dered, and Harry, as he filled his glass, consid- 
 ered the way in which his subject should be in- 
 troduced. 
 
 "You knew Lord Ongar, I think, abroad?" 
 
 " Lord Ongar — abroad ! Oh yes, vei-y well ; 
 and for many years here in London ; and at Vi- 
 enna ; and very early in life at St. Petersburg. 
 I knew Lord Ongar first in Russia when he was 
 attached to the embassy as Frederick Courton. 
 His father. Lord Courton, was then alive, a# 
 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 bi-ute when 
 he maiTied," said Harry, energetically. 
 
 "He was not pleasant when he was ill at 
 Florence," said the count. 
 
 " She must have had a tenible 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 mar- 
 ried her." 
 
 "An Adonis! No; she did not expect an 
 Adonis ; but she thought he would have some- 
 thing of the honor 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 Lafitte. That was Ongar's fault. All 
 the world knew it for the last ten years. No 
 one knew it better than Hugh Clavering." 
 
 "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 something. 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 hur- 
 ry." 
 
 " 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 question — ' 
 about Lady Of gar." 
 
 " I will say any thing in her favor that you 
 please. I am always ready to say any thing in 
 the favor of any lady, and, if needs be, to swear 
 it. But any thing 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 witli 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 61 
 
 an assurance that on that subject he should con- 
 sider 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 Har- 
 ry hated him for doing so. 
 
 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 fortunes. Seven thousand 
 pounds a year for a lady all alone, and a beauti- 
 ful house ! A house so beautiful, they tell me!" 
 " What has that to do with it ?" said Harry ; 
 
 Did he not bear false witneas against ber?" 
 
 "I don't want you to say any good of her," 
 said he, " or any evil." 
 
 " I certainly shall say no evil of her." 
 
 "But I think you know that she has been 
 mqst cruelly treated." 
 
 " Well, there is about seven thousand pounds 
 
 whereupon the count again shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. " What has that to do with it ? Because 
 the man was rich he was not justified in ill- 
 treating his wife. Did he not bring false accu- 
 sations against her, in order that he might rob 
 her after his death of all that of which you 
 
02 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 think so much ? Did he not bear fulse witness 
 against her, to his own dishonor?" 
 
 " She has got the money, I thinis, and the 
 beautiful house." 
 
 " But her name has been covered with lies." 
 
 "What can I do? Why do you asli 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 
 name. Has not Lady Ongar mentioned my sis- 
 ter ? 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." 
 
 "Madame Gordeloup?" 
 
 ' ' Yea, Madame Gordeloup. She is Lady On- 
 gar's friend. She will talk to you." 
 
 " Will you introduce me. Count l^ateroff?" 
 
 "Oh 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, ris- 
 ing from his chair, led the way into the smok- 
 ing-room. When there, the man of the world 
 separated himself from his young friend, of 
 whose enthusiasm he had perhaps had enough, 
 and was soon engaged in conversation with sun- 
 dry other men of his own standing. Harry 
 soon perceived that his guest had no farther 
 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 noth- 
 ing about Lady Ongar or Count Pateroif. He 
 was not aware that he had any special reason 
 for being silent on the subject, but he made up 
 liis mind that the Burtons were people so fur 
 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 en- 
 tertain both subjects oL 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 any thing 
 of Count Pateroff and his dinner at the Beau- 
 fort. Nor did he mention the dinner to his dear 
 friend Cecilia. On this occasion he made him- 
 self very happy in Onslow Crescent, playing 
 with the children, chatting with his friend, and 
 enduring, with a good grace, Theodore Burton's 
 sarcasm, when that ever-studious gentleman told 
 liim that he was only fit to go about tied to a 
 woman's npron-string. 
 
 On the following day, about five o'clock, he 
 called in Mount Street. He had doubted mucli 
 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 presenting 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 glance^ at the name upon the card, 
 and seemed to know all about him. She shook 
 hands with him cordially, 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 sei-vants, 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 it might be difficult 
 to judge, either from her language or her appear- 
 ance, of the nationality to which she belonged. 
 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 ex- 
 plained to him most of her circumstances. That 
 slie kept back something is probable ; but how 
 many are there who can afford to tell every 
 thing ? 
 
 Her husband was still living, but he was at 
 St. Petersburg. He was a Frenchman by fam- 
 ily, but had been born in Russia. He had been 
 attached to the Bussian embassy in London, 
 but was now attached to diplomacy in general 
 in Eussia. 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 
 Bussian 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 
 every thing that had passed between "Julie" 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 63 
 
 and Harry Clavering in early days, and never 
 mentioned Lord Ongar without some term of 
 abuse. 
 
 "Horrid wretch !" she said, pausing over all 
 the !■'.« 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 list- 
 ened, almost made Harry Clavering's hair stand 
 on end, and which must not be repeated 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 show- 
 ing, they had, all of them, been together nearly 
 fi"om that time to the day of Lord Ongar's death. 
 But Harry sooned learned to feel that he could 
 not believe all that the little lady told him. 
 
 " Edouard was always with him. Poor Edou- 
 ard !" she said. " There was some money mat- 
 ter between them about ecarte. 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 every thing for the nasty 
 wr-retch." Harry did not at all like this min- 
 gling of the name of Julie and Edouard, though 
 it did not for a moment fill his mind with any 
 suspicion as to Lady Ongar. It made him fe^el, 
 however, that this woman was dangerous, and 
 that her tongue might be very mischievous if she 
 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 scrupulous 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 Julie will be in town next 
 week?" 
 
 "No; I did not know when she was to re- 
 turn." 
 
 " 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 i-e- 
 semblance 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 pleas- 
 ant ! 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. 
 
 " Of course they were lies," he said, roughly. 
 
 " Of course, mon cher. 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 lier 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 Pranco-Pole, ener- 
 getically, "every franc of it, besides the house! 
 I know it. She told me herself. Yes. Wliat 
 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 
 Gordeloup." 
 
 "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 look- 
 ed at him, just looked at him, miserable object. 
 Oh, it was beautiful!" And Madame Gorde- 
 loup, rising in her energy from her seat for the 
 purpose, strove to throw upon Harry such anoth- 
 er glance as the injured, insulted wife had thrown 
 upon her foul-tongued, dying lord. 
 
 " She will marry," said Madame Gordeloup, 
 changing her tone with 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 w ill be wrong ; 
 but she will marry." 
 
 " I do not know how that m.iy be," said Har- 
 ry, looking foolish. 
 
 " I tell you I know she will marry, Mr. Cla- 
 vering; 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 diflference. 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 HaiTy 
 think that she was almost more than mortal. 
 
CI 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 He found himself quite unable to cope with her 
 in conversation, and soon after this got up to 
 talie 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 to- 
 gether, and I will be your friend. Believe me." 
 
 Harry was very far from believing her, and 
 did not in the least require her friendship. Her 
 friendship indeed ! How could any decent En- 
 glish 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 
 times, thinking that the flavor 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 wpuld, 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 OngaV had been sub- 
 jected to very trying troubles in the last months 
 of her husband's life, but no circumstances could 
 justify her, if she continued to indorse the false 
 cordiality of that horribly vulgar and evil-mind- 
 ed little woman. As regarded the grave charges 
 brought against Lady Ongar, Harry still gave no 
 credit to them, still looked upon them as calum- 
 nies, 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 nqt 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 pavement 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. So- 
 phie was very anxious in this matter, and was re- 
 solved 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AN ETENIKG IN BOLTON STREET. 
 
 Ten days after his visit in Mount Street, Harry 
 received 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 let- 
 ter "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 lov- 
 ing. 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 On- 
 gar," he wrote, "I shall dine at my club, and 
 be with you about eight. Tours 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 re- 
 solved to work harder and to love Florence Bur- 
 ton 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 himself that this was necessary. As the love 
 was easier than the work, he began his new tasks 
 on the following morning by writing a long and 
 very affectionate letter to his own Flo, who was 
 still staying at Clavering Rectory ; a letter so 
 long and so affectionate that Florence, in her 
 ecstasy of delight, made Fanny read it, and con- 
 fess that, as a love-letter, it was perfect. 
 
 "It's great nonsense, all the same," said 
 Fanny. 
 
 ' ' It isn't nonsense at all, " said Florence ; "and 
 if it were, it would not signify. Is it true? 
 That's the question." 
 
 "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? Flor- 
 ence 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 under- 
 stand, them which was almost successful. Dur- 
 ing those days he would remain at his office till 
 past four o'clock, and would then walk away 
 with Theodore Burton, dining sometimes in Ons- 
 low Crescent, and going there sometimes 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-stritigs 
 to herself. Then Theodore laughed and apolo- 
 gized, 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 de- 
 clared that, under those circumstances, HaiTy 
 never would be dull. And Harry on those 
 evenings would be taken up stairs 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 mar- 
 riage bell. But on that morning, when the note 
 had come from Lady Ongar, Harry could work 
 ncT more to his satisfaction. He scrawled upon 
 his blotting-paper, and made no progress what- 
 soever toward the understanding of any thing. 
 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, claim- 
 ing for it any meed of godlike perfection. Itwas 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 65 
 
 a stupid, short letter, in which he declared that 
 he was very busy, and that his head ached. In 
 a postscript he told her that he was going to see 
 Lady Ongar that evening. This he comihuni- 
 cated to her under an idea that by doing so he 
 made every thing 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 play- 
 ing 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 ha went out for a walk by him- 
 self. As he went along Piccadilly, he saw Sophie 
 Gordeloup coming toward him, trotting along, 
 with her dress held well up over her ankles, 
 eager, quick, and, as he said to himself, cleai'ly 
 intent upon some mischief. He endeavored to 
 avoid her by turning 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 rid- 
 ding himself of such a companion. 
 
 "Ah ! Mr. Clavering, I am so glad to see you. 
 I was with Julia last night. She was fagged, 
 very much fagged ; the joui-ney, 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 in coming to me. 
 She said you were always good ; yes, she did. 
 When shall you see her?" 
 
 Harry Clavering was a bad hand at fibbing, 
 and a bad hand also at leaving a question un- 
 answered. 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 communica- 
 tion 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 Beren- 
 stoff receives at the embassy. " 
 
 "Good-afternoon," said Harry, turning into 
 Truefit's, the hair-dresser'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 En- 
 glishmen !" Now having read Sophie's thoughts 
 so far, we will leave her to walk up the remain- 
 der of the arcade by herself. 
 
 I do not know that Harry's vi.sit 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 opera- 
 tion. Ue then went back to his club, and when 
 E 
 
 he sauntered into the card-room one old gentle- 
 man looked askance at him, as though inquir- 
 ing 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 oflFered him a pinch of snuff. 
 "Have you seen the new book about whist?" 
 said the old gentleman. "It is very useful — 
 veiy useful. I'll send you a copy if you will al- 
 low me." Then Harry left the roomf, 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 every thing, and there- 
 fore 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 wa* " 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 
 pressure 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 influence 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 det- 
 riment to that other devotion which he owed to 
 Florence Burton. But this stipulation, though 
 it was made, was made quickly, and with a con- 
 fused brain. 
 
 "Yes, it is hard," she said. " Harry, some- 
 times 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 repeat- 
 ed 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 miment of my mar- 
 rying 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. AnVl for all that 
 
G6 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 people have turned their backs upon me. You 
 and I were old friends, Hurry, 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." 
 
 "If you had taken me by the shoulders and 
 shaken me, and have declared that before God 
 yon would not allow such wickedness, I should 
 have obeyed you. I know I should." Harry 
 thought of Florence, and could not bring him- 
 self 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 sim- 
 ply have been fools." 
 
 " The folly was very pleasant," said he. 
 
 "Yes, yes; I will not deny that. But then 
 the wisdom and the prudence afterward ! 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 mar- 
 ried, 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 any thing else, for 
 it turned her thought at the moment. 
 
 " My sister, Harry ! If there was nothing to 
 make us friends but onr connection through Sir 
 Hugh Clavering, I do not know that I should 
 be particularly anxious to see you. How un- 
 manly he has been, and how cruel !" 
 
 ' ' Very cruel, " said Harry. Then he thought 
 of Archie and Archie's suit. "But he is will- 
 ing to change all that now. Hermione asked 
 me the other day to persuade you to go to Cla- 
 vering." 
 
 "And have you come here to use your elo- 
 quence for that purpose ? I will never go to 
 Clavering again, Harry, unless it should be 
 yours, and your wife should oifer to receive me. 
 Then I'd pack up for the dear, dull, solemn old 
 place, though I was on the other side of Eu- 
 rope." 
 
 "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 tyrant that he will give no 
 such permission. He wo uld 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 wish- 
 ing 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 noth- 
 ing 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." 
 
 "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 might have their property. Archie in- 
 tends to marry, and have a dozen children." 
 
 " Archie marry ! Who will have him ? But 
 such men as he are often in the way by marry- 
 ing 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 honid 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 PateroflT," she said. 
 
 " Yes, and his sister." 
 
 " So she told me. What do you think of 
 them ?" To this question Harry made no im- 
 mediate 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 ?" 
 
 " They are not sweet or wholesome," said he. 
 
 "Oh, Harry, you are so honest ! Your hon- 
 esty is beautiful. A spade will ever be a spade 
 with you." 
 
 t He thought that she was laughing at him, 
 and colored. :• 
 
 "You pressed me to speak," he said, " and 
 I did but use your own words." 
 I "Yes, but you used them with such straight- 
 forward 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 
 I world of lies. I know you will not lie to me, 
 ' Harry. You never did. " 
 I He felt that now was the moment in which 
 I he should tell her of his engagement, but he let 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 67 
 
 the moment pass without using it. And, in- 
 deed, it would have been hard for him to tell. 
 In telling such a story he would have been cau- 
 tioning 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 works were tame and impotent in com- 
 parison with hers, which seemed to him to mean 
 so much. But then his position was so unfor- 
 tunate 1 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 passion. 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 simply signified on 
 his part the pleasure he had in being on good 
 ■terms with a pretty woman. He would have 
 liked to have made love in the same way to Lady 
 Oiigar ; 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^iis 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." 
 
 " Every thing is wrong that I do ; every thing 
 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 every thing back to the family. Every 
 thing — 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 your- 
 self, Harry — one, except yourself?" 
 
 Poor Florence! I fear it fared badly with 
 her cause at this moment. How was it possible 
 that he should 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 can 
 not cleanse one's self 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 where she sat on a sofa, "Ju- 
 lia, 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 sometimes make me Smile ! You will scold 
 me, at any rate, will you not ? It is terrible to 
 have no one near one that will speak to one with 
 the old easiness of familiar affection. And then 
 the pretense of it where it does not, can not, could 
 not exist ! Oh, that woman, Harry, that wom- 
 an 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 be- 
 cause 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, whosesoever 
 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 ^carte 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, Han'y, wants to have a 
 woman near her sometimes — even though it be 
 such an unwholesome creature as Sophie Gor- 
 deloup. 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 hked 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 protect- 
 ed me. It is too bad, Hany, 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 
 
68 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 when the end came and things were very terri- 
 ble, he behaved well and kindly. He went in 
 and out quietly, and like an old friend. He 
 paid for every thing, 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 before. Count Pateroif is a cat. 
 You, Harry, I think, are a dog." She perhaps 
 expected that he would promise to her that he 
 would be her dog — a dog in constancy and af- 
 fection ; but he was still mindful in part of 
 Florence, and restrained himself. 
 
 "I must tell you something farther," she 
 said. "And indeed it is this that I particu- 
 larly 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 tliought I had told you. However, so it 
 is. And now, listen : he came down to Ongar 
 Park the other day while I was there, and sent 
 in his card. When I refused to receive him, 
 he wrote to me pressing his visit. I still de- 
 clined, and he wrote again. 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 noth- 
 ing to do with Lord Ongar's papers. Every 
 thing 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 noth- 
 ing ; not at one word in a single letter. What 
 could he have to say to me of Lord Ongar's pa- 
 pers ?" 
 
 " Or he might have written ?" 
 
 " At any rate, lie 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 aiTangement, 
 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 can 
 not escape the calumny in any other way, I will 
 not escape it in that way." 
 
 " Has he said any thing?" 
 
 " 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 
 1 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 can not 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 
 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 any body to any body. He 
 speaks only of the outward things of the world. 
 Now, Harry, what yon must do for me is this." 
 As she was speaking to him she was leaning 
 again upon the table, with her forehead 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 wid- 
 owhood 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 de- 
 clared 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 had made itself plain to her mind. 
 "What you must do for me is this," she con- 
 tinued. " You must see Count Pateroff again, 
 and tell him from me — as my friend — that I can 
 not 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 any 
 thing 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^rust, 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 bo better?" 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 69 
 
 "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 to see 
 him to-morrow. Where does he live?" 
 
 " How should I know ? Perhaps nobody 
 knows ; no one, perhaps, of all those with whom 
 he associates constantly. They do not live aft- 
 er 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 any thing 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 yon 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 can not change 
 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. 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 hap- 
 pened, 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 XVI. 
 
 THE KIV^LS. 
 
 Ladt Ongak 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 at- 
 tempt? or should she, in truth, abandon all, as 
 the arch-traitor did, and acknowledge 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 had been 
 stained, her beauty 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 Julia Bra- 
 bazon, though there was something in the poetr 
 ry 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 insure 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 i-ich harvest of her iusani- 
 
70 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 ty ? These latter would offer to provide her a 
 place in some convenient asylum, and the oth- 
 ers would all agree that such would be her fit- 
 ting destiny. She could bear the idea of walk- 
 ing 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 posi- 
 tion which maddened her ; its solitude, or the 
 necessity of breaking that solitude by the pres- 
 ence of those who were odious to her. Wheth- 
 er It were better to be alone, feeding on the bit- 
 terness 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 
 herself almost worse for submitting herself to 
 the society of Sophie Gordeloup. Why not 
 give all that she possessed 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 every thing. 
 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 proposed 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 
 fettered." 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 bade 
 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 pic- 
 ture — 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 
 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 re- 
 
 gard herself as tainted and unfit for him? 
 There was no longer any thing to separate 
 them — any thing of which she was aware, un- 
 less 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 passion- 
 ately, 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 enmity ; but it 
 was not so with him. He called himself her 
 friend. How could there be friendship between 
 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 in- 
 come 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 with- 
 out a word of reserve. She had been merce- 
 nary once, but she would atone for that now by 
 open-handed, undoubting generosity. She her- 
 self had learned to hate the house and fields 
 and wide-spread comforts of Ongar Park. She 
 had walked among it all alone, and despised. 
 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 rebuked 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 flavor would come bade to the ap- 
 ples, and that the ashes would cease to grate be- 
 tween her teeth. 
 
 She loved him, and why should it not be so? 
 She could go before God's altar with him with- 
 out disgracing 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 pres- 
 ence. She was woman enough to understand 
 this, and she 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. Na- 
 ture had given him that art, as she does give it 
 to some, withholding it from many. But now 
 lie sat near her, dropping once and again half 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 71 
 
 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 hnt 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 wid- 
 owhood, to herself it was a, thing of scorn. 
 Thinking of it, she cast her weepers from her, 
 and walked about the room, scorning the hypoc- 
 risy of her dress. It needed that she should sub- 
 mit herself to this hypocrisy before the world ; 
 but he might know — for had she not told him f 
 — 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 under- 
 stood enough to perceive, that he need not re- 
 gard her widowhood. 
 
 And as to her money ! If that were the 
 stumbhng-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 at- 
 tempted to write to him. She did write to 
 him 11. completed note, offering herself and all 
 that was hers for his acceptance. In doing so, 
 she strove hard to be honest, and yet not over- 
 bold ; to be affectionate, and yet not unfemi- 
 nine. 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, " Iknow 
 I am doing what men and women say no wom- 
 an should 4o. Xou 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 in- 
 tend that every thing 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, al- 
 together 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 oth- 
 er. 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 burned 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 her- 
 self to her bed, during which her cruelly-used 
 maiden was waiting for her half asleep in the 
 chamber above ; and 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 sub- 
 ject 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 So- 
 phie knew the secret. She had no cause to 
 tremble because Sophie might be offended. The 
 woman had seen her in some of her saddest mo- 
 ments, and could indeed tell of indignities which 
 would have killed some women. But those 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 
 absolutely to dismiss her friend from her house. 
 Nevertheless, 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 So- 
 phie'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 re- 
 solved she took herself at last to her room, and 
 dismissed her drowsy Phebe 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 unsatis- 
 factory 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 es- 
 pecial 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 fro4n 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 re- 
 spect 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 calltd her 
 his child. With Fanny she had formed a friend- 
 ship which was to endure forever, let destiny 
 separate them how it might. Dear Fanny! She 
 had had a wonderful interview respecting Fanny 
 
72 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 on this very day, and was at this moment dis- 
 quieting 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 knowl- 
 edge and in intellect she was Fanny's superior, 
 „ though Fanny Clavering was no fool ; but Flor- 
 ence, when she came thither, had lacked some- 
 thing 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 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 ignoi-ant, or specially vulgar ; 
 but the house in Stratton was not like Claver- 
 ing Rectory in the little ways of living, and this 
 Florence Burton had been clever enough to un- 
 derstand. 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 won- 
 derful intei-view which has been mentioned. 
 Florence, during her sojourn at Clavering, had 
 become intimate with Mr. Saul, as well as with 
 Fanny. She had given herself for the time 
 heartily to the schools, and matters had so far 
 progressed witli 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 Fanny 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." 
 
 " I wish you were staying. 1 wish you were 
 going to remain with ns. Having you here is 
 very pleasant, and you do more good here, per- 
 haps, than you will elsewhere." 
 
 "I will not allow that. Tou forget that I 
 have a father and mother." 
 
 "Yes; and you will have a hu.sband soon." 
 
 "No, "not soon; someday, 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 mat- 
 ter, 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 can not 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 untruth." 
 
 " Flatter you ! how could I flatter you ?" 
 
 "By telling me — but I must ask you my 
 question first. You and Fanny Clavering are 
 dear friends now. You tell each other every 
 thing." 
 
 " I do not know," said Florence, doubting as 
 to what she might best say, but guessing some- 
 thing of that which was coming. 
 
 " She will have told you, perhaps, that I ask- 
 ed her to be my wife. Did she ever tell you 
 that ?" Florence looked into his face for a few 
 moments without answering him, not knowing 
 how to answer such a question. " 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 be 
 with you so many hours, and not tell you that 
 of which she could hardly fail to have the re- 
 membrance often present 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 love ?" 
 
 " How am I to answer you ?" 
 
 " With the truth. Only with the truth.'' 
 
 "I should say that she thinks that you have 
 forgotten it." 
 
 "Forgotten it! No, MissBurtqp; she can 
 not 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 togeth- 
 er. There are things which men never forget." 
 Then he paused for an answer. 
 
 Florence was by nature steady and self-col- 
 lected, 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 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, 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 73 
 
 too, Fanny had declared more than once to 
 Florence her conviction that Mr. Saul's passion 
 had been a momentary insanity which had alto- 
 gether passed away ; and in these declarations 
 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 contin- 
 ued, " that I have no chance of success ? I ask 
 the question, because if I felt certain that this 
 was so — quite certain, I should be wrong to re- 
 main here. It has been my first and only par- 
 ish, and I could not leave it without bitter sor- 
 row. But if I were to remain here hopelessly, 
 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 wliy not ask herself? Who can tell 
 you so truly as she can do ?" 
 
 "You would not advise me to do that if yon 
 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 au- 
 tumn I shall probably have left Clavering. If 
 so, our farewells will be for very long, but I shall 
 always remember our pleasant intercourse hei-e." 
 Then he went on toward 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-mind- 
 ed gentleman than Mr. Saul. 
 
 As she sat alone in her bedroom, five or six 
 hours after this interview, she felt some regret 
 that she should leave Clavering without a word 
 to Fanny on the subject. Mr. Saul had exact- 
 ed 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 confidence 
 to speak, and it might even be that her speaking 
 on the matter would do more harm than good. 
 Her sympathies wore doubtless witli Mr. Saul, 
 but she could not therefore say that she thought 
 Fanny ought to accept his love. It would be 
 best to say nothing of the matter, and to allow 
 Mr. Saul to fight his own battle. 
 
 Then she turned to her own matters, and 
 there she found .that every thing was pleasant. 
 How good the world had been to her to give 
 lier such a lover as Harry Clavering ! She 
 owned with all her heart the excellence of be- 
 ing in love, when a girl might be allowed 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 Hari-y Clavering ? Even Julia Brabazon 
 — a creature so base that she had sold herself to 
 such a thing as Lord Ongar for money and a ti- 
 tle, but so grand in her gait and ways, so Flor- 
 ence 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 Brabazon 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 suc- 
 cess, her joy, her great triumph ! It was sure- 
 ly 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 goodness? Then 
 she took out his last letter, that satisfactory let- 
 ter, that letter that had been declared to be per- 
 fect, 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 her- 
 self for her bed ; and honestly, out of her full 
 heart, thanked him for his 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 XVn. 
 
 LET HER KNOW THAT YOD'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 refer- 
 ence to Count Pateroff. He had not yet suc- 
 ceeded 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 Har- 
 ry's calling in Mount Street, the servant had 
 asked him to go up and see madame ; but he 
 
74 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 had declined to so, pleading that he was hur- 
 ried. He was, however, driven to resolve that 
 he must go direct to Sophie, as otherwise he 
 could find no means of doing as he had prom- 
 ised. She probably might put him on the scent 
 of her brother. 
 
 But there had been another reason why Har- 
 ry had not gone to Bolton Street, though he 
 had not acknowledged it to himself. He did 
 not dare to trust himself with Lady Ongar. He 
 feared that he would be led on to betray him- 
 self 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 tempt- 
 ation 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 JU. He 
 could have been true to Julia Brabazon when 
 she was well-nigh penniless. It was not for 
 her money that he had regarded 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 treacheiy ; 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 thi'own herself before him? Or had. he 
 been wrong because he had ventured to think 
 that he loved another when Julia had desert- 
 ed 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 ar- 
 dor of a discreet lover. 
 
 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 engagement, and the danger would 
 be over, though much, perhaps, of the misery 
 might remain. Let him write to her and men- 
 tion the fact, bringing it up as some little im- 
 material accident, and she would understand 
 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, look- 
 ing for the count, and regarding himself as a 
 man specially marked out for sorrow by the 
 cruel hand of misfortune. Lady Ongar, in the 
 'mean time, was expecting him, and was waxing 
 angry and becoming bitter toward him because 
 he came not. 
 
 Sir Hugh Clavering was 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 gen- 
 man, 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 inde- 
 pendence. 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 
 betting he was very careful, never playing high, 
 never risking much, but hoping to turn some- 
 thing 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 be- 
 longed 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 diflerence 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 it 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 Berke- 
 ley Square. No elder brother is bound to find 
 breakfast and bed for a younger brother in Lon- 
 don. And yet from his boyhood upward Archie 
 had made good his footing in Berkeley Square. 
 In the matter of the breakfast. Sir Hugh had in- 
 deed 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 Cap- 
 tain Clavering was now intent could be brought 
 'I 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 75 
 
 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 call- 
 ed 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 strik- 
 ing. 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 Claver- 
 ing than in London. But Sir Hugh was alto- 
 gether 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 Archie ; but 
 he did not want to be troubled with any renew- 
 al of his responsibility respecting her, if, as was 
 more probable, she should reject him. The 
 world still looked askance at Lady Ongar, and 
 Hugh did not wish to take up the armor of a 
 paladin in her favor. 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 Her- 
 my 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 
 absurdity are beyond belief. If you can't see 
 the peculiarities of Julia's position, I'm not go- 
 ing to point them out to you." 
 
 " She is peculiar, of course, having so much 
 money, and that place near Guilford 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 sup- 
 port her, is every thing 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 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." 
 
 " He's engaged to that girl we saw down at 
 Clavering." 
 
 " 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 any thing 
 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 bet- 
 ter 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 Claver- 
 ing 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 Clavering." 
 
 Here was a prospect for Julia Brabazon — to 
 be led to the same altar, at which she had mar- 
 ried Lord Ongar, by Archie Clavering, twelve 
 months after her first husband's death, and lit- 
 tle more than two years after her first wedding ! 
 The peculiarity of the position did not quite 
 make itself apparent either to Hugh or to Archie ; 
 but there was one point which did suggest itself 
 to the younger brother at that moment. 
 
 "I don't suppose there was any thing 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 inexpli- 
 cable manner he put himself into the scales and 
 weighed himself, and discovered his own weight 
 with fair accuracy. And he put her in 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 can 
 not 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 weigh- 
 ed himself, could hardly bring himself to believe 
 that Lady Ongar would be fool enough to mar- 
 ry hitfi"! 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 
 
76 
 
 THE CLAVERESrOS. 
 
 at all! Archie Clavering, for one, could not 
 bring himself to believe it. 
 
 But yet Hermy, her sister, thought it possi- 
 ble; and though Hermy was, as Archie had 
 found out by his invisible scales, lighter than 
 Julia, still she must know something of her sis- 
 ter'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 
 Iiimself 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 confiden- 
 tially. 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 a 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 race-courses, or in 
 the neighborhood of Market Harborough — Cap- 
 tain Boodle knew a thing or two, and Captain 
 Boodle was his fast friend. He would go to 
 Boodle and arrange the campaign with him. 
 Boodle had none of that hectoring, domineering 
 way which Hugh never quite threw off in his 
 intercourse with his brother. And Archie, as 
 he went along, resolved that when Lady On- 
 gar's money was his, and when he had a count- 
 ess for his wife, he would give his elder brother 
 a cold shoulder. 
 
 Boodle was playing pool at the Rag, and Ar- 
 chie joined him ; but pool is a game which hard- 
 ly admits of confidential intercourse as to pro- 
 posed wives, and Archie was obliged to remain 
 quiet on that subject all the afternoon. He cun- 
 ningly, however, lost a little money to Boodle, 
 for Boodle liked to win, and engaged himself to 
 dine at the same table with his 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 vi- 
 ands. Boodle had no shame in not having this 
 or that because 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 togeth- 
 er 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 gain- 
 ed, 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 counselor. 
 
 " Of course people talk, you know." 
 
 " Talk, yes ; they're talking a doosed sight, I 
 should say. There's no mistake about the mon- 
 ey, I suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, none," said Archie, shaking his head 
 
 vigorously. " Hugh managed all that for her, 
 so I know it." 
 
 " She don't lose any of it because she enters 
 herself 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? Oh laws, 
 no. She hadn't a rap, you know, and knew 
 how to spend money as well as any girl in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 "It's all to begin then, Clawy; all the up- 
 hill work to be done ?" 
 
 ' ' Well, yes ; I don't know about up-hill. Doo- 
 dles. What do you mean by up-hill ?" 
 
 "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 any thing about it, except 
 thai I suppose Ongar wouldn't have taken her 
 if she hadn'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, in the way of looks. No doubt 
 she nins straight, and that's a great thing. 
 She won't go the wrong side of the post. " 
 
 "As for running straight, let me alone for 
 that." 
 
 " Well, now, Clawy, I'll tell yon 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 re- 
 peated these manly words with a firm voice, 
 put out his hands as though he were handling 
 the horse's rein. "Their mouths are never so 
 fine then, and they 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 bet- 
 ter 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, Clawy, when she comes to her fences, 
 give her her head ; but steady her firat, and 
 make her know that you're there. Damme ; 
 whatever 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, Clawy; ride her with spurs. Al- 
 ways 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 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 77 
 
 twisted himself 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. Doo- 
 dles," 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 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 familiar- 
 ly called, had again ascended to the billiard- 
 room, and was hard at work. "Let her know 
 that I'm there," repeated Archie, mentally. 
 Every thing was contained in that precept. 
 And he, with his hands before 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 
 motion 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 head, but 
 steady her." And Archie, as the words passed 
 across his memory and were almost pronounced, 
 seemed to be flying successfully over some pro- 
 digious 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 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 you're 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 offense for the wis- 
 dom of the words that had been spoken. 
 
 Then he walked home by himself, repeating 
 again and again the invaluable teachings of his 
 friend. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 CAPTAIN CLAVERING MAKES HIS FIKST AT- 
 TEMPT. 
 
 DcEiNG 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 Clavering 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 let- 
 ter containing an offer, which according to Ar- 
 chie'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 wishing to see his 
 near and dear connection. Lady Ongar. Soon 
 after two he sallied out, and he also went to a 
 hair-dresser's. He was aware that in doing so 
 he was hardly obeying his friend to the letter, 
 as this sort of operation wpuld come rather un- 
 der 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 could 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, in- 
 stead 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 «. 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; during which little tour he had made 
 up his mind that it could hardly become his 
 duty to teach her that great lesson on this occa- 
 sion. 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 previous 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 
 refiect that that would hardly be practicable. 
 The mare must get a gallop before she would 
 
78 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 be in a condition to be brought out. So Archie 
 knocked at the door, intending 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 en- 
 
 expected 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 pos- 
 
 Gaptala Clavering makes hia first Attempt 
 
 tered the room with a smile on her face and with 
 an outstretched hand. Between the man-serv- 
 ant 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 On- 
 gar, as she came down from her chamber above. 
 
 sible the ugliness of her cap, and shook out the 
 folds of her dress. A countess, a widow, a wom- 
 an of the world who had seen enough to make 
 her composed under all circumstances, one would 
 say — a trained mare as Doodles had called her 
 — she stood before her glass doubting and trem- 
 bling like a girl, when she heard that Harry 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 79 
 
 Clarering was waiting for her below. We may- 
 surmise tliat 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 re- 
 ceive him. He had staid 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 friend- 
 ship, if there was ever to be any thing more than 
 friendship between them. But 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 coyness- 
 es 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 presence of — Captain Archie Clavering. 
 
 The captain was sharp-sighted enough to ob- 
 serve 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 les- 
 sons had inspired him. The outstretched 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 wel- 
 come 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 liv- 
 ing 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. 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 familiar- 
 ity. 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 presented to her, she just touched it with 
 her own. 
 
 "There's nothing I hate so much as stuff 
 and nonsense," said Archie. To this remark she 
 simply bowed, remaining awfully quiet. Captain 
 Clavering felt that her silence was in truth awful. 
 She bad always 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 stiftj and impudent too," 
 
 he told Doodles afterward — 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 always speaks of you as 
 though there had never been any tiling wrong." 
 This assurance, we may say, must have been 
 flattering to the lady whom he was about to 
 court. 
 
 "Hermy was always good to me, "said Lady 
 Ongar, smiling. 
 
 "By George, she always does. If there's 
 any thing 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 do- 
 ing ; of course you know that." 
 
 " I never thought that any thing was your 
 doing, Captain Clavering." 
 
 "I think Hugh had been losing money, I do 
 indeed. He was like a bear with a sore head 
 just at that time. There was no living in the 
 house with him. I dare say Hermy may have 
 told you all about that." 
 
 "Hermione is not by nature so communica- 
 tive 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 quarreling, 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 quarreled with me, that I am aware. In- 
 deed, since my marriage there have been no 
 means of quarreling between us. But I think 
 it quite as well that he and I should not come 
 together." 
 
 " But he particularly wants you to go to Cla- 
 vering." 
 
 "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. messenger he 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 j'ou should be 
 here in London, and that one shouldn't see any 
 thing of you or know any thing about you. Tell 
 me now, is there any thing I can do for you ? 
 
THE CliAVERINGS. 
 
 Do you want any body to settle any thing for 
 you in the city?" 
 
 "I think not, Captain Clayering; thank you 
 very much." 
 
 "Because I should be so happy; I should in- 
 deed. There's nothing I should like so much 
 as to make myself useful in some way. Isn't 
 there any thing now ? There must be so much 
 to be looked after — about money and all that." 
 
 "JVIy lawyer does all that, Captain Clavering." 
 
 "Those fellows 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 mat- 
 ter that would suit your tastes." 
 
 " Can't you indeed, now ?" Then again there 
 was a silence, and Captain Clavering was be- 
 ginning to think that he must go. He was 
 willing to work hard at talking or any thing 
 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 
 obedience to his friend's precepts. He began 
 to feel that he had commenced wrongly. He 
 should have made 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 oc- 
 casion. He had just made up his mind to this, 
 and was doubting how he might best get him- 
 self out of his chair with the purpose of going, 
 when sudden relief came in the shape of an- 
 other 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 courtesied to him. Captain Cla- 
 vering holding his hat in both his hands bowed 
 to the little woman. 
 
 " My sister's brother-in-law. Captain Claver- 
 ing," 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 gentleman's language. 
 
 "My little nephew is ill, and my sister does 
 not think it wise to bring him to London." 
 
 "Ah! that is a pity. And Sir Go? Sir Go 
 is in London ?" 
 
 "Yes," said the 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 pave. The fields are damp, and I love 
 not rheumatism at all." Then the little wom- 
 an 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 3'ou are not in at 
 present. That is because you are still idle. 
 You have not settled yourself!" At this refer- 
 ence to the possibility of Lady Ongar settling 
 herself. Captain Clavering 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 herself. 
 " 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 
 countess. 
 
 "Ah ! my dear, it is no nonsense. I am al- 
 ways telling her. Captain Clavering, that she 
 must go through this black, troublesome time 
 as quick as she can ; and then nobody will en- 
 joy the town so much as de rich and beautiful 
 Lady Ongar. Is it not so, Captain Clavering?" 
 
 Archie thought that the time had now come 
 for him to say something pretty, so that his love 
 might 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 
 any body so much admired 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 Cla- 
 vering to be a little less personal." 
 
 "There is noting I hate so much as your 
 meesses," continued Madame Gordeloup, " not- 
 ing! 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 mucli and so grand ; she never can be 
 greater and grander. So when she is a mam- 
 ma, 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 Ar- 
 chie's face. 
 
 Ciiptain Clavering, who was sitting with his 
 hat in his two hands between his knees, stared 
 at the little foreigner. He had heard before of 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 81 
 
 women poisoning tlieir husbands, but never had 
 heard a woman advocate the system as expe- 
 dient. Nor had he often heard a woman ad- 
 vocate any system with the vehemence which 
 Miidame Gordelonp now displayed on this mat- 
 tev, and with an allusion which was so very point- 
 ed 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 de 
 fields, and pick de daisies, and send them up to 
 mo 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 lu- 
 natic. "When she spoke of the pot and the 
 gigot, he vainly endeavored to follow her ; and 
 now that she had got among the daisies, he was 
 more at a loss than ever. Fruit, vegetables, and 
 cnt flowers came up, he knew, to London regu- 
 larly from Clavering, when the family was in 
 town ; but no daisies. In France it must, he 
 supposed, be different. He was aware, how- 
 ever, of his ignorance, and said nothing. 
 
 "No one ever did try to shut you up, So- 
 phie!" 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Don't say that," said the captain, almost 
 passionately; " don't say that." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! but I do say it. Why should a 
 woman who has got every thing 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, thi'ee, 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 pro- 
 nounced, 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 at- 
 tached — as I am to my Julie" — here she got 
 F 
 
 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 be- 
 ing left at home at Clavering Park. It was 
 most unfortunate. How could he make it un- 
 derstood that if he were married he would not 
 think of shutting his wife up at Ongar Park? 
 " Lady Clavering, you know, does come to Lon- 
 don 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 ray wife with me 
 every where, " said Captain Clavering. 
 
 " Bah-ah-ahl" 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 mutter- 
 ed some words with the intention of showing 
 his purpose of departure. 
 
 "Good -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 
 remember 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 ev- 
 ery lady he see." Archie would not trust him- 
 self 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 am not in danger at 
 all." 
 
 "Of me? Captain Clavering ! Sophie, you 
 get your head full of the strangest nonsense." 
 
 " Ah ! very well. You see. What will you 
 give me if I am right? Will you het? Why 
 had he got on his new gloves, and had his head 
 all smelling with stuff from de hair-dresser? 
 Does he come always perfumed 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 On- 
 gere 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 necessary." 
 
82 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 "Do I, my dear? Very well. There are 
 three already. There is Edouavd, and there is 
 this Clavering 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 Cla- 
 vering 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.' " 
 * "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 comes here to-day. He is a 
 fool." 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 "He did not learn his lesson without whip- 
 ping." 
 
 "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 to- 
 gether. Lady Ongar, as she submitted, de- 
 spised herself for her submission ; but what was 
 she to do ? It is sometimes very difficult to es- 
 cape 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 off, 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 offended. 
 
 " 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 ; then he laid his own ball 
 close under the cushion, picked up a shilling 
 and put it into his waistcoat pocket, holding a 
 lighted cigar in his mouth the while, and then 
 he came back to his friend. "Well, Clavvy, 
 how has it been f " 
 
 "Oh, nothing as yet, you know." 
 
 " Haven't you seen her?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, I've seen her, of course. I'm not the 
 
 fellow to let the grass grow under my feet. I've 
 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 therS? 
 That's the chat. Damme, did you let her know 
 you were there ?" 
 
 In answer to this Archie attempted to ex- 
 plain that he was not as yet quite sure that he 
 had been successful 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 lieu- 
 tenant, 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 Griggs 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 run- 
 ning at once, and trust to bottom to carry you 
 through." 
 
 " But there was a horrid little Frenchwoman 
 came in !" 
 
 "What; a servant?" 
 
 " No ; a friend. Such a creature ! Yon 
 should have heard her talk. A kind of confi- 
 dential 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?" 
 
 " r shouldn't wonder." 
 
 "It would come very expensive." 
 
 "A tenner now and then, you know. She 
 would do your business for yon. Give her a 
 brooch first, and then offer to lend her the mon- 
 ey. 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's place." 
 Then Captain Clavering stripped himself for the 
 battle. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BLtJE 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 morning not long after her in- 
 terview 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 letter had begun quite abruptly. "I think 
 it unkind of you that yon do not come to me. 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 83 
 
 I asked yon to see a certain person on my be- 
 half, 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 understand 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 Gor- 
 deloup's presence, and as regarded her dress he 
 did not find her to be quite prepared for morn- 
 ing visitors. But he might well be indifferent on 
 that matter, as the lady seemed to disregard the 
 circumstances 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 prettinesses 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 wrap- 
 per 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 vacation. 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 defi- 
 ciencies, and received our hero with an eager 
 pointed 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 herself down sud- 
 denly, 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 ; Travelers' 
 Club." 
 
 "But he is never there." 
 
 "He sends every day for his letters. You 
 want to see him. \Vhy?" 
 
 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 yon 
 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 any "where," 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. 
 
 "It shall go, almost immediately," said So- 
 phie, 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 broth- 
 er's address." Then he rose and went, leaving 
 the note behind him. 
 
 Then Madame Gordeloup, speaking to her- 
 self in French, called Harry Clavering a lout, 
 a fool, an awkward overgrown boy, and a pig. 
 She declared him to he 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, Pateroff came to him 
 there. Harry sat in the same room with other 
 men, and therefore went out to see his acquaint- 
 ance 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 difficulty of the task before him, and the 
 color was high in his face as he opened the door. 
 But when he had done so, he saw that the count 
 
84 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS 
 
 was not alone. A gentleman was with him, 
 whom he did not introduce to Harry, and be- 
 fore whom Harry could not say that which he 
 had to communicate 
 
 "Pardon me," said the count, "but we are 
 in railroad hurry. Nohody ever was in such a 
 haste as I and my friend. You are not engaged 
 to-morrow ? No, I see. You dine with me and 
 ■' my firiend at the Blue Posts. You know the 
 Blue Posts?" 
 
 Harry said he did not know the Bine 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 even- 
 ing, 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, 
 however, to dine with him on the following day, 
 and would call in Bolton Street as soon as pos- 
 sible 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 Pateroff. 
 With 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 a bull-dog neck, and whiskers cut very 
 short and trim — a horsy little man, whom the 
 count also introduced. "Captain Boodle ; says 
 he knows a cousin of yours, Mr. Clavering." 
 
 Th^n Colonel Schmoff bowed, never having 
 yet 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 Hugh, and how he had met Lady Cla- 
 vering, 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, prin- 
 tanier; 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, ar- 
 
 ranged 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 bul- 
 lock, 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 count, as the soup was handed round to 
 them. "Ah! Albert, my friend, that is good 
 soup ; very good soup. My complirnents to the 
 excellent Stubbs. Mr. Clavering, th\gxcellent 
 Stubbs is the cook. I am quite at h^me here, 
 and they da their best for me. You need not 
 fear you will have any of Schmoff's horse." 
 
 This was all very pleasant, and Harry Claver- 
 ing 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 aw ay 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, pre- 
 tending to give him the meeting that had been 
 asked for, but intending that it shonld 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 escapehim without havingbeen forced, 
 at any rate to hear what he had to say. In the 
 mean time 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 ? Not care about any particular part? 
 That is wrong. Every body should always learn 
 what is the best to eat of every thing, 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 
 salmon 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 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 85 
 
 in drawing, or out of drawing. Not to know 
 Stubbs's beefsteak from other beefsteaks, is to 
 say tliat every woman is the same thing to you. 
 Only, Stubbs will let you have his beefsteak 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 quile 
 along with you there. Why should a man be 
 ashamed of eating what's nice. Every body 
 does it." 
 
 " No, Captain Boodle ; not every body. 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 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 
 inflections of his voice, and produce from the 
 phrases be used the very 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 you 
 pity so much ?" Harry asked. 
 
 "The man who can not 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 can not digest !" As he repeated the 
 words he raised his head again, and looked round 
 at all their faces. 
 
 "Yes, yes — mein Gott, yes," said Schmbff, 
 and even he appeared as though he were almost 
 moved from the deep quietude of his inward in- 
 difference. 
 
 "Ah! talk of blessings ! What a blessing is 
 digestion!" 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, eat 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 ! TherS came a great in- 
 digestion upon the earth because the cooks were 
 bad, and they called it a deluge. Ah ! I thank 
 God there is to be no more deluges. 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 
 BO 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 
 happ}'. 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. Cla- 
 vering ? I never looked at it in that light ; but, 
 after all, digestion is every thing. What is a 
 horse worth, if he won't feed ?" 
 
 " I never thought much about it," said Har- 
 ry- 
 
 "That is very good," said the great preach- 
 er. "Not to think about it ever is the best 
 thing in the world. You will be made to think 
 about it if there be necessity. A friend of mine 
 told me he did not know whether he had a di- 
 gestion. My friend, I said, you are like the 
 husbandmen ; you do not know your own bless- 
 ings. A bit more steak, Mr. Clavering ; see, it 
 has come up hot, just to prove that you have the 
 
 There was a pause in the conversation for a 
 minute or two, during which Schmoff and Doo- 
 dles 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 interrupt 
 the silence, as, foolishly, he was allowing his 
 mind to carry itself away from the scene of en- 
 joyment 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 Ham- 
 boro' — " he began. 
 
 "Schmoff, "said the count, "if we allow you 
 to get behind the ramparts of that besieged city, 
 we shall have to eat that horse for the rest of 
 the evening. Captain Boodle, if yon will be- 
 lieve me, I eat that horse once for two hours. 
 Ah ! here is the port wine. Now, Mr. Claver- 
 ing, this is the wine for cheese — 'Si. 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 flavor 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 farther 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 can not. 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 morning. 
 But alas ! the ostrich has not been given to me. 
 As a common man I am pretty well, but I have 
 
86 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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 clear- 
 er to him through every ten minutes of the din- 
 ner that the count did not intend to give him 
 any moment for private conversation. He felt 
 that he was cheated 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 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 insure si- 
 lence. And the count, doubtless, had calcula- 
 ted that when Captain Boodle went, as he soon 
 would go, to his billiards, he, Harry Clavering, 
 would feel himself compelled to go also. No ! 
 It should not result in that way. HaiTy re- 
 solved that he would not go. He had his mis- 
 sion 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 favor. 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 some- 
 thing or anxious to do something in his own 
 line of business. 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 inter- 
 ests in life, he could only make out of it an in- 
 come which would have been considered a beg- 
 garly failure at any other profession. When he 
 netted a pound a day he considered himself to 
 have done veiy 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 ever heard the 
 name ! If a man mayn't take a liberty with 
 such a brute as that, when is he to take a liber- 
 ty?" So he had expressed himself plaintively, 
 endeavoring 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 regard- 
 ed by his 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 en- 
 counter at race meetings, to be day after day on 
 the rails running after platers and steeple-cha- 
 sers, to be conscious on all occasions of the ex- 
 pediency 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 satisfactory 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 smok- 
 ing 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 
 belonged. 
 
 "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 private?" 
 
 "What! now! here! this evening! after din- 
 ner ? Another time I will talk with yon by the 
 hour together." 
 
 " I fear I must trouble you now. I need not 
 remind you that I could not keep yon .yesterday 
 morning, you were so much hurried." 
 
 "And now I am having my little moment 
 of comfort! These special business conversa- 
 tions 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 gentleman 
 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 Lady 
 Ongar." 
 
 "Why are you a messenger from Lady On- 
 gar?" 
 
 "I have known her long, and she is connect- 
 ed with my family." 
 
 " Why does she not send her messages by Sir 
 Hugh — her brother-in-law ?" 
 
 "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 her 
 with kindness. I do not want to have messages 
 by any body. But go on. If you are a mes- 
 senger, give your message." 
 
 "Lady Ongar bids me tell you that she can 
 not see you." 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 87 
 
 " But she must see me. She shall see me !" 
 " I am to explain to you that she declines to 
 do so. Surely, Count Paterofif, you must un- 
 derstand — " 
 
 "Ah! bah! I understand every thing — in 
 such matters as these, better, perhaps, than you, 
 Mr. Clavering. You have given your message. 
 Now, as you are a messenger, will you give 
 mine?" 
 
 "That will depend altogether on its nature." 
 " Sir, I never send uncivil words to a wom- 
 an, 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 occurrences of which you know nothing 
 and need know nothing. 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 bet- 
 ter of it ; and therefore I shall do myself the 
 honor of presenting myself at her door again. 
 Good-night, Mr. Clavering ; au revoir ; we will 
 have another of Stubbs's little dinners before 
 long." As he spoke these last words the count's 
 voice was again changed, and thq old smile had 
 returned to his face. • 
 
 Harry shook hands with him and walked 
 away homeward, not without a feeling that the 
 count had got the better of him, even to the end. 
 He had, however, learned how the land lay, 
 and could explain to Lady Ongar that Count 
 PateroflF now knew her wishes and was determ- 
 ined to disregard them. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 In the mean time 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 recom- 
 mended that a message should be sent to the 
 father in London, bogging him to come down. 
 This message had been already dispatched 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 re- 
 m.ained 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. Clavering come over again, as Lady Cla- 
 vering was in a sad way ? 
 
 "You'll have your dinner first ?" said the i-ec- 
 tor. 
 
 "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. "Indeed, I knew that it was com- 
 ing." 
 
 "And she was always fearing it," said Fan- 
 ny. ^'Bnt I do not think he did. He never 
 seems to think that evil will come to him." 
 
 " He will feel this," said the rector. 
 
 "Peel 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 housekeeper 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 morn- 
 ing. But there had come upon her suddenly a 
 look of age, which nothing but such a 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 ; and that she was not in her bed- 
 room, 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 acro.ss again?" 
 
 "Did you not send for me? But it was 
 quite right, whether you sent orno. Of course 
 I should come when I heard it. It can not 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." Han- 
 nah was the old housekeeper, who had been in 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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. 
 Clavering. He is so very hard. Hannah shall 
 do it. Will you make her understand ? Mrs. 
 Clavering promised that she would do this, won- 
 dering, as she did so, at the wretched, frigid im- 
 mobility of the unfortunate woman before her 
 She knew Lady Clavering well — knew her to be 
 in many things weak, to be worldly, 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, Hermoine, 
 how can j'ou speak in such a way ? ' ' 
 
 " He scolded me before because my poor dar- 
 ling 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." 
 
 Any thing 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 tOk 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 com- 
 fort you ?" Mrs. Clavering, as she asked this, 
 knew well that no comfort 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 any thing. 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 can not 
 write. I feel as though if it were to bring him 
 back again I could not write of it. My 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 
 nearness of the houses. If you lived far away 
 you would not care for me. It is just the cus- 
 tom of the thing." There was something so 
 true in this that Mrs. Clavering could make no 
 
 answer to it. Then they turned to go back into 
 the sitting-room, and as they did so Lady Cla- 
 vering lingered behind for a moment ; but when 
 she was again with Mrs. Clavering her cheek 
 was still dry. 
 
 "He will be at the station at nine," said 
 Lady Clavering. " They must send the brough- 
 am 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." 
 
 " 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 re- 
 lieve us. You too, Hermione, should determine 
 also ; but not yet, my dear. At first it is best 
 to let sorrow have its way." 
 
 "But he will determine at once. You re- 
 member 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 expect 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 forgot- 
 ten Meeny altogether — even that she was ever 
 here." 
 
 " He cannot forget theboywhdwas his heir." 
 
 "Ah! that is where it is. He will say words 
 to me which would make you creej) if you could 
 hear them. Yes, my darling was his heir. Ar- 
 chie 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. Claver- 
 ing, 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 two ladies endeavored to comfort the 
 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 atter- 
 tion which on such occasions sorrow always 
 gives to the prudent counsels of friendship ; hut 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 89 
 
 she was thinking ever and always of her hus- 
 band, and watching the moment of his expected 
 return. In her heart she wished that he might 
 not come on that evening. At last, at half past 
 nine, she exerted herself to send away her visitor. 
 
 " He will be here soon, if be comes to-night," 
 Lady Clavering said, " and it will be better that 
 he should find me alone." 
 
 "Will it be better?" 
 
 " Yes, yes. Can not 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 neighbor 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 corridor, but her 
 heart 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 run- 
 ning down to meet him — of trusting to the sad- 
 ness of the moment to produce in him, if it were 
 but for a minute, something of tender solicitude; 
 but she remembered that the servants would be 
 there, and knew that he would not be soft be- 
 fore 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 al- 
 ready 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 know- 
 ing 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 and 
 every thing. 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, without 
 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 suffer. Although he bad 
 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 ? 
 
 "The Lord giveth," said the wife, "and the 
 Lord taketh away." Hearing thi,s. 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 al- 
 most trembling, and she repeated the words as 
 though they were a task which she had set her- 
 self. 
 
 "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 only had 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 affec- 
 
90 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 tion which it conveyed ; but she said nothing 
 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 
 
 ''.•» ..■!// ' 
 
 ing, but she neither spoke nor thought of that. 
 She rang the bell, and going out into the pas- 
 sage 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 
 
 ■'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away." 
 
 sickly. The Claverings, generally, have been so 
 strong. Look at myself, and Archie, and my 
 sisters. Well, it can not be helped. Thinking 
 of it will not bring him back again. You had 
 better tell some one to get me something to eat. 
 I came away, of course, without any dinner." 
 She herself had eaten nothing since the mom- 
 
 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. 
 
THE CLAVEKINGS. 
 
 91 
 
 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 lays in his little bed. I 
 thought you would come with me to see him." 
 He was more gentle with her than she had ex- 
 pected, 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 
 entered. 
 
 "I have had him here with me since you 
 went." 
 
 " He should not be here now," he said, shud- 
 dering. "I wish he had been moved before I 
 came. I will not have this room any more ; re- 
 member 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 removed a handker- 
 chief which lay upon the child's face. 
 
 ' ' Oh, Hugh ! oh, Hugh ! " she said, and, throw- 
 ing her arms around his neck, she wept violent- 
 ly 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 childless." 
 
 Still he endured her for a few moments lon- 
 ger. 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 non- 
 sense." 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 gen- 
 tle with me, it will comfort me. Do not leave 
 me here all alone, now my darling has been tak- 
 en 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 ?" 
 
 'f Any where you please, only that you should 
 stay with me." 
 
 "All this 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 return- 
 ed 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 house- 
 keeper 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 always." 
 
 Then she eat 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 return- 
 ed 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. 
 
 During the next three days, and till her hus- 
 band'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 re- 
 turn, 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 even- 
 ing. But yon had better tell him, so that he 
 need not be troubled to see me if he would rath- 
 er 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 oifer 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. 
 
 Mr. Clavering, when he got to the great 
 house, was immediately shown into the room in 
 which the baronet and his younger brother were 
 
92 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 sitting. They had, some time since, finished 
 dinner, but the decanters were still on the table 
 before thera. "Hngh," said the rector, walk- 
 ing 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 Ar- 
 chie looked out a clean glass, and passed the de- 
 canter ; but of this the rector took no direct no- 
 tice. 
 
 ' ' It has been a blow, my poor boy — a heavy 
 blow," said the rector. " None heavier could 
 have fallen. But our sorrows come from Heav- 
 en, 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 behavior. 
 He was as sincere as he knew how to be. 
 
 "Come, Archie, none of that," said his broth- 
 er. " 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 both- 
 er 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 offense to you, I would sooner be left to bear 
 it in my own way. If I were to talk about the 
 grass as Archie did just now, it would be hum- 
 bug, and I hate humbug. No offense to you. 
 Take some wine, uncle." 
 
 But the rector could not drink wine in that 
 presence, and therefore he escaped as soon as 
 he could. He spoke one word of intended com- 
 fort to Lady Clavering, and then returned to 
 the rectory. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 TES, WBONG ; CEKTAINLT WSONG. 
 
 Haket 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 evenirig he called on Lady Ongar. 
 She also had the'trreceived Mrs. Clavering's let- 
 tor, and knew what had occurred at the park. 
 Harry found her alone, having asked the sei-v- 
 ant 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 natu- 
 rally full of the tidings from Clavering. Count 
 Pateroffand 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 1 can 
 not feel for him." 
 
 " I do," said Harry. 
 
 "He is your cousin, and perhaps has 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 bet- 
 ter 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 Her'my 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 mar- 
 ry 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 any thing be- 
 tween." 
 
 " 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 sav, 
 Harry." 
 
 "I won't stand that from yon, Lady Ongar. 
 Wlrat 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 believe you to be simple enough to wish 
 any thing 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 imagination. And you sally forth and 
 do all manner of magnificent deeds. You help 
 distressed damsels — poor me, for instance ; and 
 yon 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 ; an.d you cut down enormous for- 
 ests, which means your coming miracles as an 
 engineer ; and then you fall gloriously in love. 
 When is that last to be, Harry?" 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 93 
 
 "I suppose, according to all precedent, that 
 must be done with tlie 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 beeu." 
 
 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 behooved him 
 now at once to tell her all his tale as to Stratton 
 and Florence Burton ; that if he could tell it 
 now, the pang would be over and the danger 
 gone. But he did not tell it. Instead of tell- 
 ing 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 in- 
 heritance, 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 
 offense 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 him- 
 self, but so told himself falsely — he had ever re- 
 membered 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 un- 
 fortunately—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," said she, "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-drag- 
 on professes 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 pres- 
 ence, I shall know how to punish such an out- 
 rage. 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 dinner. 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 Schmoff. He kept Colonel 
 Schmoff by him, so as to guard him from being 
 questioned." 
 
 " That is so like him. Every thing 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 he bade me tell you that there was some- 
 thing important for him to say and for you to 
 hear, which was no concern of mine, and which 
 required an interview." 
 
 "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. Therefore, 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 color 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 lover ; 
 to lower me in your eyes, so that you might be- 
 lieve 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 effect?" 
 
 " It is very 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 diffi- 
 culty. 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 himself to the count. 
 
 " If what you surmise of him be true, he must 
 be a very devil. He can not be a man — " 
 
 ' ' Man or devil, what matters which he be ? 
 Which is the worst, Ham-, and what is the dif- 
 
94 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 ference ? The Fausts of this day want no 
 Mephistopheles 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 Paterotf ? Are they not all of the same 
 nature ; hard as stone, desirous simply of in- 
 dulging their own appetites, utterly without 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 any thing yon 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. Tou would not have me see 
 him, would you ?' This she asked with a sud- 
 den energy, throwing 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 w/hose, then, will I be guided ? Nay, 
 Harry, since you put me to a promise, I will 
 make the promise. I will be 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 as- 
 sistance has been high — has informed me more 
 than once that her brother desires to do me so 
 much honor. 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 her- 
 self in my widowed state, than if I were to take 
 another husband. They are so kind and so af- 
 fectionate ; are they not ?" 
 
 At this moment tea was brought in, and Cla- 
 vering sat for a time silent with his cup in his 
 hand. She, the mean while, 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 can not understand," at last he said, 
 
 " why you should persist in your intimacy with 
 such a woman." 
 
 "You have not thought about it, Hany, or 
 you would understand it. It is, I think, very 
 easily understood." 
 
 " You know her to be treacherous, false, vul- 
 gar, covetous, unprincipled. You can not like 
 her. You say she is a dragon." 
 
 "A dragon to you, I said." 
 
 " You can not 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 offense ? Am I to forget that she did 
 me gi'eat service, 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 dispense 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, Hany, suppose that no one loved and 
 esteemed you ; that you had no home down at 
 Clavering with a 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, com- 
 ing 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 together." 
 
 " 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 affec- 
 tion, friendship, and that general unpronounced 
 esteem which creates the fellowship of men and 
 women in the world. I have a carriage and 
 horses, and am driven about with grand serv- 
 ants; 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 is false? It is not false that I have 
 deserved this. I have done that which has 
 mado me a fitting companion for such a one as 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 95 
 
 Sophie Gordeloup, though I have not done that 
 which perhaps these people think." » 
 
 He paused again before he spoke, still stand- 
 ing near her on the rug. "Lady Ongar — "he 
 said. 
 
 "Nay, Harry ; not Lady Ongar when we are 
 together 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. Flor- 
 ence 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 si- 
 lence, looking away from her at the fire, swear- 
 ing to himself that he would not become a vil- 
 lain, and yet wishing, almost wishing that he 
 had the courage to throw his honor overboard. 
 At last, half turning round toward 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 answer him, but looked 
 away from him as she sat, across the table into 
 vacancy. "Julia," he said again, "is there 
 any thing that will comfort you ?" But still 
 she did not answer him. 
 
 He understood it all as well as the reader 
 will understand it. He knew how it was with 
 her, and was aware that he was at this instant 
 fiilse 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 comforted ?" But he had not designed 
 to bring her into such difliculty 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 because 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 under- 
 stand that it will be better." As she spol,ve 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 you must remember all that 
 for my sake. But you must not lejve me or 
 desert me. Any thing 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 re- 
 member that that 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 
 suddenly 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 pas- 
 sion. "No, Harry, no; not so," she said, "it 
 must not be so." 
 
 " Yes, Julia, yes ; it shall be so ; ever so — 
 always 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 immediately retreated from his 
 position, and Lady Ongar turned upon her 
 friend, and glared upon her with angry eyes. 
 
 "Ah!" said the little Franco-Pole, with »n 
 expression of infinite delight on her detestable 
 visage, " ah ! my dears, is it not well that I thus 
 announce myself?" 
 
 " 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 any body." 
 
 " 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 moment?" 
 
 " My pleasure is to beg your pardon and to 
 
96 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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." 
 
 piavering had found himself to be somewhat 
 awkwardly situated while Madame Gordeloup 
 was thus explaining the causes of her having 
 come unannounced into the room ; as soon, 
 therefore, as he found it practicable, he took his 
 leave. " Julia," he said, " as Madame Gorde- 
 loup 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 nod- 
 ded 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 ; although this spiteful woman 
 has for the moment come between us, we under- 
 stand 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. Clavering," 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE DAT OP THE FUNEEAL. 
 
 Haket Claveeing-, when he 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 com- 
 fort 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 villainy without 
 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 contract by which he was 
 
 bound to her. No ; it was toward Lady Ongar 
 that his treachery must be exhibited — toward 
 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 deteimined to do so that 
 evening on his return home ; but when he reach- 
 ed 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 oc- 
 curred 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 position, 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 as he was leaving 
 her, clung to his memory and tormented 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 w'ith her sorrows, and that 
 he had injured her by the exhibition of his love. 
 And then that horrid Franco-Pole, whose pryinjr 
 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 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 97 
 
 that if Sophie had not interrupted him he would 
 have floundered on from one danger to another 
 till he would have committed himself more thor- 
 oughly even tfean Jie 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 embrace, 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 occa- 
 sion been different. His father's countenance 
 wore that well-known look of customary solem- 
 nity which is found to be necessary on such occa- 
 sions, and his mother was still thinking of the 
 sorrows of Lady Clavering, who had been at the 
 rectory for tlie 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 commission. I have seen her three or 
 four times altogether." 
 
 " Is she as handsome as she used to be ?" said 
 Fanny. 
 
 "I can not 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 par- 
 ticularly 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 different." 
 
 " I don't know any thing about that," said he. 
 He felt that he was stupid, and that he blun- 
 dered in every word, but he could not help him- 
 self. It was impossible that he should talk 
 about Lady Ongar with proper composure. Fan- 
 ny 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 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. 
 Clavering. "I do not understand it all, but 
 Hermione says that the rancor between Hugh 
 and her sister is stronger now than ever." 
 
 "And Hugh will not be the first to put ran- 
 cor out of his heart, " said the rector. 
 G 
 
 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 broth- 
 er angrily, hating his humbug, and hating it the 
 more because, in Archie's case, it was doubly 
 humbug. Archie was now heir to the property 
 and to the title. 
 
 After the funeral Harry went to see Lady 
 Clavering, and again had to endure a conver- 
 sation about Lady Ongar. Indeed, he had been 
 specially commissioned 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 Madame 
 Gordeloup had made her appearance. " Tell 
 her from me," Lady Ongar had said, "that 1 
 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 HaiTy was now to per- 
 form, and the result he was bound to commu- 
 nicate 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 ; hut if 
 he goes up to London again, I can not see why 
 you and your sister should not go away together. 
 She mentioned 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 can not be so." This Harry prom 
 ised 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." 
 
 " No chance at all, I should say." And Har- 
 ry, as he answered, could not repress a feeling 
 of most unreasonable jealousy. 
 
 " Ah! you have always thought little of Ar- 
 chie. Archie's position is changed now, Harry, 
 since my darling was taken from me. Of course 
 
98 
 
 THE CLAVEBINGS. 
 
 he will marry, and Hugh, I think, would like 
 him to marry Julia. It was he proposed it. He 
 never likes any thing unless he has proposed it 
 himself." 
 
 " It was he proposed the maniage with Lord 
 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 can not 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 
 present, " said Sir Hugh. But there was no of- 
 fense in the tone of his voice, or in his counte- 
 nance, 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 a while." 
 
 " And why shoidd 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 piss that her going or not going should be 
 a matter of solicitude to you?" Now, as Sir 
 Hugh asked these questions of his cousin, there 
 was much of offense in his tone — of intended of- 
 fense — and in his eye, and in all his bearing. 
 He had turned his back upon his wife, and was 
 looking full in Harry's face. "Lady Claver- 
 ing, 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 
 without 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 ob- 
 ject at present was simply that of carrying out 
 Lady Ongar's wish, and he had thought that per- 
 haps 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 be- 
 tween you three?" 
 
 " I have had no secret, Hugh," said his wife. 
 
 "Let me hear what he has to say," said Sir 
 Hugh. 
 
 " Lady Ongar thought that it jnight be well 
 that her sister should leave Clavering for a short 
 time, and has offered to go any where 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 mis- 
 conducted herself?" 
 
 "Oh, Hugh!" exclaimed Lady Clavering, 
 
 "Lady Ongar has never misconducted her- 
 self," said Harry. 
 
 "•Are you her champion?" asked Sir Hugh. 
 
 " As far as that, I am. She has never mis- 
 conducted 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 in- 
 timidated 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 
 Clavering. 
 
 " Hermione, hold your tongue," said the im- 
 perious 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 down stairs before me. If you will step 
 into the breakfast-room I will come to you." 
 
 HaiTy Clavering did as he was bid, and in a 
 few minutes was joined by his cousin in the 
 breakfast-room. 
 
 "No doubt you intended to insult me by 
 what you said up stairs." 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 yon had calumniated." 
 
 "Now look here, Harry, I will have no inter- 
 ference 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 
 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 pres- 
 ence." 
 
 "As to the latter you may do as you please. 
 And now touching my sister-in-law, I will sim- 
 ply recommend you to look after your own af- 
 fairs." 
 
 " I shall look after what affairs !■ please." 
 
 " Of Lady Ongar and her life since her mar- 
 riage I dare say you know as little as any body 
 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." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 99 
 
 "You said just now that you would brook no 
 interference in your affairs. Neither will I." 
 
 "I don't know that you have any attairs in 
 which any one can interfere. I have been given 
 to understand that you are engaged to marry 
 that young lady whom your mother brought here 
 one day to dinner. If that be so, I do not see 
 how you can reconcile it to yourself to become 
 the champion, as you called it, of Lady Ongar." 
 
 "I never said any thing 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 yon.'' 
 
 "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 sub- 
 mit, and I require you to apologize to me." 
 
 "I have no apology to make, and nothing to 
 retract." 
 
 " Then I shall tell your father of your gross 
 misconduct, and shall warn him that you have 
 made it necessary 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 
 ray own, I would tell the grooms to horsewhip 
 you off 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 
 fjiiard if any violence were contemplated. Bat 
 Hugh knew better than 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 fu- 
 neral ! Harry Clavering had quarreled thus 
 with the father within a few hours of the mo- 
 ment 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 
 terribly vicious were the people with whom he 
 was dealing ! And what could he think of himr 
 self — 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, 
 interfered witliout proper excuse, and fairly laid 
 himself open to anger fi'om his cousin ? And 
 he felt that he had been an ass, a fool, a con- 
 ceited ass, thinking that he could produce good, 
 
 when his interference could be eiBcacious only 
 for evil. Why could he not have held his 
 tongue when Sir Hugh came in, instead of mak- 
 ing 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 promised to himself 
 that he would write to her that same night and 
 tell her every thing as to Florence ; but the 
 night had passed, and the next day was nearly 
 gone, and no such letter had been written. 
 
 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 custom- 
 ary in the world." • 
 
 "I don't suppose that it will signify much," 
 said the rector. " To have your cousin's doors 
 barred against yon, 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 unreason- 
 able." 
 
 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 in- 
 tercourse 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 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 
 
100 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 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 lov- 
 er, and not at all like such a lover as her broth- 
 
 gether right. Things were by no means right. 
 He had written neither to Lady Ongar nor to 
 Florence, and the longer he put off the task the 
 more burdensome 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 
 
 * Harry,'* Bhe Baid, " there is nothing wrong between you and Florence ?'* 
 
 er had been. While Florence had been at Cla- 
 vering he had been most constant with his let- 
 ters, and Fanny had often heard Florence boast 
 of them as being perfect in their way. She did 
 not say any thing farther at the present mo- 
 ment, but she knew that things were not alto- 
 
 a letter from Stratton. Fanny was with him 
 when he received it, and observed that he put it 
 into his pocket without opening it. In his 
 pocket he carried it unopened half the day, till 
 he was ashamed of his own weakness. At last, 
 almost in despair with himself, he broke the seal 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 101 
 
 and forced himself to read it. There was noth- 
 ing in it that need have alarmed him. It con- 
 tained hardly a word that was intended for a 
 rebuke. 
 
 "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 engaged do not trou- 
 ble themselves with constant letter - writing. 
 Even Theodore, who according to Cecilia is per- 
 fect, 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 sus- 
 picion in her letter, no fear, no hint at jealousy. 
 And she should have no farther cause for jeal- 
 ousy ! One of the two must be sacrificed, and 
 it was most fitting that Julia should be the sacri- 
 fice. Julia should be sacrificed — Julia and him- 
 self! 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 regard- 
 ing him as her affianced lover. 
 
 "Was your letter from Florence this morn- 
 ing?" Fanny asked him. 
 
 "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 dare say she did. I don't remember." 
 
 "Well, Hariy, you need not be cross with 
 me because 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 pre- 
 tend that things were pleasant. 
 
 " If you are in trouble, Harry, I will not go on 
 teasing you." 
 
 " I am in trouble, " he said. 
 
 "And can not I help you?" 
 
 "No; you can not help me. No one can 
 help me. But do not ask any questions." 
 
 " Oh, Harry ! is it about money ?" 
 
 "No, no; it has nothing to do with mon- 
 ey." 
 
 "You have not really quarreled with Flor- 
 ence?" 
 
 "No; I have not quarreled with her at all. 
 But I will not answer more questions. And, 
 Fanny, do not speak of this to my father or 
 
 mother, It 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; but he is not fool enough for that. If 
 he wanted fighting done, he would do it by 
 deputy. But there is nothing 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 XXIII. 
 
 CUMBEELT LANE WITHODT THE MUD. 
 
 Fanni 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 prepared to say that this 
 conviction on her part was altogether an unal- 
 loyed 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 trouble- 
 some than Mr. Saul with his love in abeyance. 
 "It would be madness either in him or in me," 
 Fanny had said to herself very often ; "he has 
 not a shilling in the world." But she thought 
 no more in these days of the awkwardness of 
 his gait, or of his rusty clothes, or his abstracted 
 manner ; and for his doings as a clergyman her 
 admiration had become very great. Her mother 
 saw something of all this, and cautioned her ; 
 butTanny's demure manner deceived Mrs. Cla- 
 vering. " Oh, mamma, of course I know that 
 any thing 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. Claver- 
 ing had believed that it was all right. The 
 reader must not suppose that Fanny had been 
 a hypocrite. 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 re- 
 garded herself, she was quite sincere when she 
 said that any thing of the kind must be impos- 
 sible. 
 
 It will be remembered that Florence Barton 
 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, thoughtful man ; to whom such 
 a matter as this ,)vas a phase of life very serious, 
 causing infinite present trouble — nay, causing 
 tribulation, and, to the same extent, capable of 
 causing infinite joy. From day to day he went 
 
i02 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 about his work, seeing her amid his ministra- 
 tions almost 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 spoken of it, and Flor- 
 ence had certainly been true to her trust ; but, 
 notwithstanding all that, Fanny's conviction was 
 very strong. 
 
 Florence had counseled Mr. Saul to try 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, sometimes, whether 
 he would be right to do so without first speak- 
 ing to Fanny's father ; doubting, afterward, 
 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 already com- 
 mitted. But Mr. Saul would not admit to him- 
 self that it was a fault. I fancy that he con- 
 sidered 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 feel- 
 ing 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 moth- 
 er, though he had learned to love Mrs. Claver- 
 ing dearly — appreciating her kindness to all 
 those around her, her conduct to her husband, 
 her solicitude in the parish, all her genuine good- 
 ness, still he was averse to trust to her for any 
 part of his success. Though Mr. Saul was no 
 knight, though he had nothing knightly about 
 him, though he was a poor curate in very rusty 
 clothes and with manner strangely unfitted 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 
 his triumph would lose half its glory if it were 
 not achieved by his 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 vigor, and sometimes not without a 
 certain 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 ; oft- 
 en i-eturned with her in the sweet spring even- 
 ings along the lane that led back to the rectory 
 from Cnmborly 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 sub- 
 ject. 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 be- 
 fore 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, danger- 
 ous, delicious gleam of summer. The lane from 
 Cumberly Green was no longer muddy, and 
 Fanny could go backward and forward between 
 the parsonage and her distant school without 
 that wading for which feminine apparel is so 
 unsuited. One evening, just as she had fin- 
 ished 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 
 eyes and heard his voice, she feared that the 
 day was come. She was prepared with no new 
 answer, and could only give the answer that 
 she had given before. She had always told 
 herself that it was impossible ; 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 com- 
 pleted and at an end. But now the time was 
 come, and she almost wished that she had been 
 more definite in her own resolutions. 
 
 "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 Flor- 
 ence Burton. 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 be- 
 fore you see her again." 
 
 "How that may be I can not 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 ?" 
 
 " 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 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 103 
 
 while he recurred again to his parting from 
 Florence. " I asked her advice on that occa- 
 sion, 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 
 venture to hope for a more favorable answer if 
 I urged my suit to you again." 
 
 " She can not have said yes to that, Mr. Saul ; 
 she can not have done so !" 
 
 " She did not do so. She simply hade me 
 ask yourself. And she was right. On such a 
 matter there is no one to whom I can with pro- 
 priety address myself but to yourself. There- 
 fore I now ask you the question. May I ven- 
 ture to have any hope ?" 
 
 His voice was so solemn, and there was so 
 much of eager seriousness in his face, that Fan- 
 ny 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 noth- 
 ing?" But there was something in his demean- 
 or — something that was almost grand in its 
 gravity — which made it quite impossible that 
 she should speak to him in that tone. But he, 
 having asked his question, waited for an answer ; 
 and she was well aware that the longer she de- 
 layed 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 impossi- 
 ble." He did not say that it would be so with 
 himself, but it seemed to her that he intended 
 that she should so understand him. 
 
 "I do not see why you should leave Claver- 
 ing," she said. 
 
 "If you knew the nature of my regard for 
 yourself, you would see why it should be so. I 
 do not say that there ought to be any such ne- 
 cessity. 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 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 he your answer. I have made up my mind 
 as to that. I can not remain at Clavering, if I 
 am told that I may never hope that you will be- 
 come my wife." 
 
 "But,Mr. Saul— " 
 
 "Well; I am listening. But before you 
 speak, remember how all-important your words 
 will be to me." 
 
 " No ; they can not 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 be- 
 yond that. But you might help me even to that 
 farther 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. ' ' Peeple can not marry without 
 an income. Mr, Fielding 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 farther? Is not that 
 reason enough why such a thing should not be 
 even discussed?" 
 
 "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 re- 
 gard me with affection, that would he reason 
 why I should desist ; why I should abandon all 
 my hope here, and go ^way 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 yon 
 loved me, I think you would owe it 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 
 yourself 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 farther to him he- 
 fore she could thus escape. She did not wish 
 
104 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 to give him an assurance of her positive indif- 
 ference to him, and still less did she wish to tell 
 iiim that he might hope. It could not be pos- 
 sible that such an engagement should be ap- 
 proved by her father, nor could she bring her- 
 self to think that she could be quite contented 
 with a lover such as Mr. Saul. When he had 
 first proposed to her she had almost ridiculed his 
 proposition in her heart. Even now there was 
 something m it that was almost ridiculous; and 
 yet there was something in it also that 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 ban- 
 ish him forever from the place he loved so well. 
 
 " If you know your own heart well enough to 
 answer me, you. should do so," he went on to 
 say. "If you do not, say so, and I will be con- 
 tent 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 bet- 
 ter — not for me ; for it would prove me to be 
 utterly heartless. I am not heartless. I love 
 you dearly. I will not say that I can not live 
 without you ; but it is my one great hope as re- 
 gards 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 al- 
 together 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 can not 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 I 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 w^ll say farewell, and may 
 God bless you ; and remember this — that my 
 only earthly wish and ambition is in your 
 hands." Then he went on his way toward 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 her- 
 self that she loved Mr. Saul ; and yet, if she 
 surely did not love him — if such love were im- 
 possible — why had she not said as much to 
 him? We, however, may declare that that in- 
 clination to ridicule his passion, to think of him 
 as a man who had no right to love, was gone 
 forever. 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, 
 unhappy, and ill at ease. To have such a se- 
 cret 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 curate whose only 
 income was seventy pounds a year ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN SPY. 
 
 When the baby died at Clavering Park, some- 
 body hinted that Sir Hugh would certainly quar- 
 rel with his brother as soon as Archie should be- 
 come the father of a presumptive heir to the ti- 
 tle 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 him- 
 self had been robbed, would of itself be enough 
 to make him hate Archie. But, nevertheless, 
 at this present time, he continued to instigate 
 his brother in that matter of the proposed mar- 
 riage with Lady Ongar. Hugh, as well as oth- 
 ers, felt that Archie's prospects were now im- 
 proved, and that he could demand the hand of 
 a wealthy lady with more of seeming 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 re- 
 turned to London together, and Hugh spoke his 
 mind in the railway carnage. " It will be no 
 good for you to hang on about Bolton Street, 
 off and on, as though she were a girl of seven- 
 teen," he said. 
 
 "I'm quite up to that," said Archie. "I 
 must let her know I'm there, of course. I un- 
 derstand all that." 
 
 "Then why don't you do it? I thought you 
 meant to go to her 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." 
 
 " 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 CLAVERINGS. 
 
 105 
 
 " The sister of that count ?" 
 
 " Yes ; his sister. Such a woman for talking ! 
 She said ever so much about your keeping Her- 
 mione down in the country." 
 
 "The devil she did ! What business was that 
 of hers ? That is Julia's dofng." 
 
 "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 dis- 
 cussed the matter at great length with his con- 
 fidential friend, Captain Boodle, he had come to 
 the conclusion that his safest course would be 
 to bribe Madame Gordeloup, and creep into Ju- 
 lia's favor by that lady's aid. Now, on his re- 
 turn 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 some- 
 what palliated by the feeling that it was a bona 
 fide sporting transaction. He would be lessening 
 the odds against himself by a judicious hedging 
 of his bets. "You must stand to lose some- 
 thing always by the horse you mean to win," 
 Doodles had said to him, and Archie had rec- 
 ognized the propriety of the remark. He had, 
 therefore, with some difficulty, provided himself 
 with funds, and was prepared to set about his 
 hedging operations as soon as he could find Ma- 
 dame Gordeloup on his return to London. He 
 had already ascertained her address through 
 Doodles, and had ascertained by the unparal- 
 leled acnteness 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 
 chib. 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, "no 
 — by George, is she ?" 
 
 The same story had been told eveiy where in 
 London 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 reach- 
 ed Archie Clavering ; and now, on hearing it, 
 he felt that he was becoming a participator in 
 the deepest diplomatic secrets of Europe. 
 
 "By George," said he, " is she really ?" 
 
 And his respect for the little woman rose a 
 thousand 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 
 every thing. " 
 
 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 
 expense — of course on the understanding that 
 all such moneys were to be repaid when the 
 Russian spy's work had been brought to a suc- 
 cessful result. Russian spy ! There was in the 
 very sound of the words something so charming 
 that it almost made Archie in love with tfhe out- 
 lay. A female Russian spy too ! Sophie Gor- 
 deloup certainly retained but very few of the 
 charms of womanhood, nor had her presence as 
 a lady affected Archie with any special pleas- 
 ure ; but yet he felt infinitely 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 wickedness of 
 the thing was enhanced by an additional spice. 
 It is not given to every man to employ the serv- 
 ices 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 rep- 
 resent the matter in such a light to his brother 
 as to induce Hugh to prodfuce the funds for pur- 
 chasing the spy's services, the whole thing would 
 be complete with a completeness that has rarely 
 been equaled. But he doubted. Hugh was a 
 hard man — a hard, unimaginative man, and 
 might possibly altogether refuse to believe in the 
 Russian 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," said Archie, trying the way, as it were, 
 before he told his plan. 
 
 ' ' Of course she will help her brother's views. " 
 
 " I'm nof 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. What 
 do you suppose she is, now ?" This question 
 Archie asked in a whisper, bending his head for- 
 ward toward his brother, though there was no 
 one else in the carriage with them. 
 
 " What she is ? A thief of some kind prob- 
 ably. I've no doubt she's up to any roguery." 
 
 " She's a — Russian spy." 
 
 "Oh, I've heard of that for the last dozen 
 years. All the ugly old Frenchwomen in Lon- 
 don are Russian spies, according to what people 
 say ; but the Russians 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 farther about it. His brother was 
 stupid, pigheaded, obstinate, and quite unfitted 
 by nature for affairs of intrigue. It was, alas, 
 certain that his brother would provide no money 
 for such a purpose as that he now projected ; 
 
106 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 but, thinking of this, he found some consolation 
 in the reflection that Hugh would not be a par- 
 ticipator with him in his great secret. When 
 he should have bought the Russian spy, he and 
 Doodles would rejoice together in privacy with- 
 out 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 harbor 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 
 consultation 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 Claver- 
 ing is- desirous of consulting Madame Gorde- 
 loup on an affair of much importance." "Con- 
 sult me !" said Sophie to herself, when she got 
 the letter. "For what should he consult me? 
 It is that stupid man I saw with Julie. Ah! 
 well; nevermind. The stupid man shall come." 
 The commissioner, therefore, who had taken 
 the letter to Mount Street, returned to the club 
 with a note in which Madame Gordeloup ex- 
 pressed her willingness to undergo the proposed 
 interview. Archie felt that the letter — a letter 
 from a Russian spy addressed positively to him- 
 self — gave him already diplomatic rank, and he 
 kept it as a treasure in his breastcftit-pocket. 
 
 It then became necessary that he and his 
 friend should discuss the manner in which the 
 spy should be managed. Doodles had his mis- 
 givings that Archie would be awkward, and al- 
 most 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 go- 
 ing 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 remember that." 
 
 , ' ' Yes, I'll remember that. I suppose it would 
 be as good a way as any." 
 
 "It's the only way, unless you want her to 
 ring for the servant to kick you out of the house. 
 It's as well understood as A B C, among the 
 people who do these things. I should say take 
 jewelry instead of money if she were any thing 
 but a Russian 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 care- 
 ful." 
 
 " 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 grateful I would put down the four fivers 
 on the table, smoothing them with my hand 
 like that." Then Doodles acted the part, put- 
 ting a great deal of emphasis on the word grate- 
 ful as he went through the smoothing ceremo- 
 ny with two or three sheets of club note-paper. 
 ' ' That's your game, you may be sure. If you 
 put them into her hand she may feel herself 
 obliged 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." 
 
 "Again! I should think so. I suppose she 
 must have about a couple of hundred before the 
 endofnextmonthif 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 cfi;." 
 
 "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 exactly as the clock struck twelve. 
 He had an idea that these people were very punc- 
 tilious as to time. Who could say but that the 
 French embassador 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 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 107 
 
 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 al- 
 ways 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 conven- 
 ient liiding-place — now at once ? There, in one 
 corner, was the spot in which she would seat 
 herself upon the sofa. He saw plainly enough, 
 as with the eye of a Talleyrand, the marks there- 
 on 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 — feel- 
 ing, 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 ilashing backward and for- 
 ward across his brain, the door opened, and he 
 found himself in the presence of — the Knssian 
 
 spy- 
 He at once saw that the Bussian spy was very 
 dirty, and that she wore a night-cap, but he liked 
 her the better on that account. A female Rus- 
 sian 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 
 night-cap, and a dirty white wrapper, old cloth 
 slippers, and objectionable stockings were just 
 what they should be. 
 
 " Ah !" said the lady, " you are Captain Cla- 
 vering. Yes, I remember." 
 
 "I am Captain Clavering. I had the honor 
 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 had pre- 
 pared for the smoothing of the hank-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 instruc- 
 tions, he made an attempt to take possession of 
 the chair which he had himself placed ; bnt it 
 was an ineffectual attempt, for the spy was very 
 peremptory with him. " There, Captain Cla- 
 vering; 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 possibil- 
 ity of manipulating his notes except under the 
 
 raking fire of those terribly sharp eyes. " And 
 now," said Madame Gordeloup, "you can com- 
 mence 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 himself, and what 
 that she was to be required to do for him ? It be- 
 hooved him above all things not to be awkward ! 
 That he i-emembered. But how not to be awk- 
 ward ? " Well !" she said ; and there was some- 
 thing almost of crossness in her tone. Her time, 
 no doubt, was valuable. The French embassa- 
 dor 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." 
 
 " So I supposed. That is the reason why I 
 have come to you." 
 
 "Well— well— well?" 
 
 " Lady Ongar is a pei'son 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 
 poands^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 Nor- 
 way when he had been fishing there. 
 
 "Or the moon ?" continued Sophie, riot re- 
 garding 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 
 disheveled," and Sophie put her hands up to 
 her own dirty night-cap, "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 any thing 
 could make him talk, he would talk now. 
 
 ' ' Dear me ! you don't say so. I have al- 
 wavs admired her very much, Madame Gorde- 
 loup." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 The French embassador 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 
 
108 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 not. If you have a secret, and will trust it me, 
 that will be good ; if you will not trust me, that 
 will be good alsu." 
 
 "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. Iknowthat. Butsomepeople wantthem 
 to make iive. 1 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 ?" 
 
 "Tes; 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 at- 
 tempting the smoothing process, began to work 
 with his right fore finger under the glove on his 
 left hand. 
 
 "What have you got there?" said Madame 
 Gordeloup, looking at him with all her eyes. 
 
 Captain Clavering instantly discontinued the 
 work with his finger, and became terribly con- 
 fused. 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 neces- 
 sary, 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 grati- 
 tude ? 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.'' 
 
 "It is just a few bank-notes I put in here 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 yon will make it handy 
 to me." 
 
 ' ' Upon my word, I shall be most happy. 
 Nothing on earth would give me more pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 "Fifty pounds would give me more pleasure; 
 just twice as much pleasure." Archie had be- 
 gun 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." Where- 
 upon Madame Gordeloup, putting 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." 
 
 "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 
 Gordeloup, 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 any thing 
 more than a little compliment to begin with." 
 
 " Oh, ah ! just a little compliment for begin- 
 ning. 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 big- 
 ger ? Let me see. Julie has seven thousands 
 of pounds, what you call, per annum. And 
 have you seen that beautiful park ? Oh ! And 
 if you can make her to look at the moon with 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 109 
 
 her hair down — oh ! When will that compli- 
 ment grow bigger? Twenty pounds! I am 
 ashamed, you know." 
 
 " When will you see her, Madame Gorde- 
 loup?" 
 
 "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 I Seven thou- 
 sands of 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 
 diificulty for fifty pounds ! You have a handy 
 way with your glove. Will you come with fifty 
 pounds to-moiTow ?" Archie, with the drops of 
 perspiration standing on his brow, and now de- 
 sirous of getting out again into the street, prom- 
 ised that he would come again on the following 
 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 be- 
 ginning." Mercenary wretch ; hungry, greedy, 
 ill-conditioned woman — altogether of the harpy 
 breed ! As Archie Clavering looked into her 
 gray 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 
 excellent lady cost him? 
 
 As soon as he was gone the excellent lady 
 made an intolerable grimace, shaking herself 
 and shrugging her shoulders, and 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 was to make money by him. 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 awkwai'd, 
 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 difficulty 
 about the money. The Russian spy had known 
 her business too well to raise troublesome scru- 
 ples 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 fer his own purposes. He re- 
 
 membered the determined tone in which she had 
 demanded the fifty pounds merely as a, farther 
 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 sim- 
 ply 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 Russian spies did well the work 
 for which they were paid ; and no doubt, if paid 
 according to her own tariff', Madame Gordeloup 
 would work well for him ; but such a tariff" as 
 that was altogether beyond his means ! It would 
 he 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 farther 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, any where 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 veneration, but with the veneration was mixed 
 a strong feeling of fear. 
 
 But, in spite of all this, he did venture to tri- 
 umph a little when he met Doodles at the club. 
 He had employed the Russian spy, and had paid 
 her twenty pounils, and was enrolled in the corps 
 of diplomatic and mysterious personages, who 
 do their work by mysterious agencies. He did 
 not tell Doodles any thing about the glove, or 
 the way in which 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 WHAT WOtTLD MEN SAT OF TOU? 
 
 ' ' Haekt, tell the truth — tell me all the truth." 
 Harry Clavering was thus greeted when, in obe- 
 dience to the summons from Lady Ongar, he 
 went to her almost immediately on his return to 
 London. 
 
 It will be remembered that he had remained 
 at Clavering some days after the departure of 
 Hugh and Archie, lacking the courage to face 
 his misfortunes boldly. But though his delay 
 
110 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 had been cowardly, it had not been easy to him 
 to be a coward. He despised himself for not 
 having written with warm, full -expressed af- 
 fection to Florence, and with honest, clear truth 
 to Julia. Half his misery rose from this feeling 
 of self-abasement, and from the consciousness 
 that he was weak — piteously weak, exactly in 
 that in which he had often boasted to himself 
 that he was strong. But such inward boastings 
 are not altogether bad. They preserve men from 
 succumbing, and make at any rate some attempt 
 to realize themselves. The man who tells him- 
 self that he is brave, will struggle much before 
 he flies; but the man who never does so tell 
 ■ himself, will find flying easy unless his heart be 
 of nature very high. Now had come the mo- 
 ment either for flying, or not flying ; and Harry 
 swearing that he would stand his ground, reso- 
 lutely took his hat and gloves, and made his way 
 to Bolton Street with a sore heart. 
 
 But as he went he could not keep himself 
 from arguing the matter within his own breast. 
 He knew what was his duty. It was his duty 
 to stick to Florence, not only with his word and 
 his hand, but with his heart. It was his duty to 
 tell Lady Ongar that not only his word was at 
 Stratton, but his heart also, and to ask her par- 
 don for the wrong that he had done her by that 
 caress. For some ten minutes as he walked 
 through the streets his resolve was strong to do 
 this manifest duty; but, gradually, as he thought 
 of that caress, as he thought of the difiiculties of 
 the coming interview, as he thought of Julia's 
 high-toned beauty — perhaps something also of 
 her wealth and birth — and more strongly still as 
 he thought of her love for him, false, treacherous, 
 selfish arguments offered themselves to his mind 
 
 — arguments which he knew to be false and 
 selfish. Which of them did he love ? Could 
 it be right for him to give his hand without his 
 heart ? Could it really be good for Florence—^ 
 poor, injured Florence, that she should be taken 
 by a man who had ceased to regard her more 
 than all other women ? Were he to marry her 
 now, would not that deceit be worse than the 
 other deceit ? Or, rather, would not that be de- 
 ceitful, whereas the other course would simply 
 be unfortunate — unfortunate through circum- 
 stances for which he was blameless ? Damnable 
 arguments ! False, cowardly logic, by which all 
 male jilts seek to excuse their own treachery to 
 themselves and to others ! 
 
 Thus during the second ten minutes of his 
 walk, his line of conduct became less plain to 
 him, and as he entered Piccadilly he was racked 
 with doubts. But instead of settling them in 
 his mind, he unconsciously allowed himself to 
 dwell upon the words with which he would seek 
 to excuse his treachery to Florence. He thought 
 how he would tell her — not to her face with 
 spoken words, for that he could not do — but with 
 written skill, that he was unworthy of her good- 
 ness, that his love for her had fallen off' through 
 his own unworthinesa, and had returned to one 
 who was in all respects less perfect than she, but 
 who in old days, as she well knew, had been his 
 first love. Yes ; he would say all this, and Julia, 
 let her anger be what it might, should know that 
 he had said it. As he planned this, there came 
 to him a little comfort, for he thought there was 
 something grand in such a resolution. Yes; 
 he would do that, even though he should lose 
 Julia also. 
 
 Miserable clap-trap ! He knew in his heart 
 that all his logic was false, and his arguments 
 baseless. Cease to love Florence Burton ! He 
 had not ceased to love her, nor is the heart of 
 any man made so like a weather-cock that it 
 needs must turn itself hither and thither, as the 
 wind directs, and be altogether beyond the man's 
 control. For Harry, vrtth all his faults, and in 
 spite pf his present falseness, was a man. No 
 man ceases to love without a cause. No man 
 need cease to love without a cause. A man 
 may maintain his love, and nourish it, and keep 
 it warm by honest manly effort, as he may his 
 probity, his courage, or his honor. It was not 
 that he had ceased to love Florence ; but that 
 the glare of the candle had been too bright for 
 him, and he had scorched his wings. After all, 
 as to that embrace of which he had thought so 
 much, and the memory of which was so sweet 
 to him and so bitter, it had simply been an acci- 
 dent. Thus, writing in his mind that letter to 
 Florence which he knew, if he were an honest 
 man, he would never allow himself to write, he 
 reached Lady Ongar's door without having ar- 
 ranged for himself any special line of conduct. 
 
 We must return for a moment to the fact that 
 Hugh and Archie had returned to town before 
 Harry Clavering. How Archie had been en- 
 gaged on great doings, the reader, I hope, will 
 remember ; and he may as well be informed 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 here that the fifty pounds were duly taken to 
 Mount Street, and were extracted from him by 
 the spy without much difficulty. I do not know 
 that Archie in return obtained any immediate 
 aid or valuable information from Sophie Gorde- 
 loup ; but Sophie did obtain some information 
 from him which she found herself able to use 
 for her own purposes. As his position with ref- 
 erence to love and marriage was being discuss- 
 ed, and the position also of the divine Julia, 
 Sophie hinted her fear of another Clavering lov- 
 er. What did Archie think of his cousin Har- 
 ry? "Why, he's engaged to another girl," 
 said Archie, opening wide his eyes and his 
 mouth, and becoming very free with his infor- 
 mation. This was a matter to which Sophie 
 found it worth her while to attend, and she soon 
 learned from Archie all that Archie knew about 
 Florence Burton. And this was all that could 
 be known. No secret had been made in the 
 family of Harry's engagement. Archie told his 
 fair assistant that Miss Burton had been re- 
 ceived at Clavering Park openly as Harry's fu- 
 ture wife, and, "by Jove, you know, he can't 
 be coming it with Julia after that, you know." 
 Sophie made a little grimace, but did not say 
 much. She, remembering that she had caught 
 Lady Ongar in Harry's arms, thought that, "by 
 Jove," he might be coming it with Julia, even 
 after Miss Burton's reception at Clavering Park. 
 Then, too, she remembered some few words that 
 had passed between her and her dear Julia aft- 
 er Harry's departure on the evening of the em- 
 brace, and perceived that Julia was in igno- 
 rance of the very existence of Florence Burton, 
 even though Florence had been received at the 
 park. This was information worth having — in- 
 formation to be used I Her respect for Harry 
 rose immeasurably. She had not given him 
 credit for so much audacity, so much gallantry, 
 and so much skill. She had thought him to he 
 a pigheaded Clavering, like the rest of them. 
 He was not pigheaded ; he was a promising 
 young man ; she could have liked him, and per- 
 haps aided him — only that he had shown so 
 strong a determination to have nothing to do 
 with her. Therefore the information should be 
 used ; and it was used. 
 
 The reader will now understand what was 
 the truth which Lady Ongar demanded from 
 Harry Clavering. ' ' Harry, tell me the truth ; 
 tell me all the truth." She had come forward 
 to meet him in the middle of the room when 
 she spoke these words, and stood looking him 
 in the face, not having given him her hand. 
 
 "What truth ? ' ' said Harry. ' ' Have I ever 
 told you a lie?" But he knew well what was 
 the truth required of him. 
 
 "Lies can be acted as well as told. Harry, 
 tell me at once. Who is Florence Burton ; 
 who and what?" She knew it all, then, and 
 things had settled tiiemselves for him without 
 the necessity of any action on his part. It was 
 odd enough that she should not have learned it 
 before, but at any rate she knew it now. And 
 it was well that she should have been told ; only 
 
 how was he to excuse himself for that embrace ? 
 " At any rate, speak to me," she said, standing 
 quite erect, and looking as a Juno might have 
 looked. " You will acknowledge at least that 
 I have a right to ask the question. Who is 
 this Florence Burton ?" 
 
 "She is the daughter of Mr. Burton, of Strat- 
 ton." 
 
 ' ' And is that all that you can tell me ? Come, 
 Harry, be braver than that. I was not such a 
 coward once with you. Are you engaged to 
 marry her ?" 
 
 "Yes, Lady Ongar, I am." 
 
 "Then you have had your revenge on me, 
 and now we are quits." So saying, she stepped 
 back from the middle of the room, and sat her- 
 self down on her accustomed seat. He was left 
 there standing, and it seemed as though she in- 
 tended to take no farther notice of him. He 
 might go if he pleased, and there would be an 
 end of it all. The difficulty would be over, 
 and he might at once write to Florence in what 
 language he liked. It would simply be a little 
 episode in his life, and his escape would not 
 have been arduous. 
 
 But he could not go away from her in that 
 way. He could not bring himself to leave the 
 room without some farther word. She had 
 spoken of revenge. Was it not incumbent on 
 him to explain to her that there had been no 
 revenge ; that he had loved, and suffered, and 
 forgiven without one thought of anger ; and 
 that then he had unfortunately loved again? 
 Must he not find some words in which to tell 
 her that she had been the light, and he simply 
 the poor moth that had burned his wings ? 
 
 ' ' No, Lady Ongar, " said he, ' ' there has been 
 no revenge." 
 
 " We will call it justice, if yon please. At 
 any rate, I do not mean to complain." 
 
 " If you ever injured me — " he began. 
 
 " I did injure you," said she, sharply. 
 
 ' ' If you ever injured me, I forgave you freely." 
 
 "I did injure you — " As she spoke she 
 rose from her seat, showing how impossible to 
 her was that tranquillity which she had attempt- 
 ed to maintain. ' "I did injure you, but the in- 
 jury came to you early in life, and sat lightly 
 on you. Within a few months you had learned 
 to love this young lady at the place you went 
 to — the first young lady you saw ! I had not 
 done you much harm, Harry. But that which 
 you have done me can not be undone." 
 
 " Julia," he said, coming up to her. 
 
 " No, not Julia. When you were here be- 
 fore I asked you to call me so, hoping, longing, 
 believing — doing more, so much more than I 
 could have done, but that I thought my love 
 might now be of service to you. You do not 
 think that I had heard of this then ?" 
 
 " Oh no." 
 
 ' ' No. It is odd that I should not have known 
 it, as I now hear that she was at my sister's 
 house ; but all others have not been as silent as 
 you have been. We are quits, Harry ; that is 
 all that I have to say. We are quits now." 
 
112 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 "I have intended to be true to you — to you 
 and to her." 
 
 "Were you true when you acted as you did 
 the other night ?" He could not explain to her 
 how greatly he had been tempted. " Were you 
 true when you held me in your arms as that 
 woman came in ? Had you not made me think 
 that I might glory in loving you, and that I 
 might show her that I scorned her when she 
 thought to promise me her secrecy — her secre- 
 cy, as thoutih I were ashamed of what she had 
 seen. I was not ashamed — not then. Had all 
 the world known it, I should not have been 
 ashamed. 'I have loved hire long,' I should 
 have said, ' and him only. He is to be my hus- 
 band, and now at last I need not be ashamed.' " 
 So much she spoke, standing up, looking at him 
 with firm face, and uttering her syllables with a 
 quick, clear voice ; but at the last word there 
 came a quiver in her tone, and the strength of 
 her countenance quailed, and there was a tear 
 which made dim her eye, and she knew that she 
 could no longer stand before him. She en- 
 deavored to seat herself with composure, but the 
 attempt failed, and as she fell back upon the 
 sofa he just heard the sob which had cost her so 
 great and vain an effort to restrain. In an in- 
 stant he was kneeling at her feet, and grasping 
 at the hand with which she was hiding her face. 
 "Julia," he said, "look at me; let us, at any 
 rate, understand each other at last." 
 
 "No, Harry; there must be no more such 
 knowledge — no more such understanding. You 
 must go from me, and come here no more. Had 
 it not been for that other night I would still have 
 endeavored to regard you as a friend. But I 
 have no right to such friendship. I have sin- 
 ned and gone astray, and am a thing vile and 
 polluted. I sold myself as a beast is sold, and 
 men have treated me as I treated myself." 
 
 " Have I treated you so?" 
 
 " Yes, Harry ; you, you. How did you treat 
 me when you took me in your arms and kissed 
 me — knowing, knowing that I was not to be 
 your wife ? O God, I have sinned. I have 
 sinned, and I am punished." 
 
 "No, no," said he, "rising from his knees, 
 " it was not as you say." 
 
 "Then how was it, sir ? Is it thus that you 
 treat other women — ^jour friends, those to whom 
 you declare friendship ? What did you mean 
 me to think?" 
 
 " That I loved you." 
 
 "Yes, with a love that should complete my 
 disgrace — that should finish my degradation. 
 But I had not heard of this Florence Burton ; 
 and, Harry, that night I was so happy in my 
 bed. And in that next week when you were 
 down there for that sad ceremony, I was happy 
 here, happy and proud. Yes, Harry, I was so 
 proud when I thought that you still loved me — 
 loved me in spite of my past sin, that I almost 
 forgot that I was polluted. You have made 
 me remember it, and I shall not forget it again." 
 It would have been better for him had he gone 
 away at once. Now he was sitting in a chair 
 
 sobbing violently, and pressing away the tears 
 from his cheeks with his hands. How could he 
 make her understand that he had intended no in- 
 sult when he embraced her ? Was it not incum- 
 bent on him to tell her that the wrong he then did 
 was done to Florence Burton, and not to her ? 
 But his agony was too much for him at present, 
 and he could find no words in which to speak to 
 her. 
 
 ' ' I said to myself that you would come when 
 the funeral was over, and I wept for poor Hermy 
 as I thought thafmy lot was so much happier 
 than hers. But people have what they deserve, 
 and Hermy, who has done no such wrong as I 
 have done, is not crushed as I am crushed. It 
 was just, Harry, that the punishment should 
 come from you, but it has come very heavily." 
 
 " Julia, it was not meant to be so." 
 
 " Well, we will let that pass. I can not nn- 
 say, Harry, all that I have said — all that I did 
 not say, but which you must have thought and 
 known when you were here last. I can not bid 
 you believe that I do not— love you." 
 
 " Not more tenderly or truly than I love you." 
 
 " Nay, Harry, your love to me can be neither 
 true nor tender — nor will I permit it to be of- 
 fered to me. You do not think I would rob that 
 girl of what is hers. Mine for you may be both 
 tender and true; lint, alas, truth has come to 
 me when it can avail me no longer." 
 
 "Julia, if you will say that you love me, it 
 shall avail you." 
 
 "In saying that, yon are continuing to ill- 
 treat me. Listen to me now. I hardly know 
 when it began, for, at first, I did not expect that 
 you would forgive me, and let me be dear to you 
 as I used to be ; but as you sat here,- looking u]) 
 into my face in the old way, it ciime on me 
 gradually — the feeling that it might be so ; and 
 I told myself that if you would take me I might 
 be of service to yon, and I thought that 1 might 
 forgive myself at last for possessing this money 
 if I could throw it into your lap, so that yon 
 might thrive with it in the world ; and I said to 
 myself that it might be well to wait a while, till 
 I should see whether you really loved me ; but 
 then came that burst of passion, and though I 
 knew that you were wrong, I was proud to feel 
 that I was still so dear to you. It is all over. 
 We understand each other at last, and you may 
 go. There is nothing to be forgiven between 
 us." 
 
 He had now resolved that Florence must go 
 by the board. If Julia would still take him she 
 should be his wife, and he would face Florence 
 and all the Burtons, and his own family, and all 
 the world; in the matter of his treachery. What 
 would he care what the world might say ? His 
 treachery to Florence was a thing completed. 
 Now, at this moment, he felt himself to be so 
 devoted to Julia as to make him regard his en- 
 gagement to Florence as one which must, at 
 all hazards, be renounced. He thought of his 
 mother's sorrow, of his father's scorn — of the 
 dismay with which Fanny would hear concern- 
 ing him a tale which she would believe to be so 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS, 
 
 113 
 
 impossible; bethought of Theodore Burton, and 
 the deep, unquenchable anger of which that 
 brother was capable, and of Cecilia and her out- 
 raged kindness ; he thought of the infamy which 
 would be attached to him, and resolved that he 
 must bear it all. Even if his own heart did not 
 move him so to act, how could he hinder him- 
 self from giving comfort and happiness to this 
 woman who was before him? Injury, wrong, 
 and broken-hearted wretchedness he could not 
 prevent ; but, therefore, this part was as open to 
 him as the other. Men would say that he had 
 done this for Lady Ongar's money ; and the in- 
 dignation with which he was able to regard this 
 false accusation — for his mind declared such ac- 
 cusation to be damnably false — gave him some 
 comfort. People might say of him what they 
 pleased. He was about to do the best within 
 his power. Bad, alas, was the best, but it was 
 of no avail now to think of that. 
 
 "Julia," he said, "between us at least there 
 shall be nothing to be forgiven." 
 
 "There is nothing," said she. 
 
 ' ' And there shall be no broken love. I am 
 true to you now — as ever." 
 
 " And, what, then, of your truth to Miss Flor- 
 ence Burton?" 
 
 " It will not be for you to rebuke me with 
 that. We have, both of us, played our game 
 badly, but not for that reason need we both be 
 ruined and broken-hearted. In your folly you 
 thought that wealth was better than love; and 
 I, in my folly — I thought that one love blighted 
 might be mended by another. When I asked 
 Miss Burton to be my wife you were the wife 
 of another man. Now that you are free again 
 I can not marry Miss Burton." 
 
 ' ' You must marry her, Harry." 
 
 "There shall be no must in such a case. 
 You do not know her, and can not understand^ 
 how good, how perfect she is. She is too good 
 to take a hand without a heart." 
 
 "And what would men say of you?" 
 
 "I must bear what men say. I do not sup- 
 pose that I shall be all happy — not even with 
 your love. When things have once gone wrong 
 they can not be mended without showing the 
 patches. But yet men stay the hand of ruin for 
 a while, tinkering here and putting in a nail 
 there, stitching and cobbling ; and so things are 
 kept together. It must be so for you and me. 
 Give me your hand, Julia, for I have never de- 
 ceived you, and you need not fear that I shall 
 do so now. Give me your hand, and say that 
 you will be my wife." 
 
 "No, Harry; not your wife. I do not, as 
 you say, know that perfect girl, but I will not 
 rob one that is so good." 
 
 ' ' You are bound to me, Julia. You must do 
 as I bid you. You have told me that you love 
 me ; and I have told you — and I tell you now, 
 that I love none other as I love you — ^have nev- 
 er loved any other as I have loved you. Give 
 me your hand." Then, coming to her, he took 
 her hand, while she sat with her face averted 
 from him. " Tell me that you will be my wife." 
 H 
 
 But she would not say the words. She was less 
 seWsh than he, and was thinking — was trying 
 to think what might be best for them all, but, 
 above all, what might be best for him. ' ' Speak 
 to me," he said, "and acknowledge that you 
 wronged me when you thought that the expres- 
 sion of my love was an insult to you." 
 
 " It is easy to say speak. What shall I say?" 
 
 "Say that you will be mj wife." 
 
 " No, I will not say it." She rose again from 
 her chair, and took her hand away from him. 
 " I will not say it. Go now and think over all 
 that you have done ; and I also will think of it. 
 God help me. What evil comes, when evil has 
 been done ! But, Hariy, I understand you now, 
 and I at least will blame you no more. Go and 
 see Florence Burton ; and if, when you see her, 
 you find that you can love her, take her to your 
 heart, and bo true to her. You shall never hear 
 another reproach from me. Go now, go ; there 
 is nothing more to be said." 
 
 He paused a moment as though he were going 
 to speak, but he left the i-oom without another 
 word. As he went along the passage and turned 
 on the stairs he saw her standing at the door of 
 the room, looking at him, and it seemed that her 
 eyes were imploring him to be true to her in 
 spite of the words that she had spoken. " And 
 I will be true to her," he said to himself. " She 
 was the first that I ever loved, and I will be true 
 to her." 
 
 He went out, and for an hour or two wander- 
 ed about the town, hardly knowing whither his 
 steps were taking him. There had been a. tragic 
 seriousness in what had occurred to him this 
 evening, which seemed to cover him with care, 
 and make him feel that his youth was gone from 
 him. At any former period of his life his ears 
 would have tingled with pride to hear such a 
 woman as Lady Ongar speak of her love for him 
 in such terms as she had used ; but there was no 
 room now for pride in his bosom. Now at least 
 he thought nothing of her wealth or rank. He 
 thought of her as a woman between whom and 
 himself there existed so strong a passion as to 
 make it impossible that he should marry an- 
 other, even though his duty plainly required it. 
 The grace and graciousness of his life were over; 
 but love still remained to him, and of that he 
 must make the most. All others whom he re- 
 garded would revile him, and now^ he must live 
 for this woman alone. She had said that she 
 had injured him. Yes, indeed, she had injured 
 him ! She had robbed him of his high char- 
 acter, of his unclouded brow, of that self-pride 
 which had so often told him that he was living 
 a life without reproach among men. She had 
 brought him to a state in which misery must be 
 his bedfellow, and disgrace his companion ; but 
 still she loved him, and to that love he would 
 be true. 
 
 And as to Florence Burton — how was he to 
 settle matters with her ? That letter for which 
 he had been preparing the words as he went to 
 Bolton Street, before the necessity for it had be- 
 come irrevocable, did not now appear to him to 
 
114 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 be very easy. At any rate, he did not attempt 
 it on that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE MAN WHO DUSTED HIS BOOTS WITH HIS 
 HANDKEKCHIEF. 
 
 When Florence Burton had written three let- 
 ters to Harry without receiving a word in reply to 
 either of them, she began to be seriously unhap- 
 py. The last of these letters, received by him 
 after the scene described in the last chapter, he 
 had been afraid to read. It still remained un- 
 opened in his pocket. But Florence, though she 
 was unhappy, was not even yet jealous. Her 
 fears did not lie in that direction, nor had she 
 naturally any tendency to such uneasiness. He 
 was ill, she thought ; or if not ill in health, then 
 ill at ease. Some trouble afflicted him of \yhich 
 he could not bring himself to tell her the facts, 
 and as she thought of this she remembered her 
 own stubbornness on the subject of their mar- 
 riage, and blamed herself in that she was not 
 now with him to comfort him. If such com- 
 fort would avail him any thing now, she would 
 be stubborn no longer. When the third letter 
 brought no reply, she wrote to her sister-in-law, 
 Mrs. Burton, confessing her uneasiness, and beg- 
 ging for comfort. Surely Cecilia could not but 
 see him occasionally — or, at any rate, have the 
 power of seeing him. Or Theodore might do so 
 — as of course he would be at the ofSce. If any 
 thing ailed him would Cecilia tell her all the 
 truth ? But Cecilia, when she began to fear 
 that Something did ail him, did not find it very 
 easy to tell Florence all the truth. 
 
 But there was jealousy at Stratton, though 
 Florence was not jealous. Old Mrs. Burton 
 had become alarmed, and was ready to tear the 
 eyes out of Harry Clavering's head if Harry 
 should be false to her daughter. This was a 
 misfortune of which, with all her brood, Mrs. 
 Burton had as yet known nothing. No daughter 
 of hers had been misused by any man, and no 
 son of hers had ever misused any one's daughter. 
 Her children had gone out into the world steadi- 
 ly, prudently, making no brilliant marriages, but 
 never falling into any mistakes. She heard of 
 such misfortunes around her — that a young lady 
 here had loved in vain, and that a young lady 
 there had been left to wear the willow ; but 
 such sorrows had never visited her roof, and 
 she was disposed to think — and perhaps to say 
 — that the fault lay chiefly in the imprudence of 
 mothers. What if at last, when her work in 
 this line had been so nearly brought to a suc- 
 cessful close, misery and disappointment should 
 come also upon her lamb ! In such case Mrs. 
 Burton, we may say, was a ewe who would not 
 see her lamb suffer' without many bleatings 
 and considerable exercise of her maternal ener- 
 gies. 
 
 And tidings had come to Mrs. Burton which 
 had not as yet been allowed to reach Florence's 
 
 ears. In the office at the Adelphi was one Mr. 
 Walliker, who had a yduilger brother now occu- 
 pying that desk in Mr. Burton's office which had 
 belonged to Harry Clavering. Through Bob 
 Walliker, Mrs. Burton learned that Harry did 
 not come to the office even when it was known 
 that he had returned to London from Clavering ; 
 and she also learned at last that the young men 
 in the office were connecting Harry Clavering's 
 name with that of the rich and noble widow. 
 Lady Ongar. Then Mrs. Burton wrote to her 
 son Theodore, as Florence had written to Theo- 
 dore's wife. 
 
 Mrs. Burton, though she had loved Harry 
 dearly, and had perhaps in many respects liked 
 him better than any of her sons-in-law, had, 
 nevertheless, felt some misgivings from the first. 
 Florence was brighter, better educated, and clev- 
 erer than her elder sisters, and therefore when 
 it had come to pass that she was asked in mar- 
 riage by a man somewhat higher in rank and 
 softer in manners than they who had married 
 her sisters, there had seemed to be some reason 
 for the change ; but Mrs. Burton had felt that it 
 was a ground for apprehension. High rank and 
 soft manners may not always belong to a true 
 heart. At first she was unwilling to hint this 
 caution even to herself; but at last, as her sus- 
 picions grew, she spoke the words very frequent- 
 ly, not only to herself but also to her husband. 
 Why, oh why, had she let into her house any 
 man differing in mode of life from those whom 
 she had known to be honest and good ? How 
 would her gray hairs be made to go in sorrow 
 to the grave, if, after all her old prudence and 
 all her old success, her last pet lamb should be 
 returned to the mother's side, ill-used, maimed, 
 and blighted 1 
 
 Theodore Burton, when he received his moth- 
 er's letter, had not seen Harry since his return 
 from Clavering. He had been inclined to be 
 very angry with him for his long and unan- 
 nounced absence from the office. ' ' He will do 
 no good," he had said to his wife. "He does 
 not know what real wort means." But his an- 
 ger turned to disgust as regarded Harry, and al- 
 most to despair as regarded his sister, when Har- 
 ry had been a week in town, and yet had not 
 shown himself at the Adelphi. But at this time 
 Theodore Burton had heard no word of Lady 
 Ongar, though the clerks in the ofBce had that 
 name daily in their mouths. "Can not you go 
 to him, Theodore ?" said his wife. " It is very 
 easy to say go to him," he replied. " If I made 
 it my business I could, of course, go to him, and 
 no doubt find him if I was determined to do so ; 
 but what more could I do? I can lead a horse 
 to the water, but I can not make him drink." 
 "You could speak to him of Florence." "That 
 is such a woman's idea," said the husband. 
 "When every proper incentive to dr^ty and am- 
 bition has failed him, he is to be brought into 
 the right way by the mention of a girl's name !" 
 " May I see him ?" Cecilia urged. " Yes — if 
 you can catch him ; but I do not advise you to 
 try." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 115 
 
 After that rame the two letters for the hus- 
 band and wife, each of which was shown to the 
 other ; and then for the first time did either of 
 them receive the idea that Lady Ongarwith her 
 fortune might be a cause of misery to their sis- 
 ter. "I. don't believe a word of it," said Ce- 
 cilia, whose cheeks were burning, half with 
 shame and half with anger. Harry had been 
 such a pet with her — had already been taken so 
 closely to her heart as a brother! "I should 
 not have suspected him of that kind of base- 
 ness," said Theodore, very slowly.- " He is not 
 base," said Cecilia. " He may be idle and fool- 
 ish, but he is not base." 
 
 " I must at any rate go after him now," said 
 Theodore. " I don't believe this ; I won't be- 
 lieve it. I do not believe it. But if it should 
 be true — " 
 
 " Oh, Theodore." 
 
 " I do not think it is true. It is not the kind 
 of weakness I have seen in him. He is weak 
 and vain, but I should have said that he was 
 true.'* , 
 
 "I am sure he is true." 
 
 " I think so. I can not say more than that I 
 think so." 
 
 " You will write to your mother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And "may I ask Florence to come up ? Is 
 it not always better that people should be near 
 to each other when they are engaged ?" 
 
 ' ' You can ask her if you like. I doubt wheth- 
 er she will come." 
 
 "She will come if she thinks that any thing 
 is amiss with him." 
 
 Cecilia wrote immediately to Florence, press- 
 ing her invitation in the strongest terms that she 
 could use. "I tell you the whole truth," she 
 said. "We have not seen him, and this, of 
 course, has troubled us very greatly. I feel quite 
 sure he would come to us if you were here ; and 
 this, I think, should bring you, if no other con- 
 sideration does so. Theodore imagines that he 
 has become simply idle, and that he is ashamed 
 to show himself here because of that. It may 
 be that he has some trouble with reference to 
 his own home, of which we know nothing. But 
 if he has any such trouble, you ought to be made 
 aware of it, and I feel sure that he would tell 
 you if you were here." Much more she said, 
 arguing in the same way, and pressing Florence 
 to come to London. 
 
 Mr. Burton did not at once send a reply to his 
 mother, but he wrote the following note to Harry : 
 " Adelphi , May, 186-. 
 
 " My dear Clavering, — I have been sorry 
 to notice your continued absence from the office, 
 and both Cecilia and I have been very sorry that 
 you have discontinued coming to us. But I 
 should not have written to you on this matter, 
 not wishing to interfere in your own concerns, 
 had I not desired to see you specially with ref- 
 erence to my sister. As I have that to say to 
 you concerning her which I can hardly write, 
 will you make an appointment with me here, or 
 at my house ? Or, if you can not do that, will 
 
 you say when I shall find you at home ? If you 
 will come and dine with us we shall like that 
 best, and leave you to name an early day — to- 
 morrow, or the next day, or the day after. 
 "Very trnly yours, Theodore Burton." 
 
 When Cecilia's letter reached Stratton, and 
 another post came without any letter from Ha,r- 
 ry, poor Florence's heart sank low in her bo- 
 som. " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Burton, who' 
 watched her daughter anxionsly while she was 
 reading the letter. Mrs. Burton had not told 
 Florence of her own letter to her son ; and now, 
 havingherself received no answer, looked to ob- 
 tain some reply from that which her daughter- 
 in-law had sent. 
 
 "Cecilia wants me to go to London," said 
 Florence. 
 
 "Is there any thing the matter that yon 
 should go just now ?" 
 
 "Not exactly the matter, mamma, but you 
 can see the letter." 
 
 Mrs. Burton read it slowly, and felt sure that 
 much was the matter. She knew that Cecilia 
 would have written in that strain only under 
 the influence of some great alarm. At first she 
 was disposed to think that she herself would go' 
 to London. She was eager to know the truth 
 — eager to utter her loud maternal hleatings if 
 any wrong were threatened to her lariib. Flor- 
 ence might go with her, but she longed herself 
 to be on the field of action. She felt that she 
 could almost annihilate any man by her words 
 and looks who would dare to ill-treat a girl of 
 hers. 
 
 " Well, mamma, what do yon think?" 
 
 " I don't know yet, my dear. I will speak 
 to your papa before dinner." But as Mrs. Bur- 
 ton had been usually autocratic in the manage- 
 ment of her own daughters, Florence was aware 
 that her mother simply required a little time he- 
 fore she made up her mind. " It is not that 
 I want to go to London — for the pleasure of it, 
 mamma." 
 
 "I know that, my dear." 
 
 "Nor yet merely to see him — though of 
 course I do long to see him !" 
 
 " Of course you do — ^why shouldn't you ?" 
 
 "But Cecilia is so very prudent, and she 
 thinks that it will be better. And she would 
 not have pressed it, unless Theodore had thought 
 so too !" 
 
 "I thought Theodore would have written to 
 me." 
 
 " But he writes so seldom.'' 
 
 "I expected a letter from him now, as I had 
 written to him." 
 
 " About Harry, do you mean ?" 
 
 "Well — yes. I did not mention it, as I was 
 aware I might make you uneasy. But I saw 
 that you were unhappy at not hearing from 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, do let me go." 
 
 "Of course you shall go, if you wish it; but 
 let me speak to papa before any thing is quite 
 decided." 
 
116 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 Mrs. Burton did speak to her husband, and it 
 was arranged that Florence should go up to Ons- 
 low Crescent. But JMrs. Burton, though she 
 had been always autocratic about her unmarried 
 daughters, had never been autocratic about her- 
 self. When she hinted that she also might go, 
 she saw that the scheme was not approved, and 
 she at once abandoned it. "It would look as 
 if we were all afraid," said Mr. Burton, "and, 
 after all, what does it come to ? a young gen- 
 tleman does not write to his sweetheart for two 
 or three weeks. I used to think myself the best 
 lover in the world if I wrote once a month." 
 
 " There was no penny post then, Mr. Burton." 
 
 "And I often wish there was none now," said 
 Mr. Burton. That matter was therefore de- 
 cided, and Florence wrote back to her sister-in- 
 law, saying that she would go up to London on 
 the third day from that. In the mean time Har- 
 ry Clavering and Theodore Burton had met. 
 
 Has it ever been the lot of any unmarried 
 male reader of these pages to spend three or four 
 days in London, without any thing to do — to 
 have to get through them by himself — and to 
 have that burden on his shoulder, with the ad- 
 ditional burden of some terrible, wearing mis- 
 ery, away from which there seems to be no road, 
 and out of which there is apparently no escape ? 
 That was HaiTy Clavering's condition for some 
 few days after the evening which he last passed 
 in the company of Lady Ongar — and I will ask 
 any such unmarried man whether, in such a 
 plight, there was for him any other alternative 
 but to wish himself dead ? In such a condition a 
 man can simply walk the streets by himself, and 
 declare to himself that every thing is bad, and 
 rotten, and vile, and worthless. He wishes him- 
 self dead, and calculates the different advantages 
 of prussic acid and pistols. He may the while 
 take his meals very punctually at his club, may 
 smoke his cigars, and drink his bitter beer or 
 brandy and water ; but he is all the time wish- 
 ing himself dead, and making that calculation 
 as to the best way of achieving that desirable 
 result. Such was Harry Clavering's condition 
 now. As for his office, the doors of that place 
 were absolutely closed against him by the pres- 
 ence of Theodore Burton. When he attempted 
 to read he could not understand a word, or sit 
 for ten minutes with a book in his hand. No 
 occupation was possible to him. He longed to 
 go again to Bolton Street, but he did not even 
 do that. If there, he could act only as though 
 Florence had been deserted forever ; and if he 
 so acted, he would be infamous for life. And 
 yet he had sworn to Julia that such was his in- 
 tention. He hardly dared to ask himself which 
 of the two he loved. The misery of it all had 
 become so heavy upon him that he could take 
 no pleasure in the thought of his love. It must 
 always be all regret, all sorrow, and all remorse, 
 Then there came upon him the letter from The- 
 odore Burton, and he knew that it was neces- 
 sary that he should see the writer. 
 
 Nothing could be more disagreeable than such 
 an interview, but he could not allow himself to 
 
 be guilty t)f the cowardice of declining it. Of 
 a personal quarrel with Burton he was not afraid. 
 He felt, indeed, that he might almost find relief 
 in the capability of being himself angry with 
 any one. But he must positively make up his 
 mind before such an interview. He. must de- 
 vote himself either to Florence or to Julia ; and 
 he did not know how to abandon the one or the 
 other. He had allowed himself to be so gov- 
 erned by impulse that he had pledged himself 
 to Lady Ongar, and had sworn to her that he 
 would be entirely hers. She, it is true, had 
 not taken him altogether at his word, but not 
 the less did he know — did he think that he 
 knew — that she looked for the performance of 
 his promise. And she had been the first that 
 he had sworn to love ! 
 
 In his dilemma he did at last go to Bolton 
 Street, and there found that Lady Ongar had 
 left town for three or four days. The servant 
 said that she had gone, he believed, to the Isle 
 of Wight; and that Madame Gordeloup had 
 gone v/ith her. She was to be back in town 
 early in the following week. This was on a 
 Thursday, and he was aware that he could not 
 postpone his interview with Burton till after Ju- 
 lia's return. So he went to his club, and nail- 
 ing himself as it were to the writing-table, made 
 an appointment for the following morning. He 
 would be with Burton at the Adelphi at twelve 
 o'clock. He had been in trouble, he said, and 
 that trouble had kept him from the office and 
 from Onslow Crescent. Having written this, 
 he sent it off, and then played billiards and 
 smoked and dined, played more billiards and 
 smoked and drank till the usual hours of night 
 had come. He was not a man who liked such 
 things. He had not become what he was by 
 passing his earlier years after this fashion. But 
 his misery required excitement, and billiards 
 with tobacco were better than the desolation of 
 solitude. 
 
 On the following morning he did not breakfast 
 till near eleven. Why should he get up as long 
 as it was possible to obtain the relief which was 
 to be had from dozing ? As far as possible he 
 would not think of the matter till he had put his 
 hat upon his head to go to the Adelphi. But 
 the time for taking his hat soon came, and he 
 started on his short journey. But even as he 
 walked, he could not think of it. He was pur- 
 poseless, as a ship without a rudder, telling him- 
 self that he could only go as the winds might 
 direct him. How he did hate himself for his 
 one weakness! And yet he hardly made an 
 effort to overcome it. On one point only did he 
 seem to have a resolve. If Burton attempted 
 to use with him any thing like a threat, he would 
 instantly resent it. 
 
 Punctually at twelve he walked into the outer 
 office, and was told that Mr. Burton was in his 
 room. 
 
 " Halloo, Clavering," said Walliker, who was 
 standing with his back to the fire, "I thought 
 we had lost you for good and all. And here 
 I you are come back again !" 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 117 
 
 Harry had always disliked this man, and now 
 hated him worse than ever. '.' Yes, I am here," 
 said he, "for a few minutes; but I believe I 
 need not trouble yon." 
 
 "All right, old fellow," said Walliker; and 
 then Harry passed through into the inner room. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you, Harry," said 
 Burton, rising and giving his hand cordially to 
 Clavering. "And I am sony to hear that you 
 have been in trouble. Is it any thing in which 
 we can help you?" 
 
 "I hope — Mrs. Burton is well," said Harry, 
 hesitating. 
 
 "Pretty well." 
 
 "And the children ?" 
 
 " Quite well. They say you are a very bad 
 fellow not to go and see them." 
 
 " I believe I am a bad fellow," said Harry. 
 
 " Sit down, Harry. It will be best to come 
 at the point at once^will it not ? Is there any 
 thing wrong between you and Florence ?" 
 
 " What do you mean by wrong?" 
 
 "I should call it very wrong — hideously 
 wrong, if, after all that has passed between you, 
 there should now be any doubt as to your affection 
 for each other. If such doubt were now to arise 
 with her, I should almost disown my sister. " 
 
 " You will never have to blush for her." 
 
 "I think not. I thank God that hitherto 
 there have been no such blushes among us. 
 And I hope, Harry, that my heart may never 
 have to bleed for her. Come, Harry, let me tell 
 you all at once, like an honest man. I hate 
 subterfuges and secrets. A report has reached 
 the old people at home — not Florence, mind — 
 that you are untrue to Florence, and are passing 
 your time with that lady who is the sister of your 
 cousin's wife." 
 
 "What right have they to ask how I pass my 
 time ?" 
 
 "Donotbeunjust, Harry. Ifyousimplytell 
 me that your visits to that Jady imply no evil to 
 my sister, I, knowing you to be a gentleman, will 
 take your word for all that it can mean." He 
 paused, and Ha?ry hesitated and could not an- 
 swer. "Nay, dear friend — brother as we both 
 of us have thought you — come once more to 
 Onslow Crescent, and kiss the bairns, and kiss 
 Cecilia too, and sit with us at our table, and 
 talk as you used to do, and I will ask no farther 
 question — nor will she. Then you will come 
 back here to your work, and your trouble will 
 be gone, and your mind will be at ease ; and, 
 Harry, one of the best girls that ever gave her 
 heart into a man's keeping will be there to wor- 
 ship yon, and to swear when your back is turned 
 that any one who says a word against you shall 
 be no brother, and no sister, and no friend of 
 hers." 
 
 And this was the man who had dusted his 
 boots with his pocket-handkerchief, and whom 
 Harry had regarded as being on that account 
 hardly fit to be his friend ! He knew that the 
 man was noble, and good, and generous, and 
 true ; and knew also that in all that Burton 
 said he simply did his duty as a brother. But 
 
 not on that account was it easier for him to 
 reply. 
 
 " Say that you will come to us this evening,'' 
 said Burton. " Even if you have an engage- 
 ment, put it off." 
 
 " I have none," said Harry. 
 
 " Then say that you will come to us, and all 
 will be well." 
 
 Harry understood of course that his com- 
 pliance with this invitation would be taken as 
 implying that all was right. It would be so easy 
 to accept the invitation, and any other answer 
 was so difficult ! But yet he would not bring 
 himself to tell the lie. 
 
 "Burton," he said, "I am in trouble." 
 
 "What is the trouble?" The man's voice 
 was now changed, and so was the glance of his 
 eye. There was no expression of anger — none 
 as yet ; but the sweetness of his countenance 
 was gone — a sweetness that was unusual to him, 
 but which still was at his command when he 
 needed it. 
 
 " I can not tell you all here. If you will let 
 me come to you this evening, I will tell you 
 every thing — to you and to Cecilia too. Will 
 you let me come ?" 
 
 " Certainly. Will you dine with u9?" 
 
 " No ; after dinner ; when the children are in 
 bed."" Then he went, leaving on the mind of 
 Theodore Burton an impression that, though 
 something was much amiss, his mother had 
 been wrong in her fears respecting Lady Ongar. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FRESHWATEE GATE. 
 
 CotiNT Pateeopf, Sophie's brother, was a 
 man who, when he had taken a thing in hand, 
 generally liked to carry it through. It may 
 perhaps be said that most men are of this turn 
 of mind ; but the count was, I think, especially 
 eager in this respect. And as he was not one 
 who had many irons in the fire, who made either 
 many little efforts, or any great efforts after 
 things altogether beyond his reach,. he was just- 
 ified in expecting success. As to Archie's 
 courtship, any one who ifeally knew the man 
 and the woman, and who knew any thing of the 
 nature of women in general, would have pre- 
 dieted failure for him. Even with Doodle's 
 aid he could not have a chance in the race. 
 But when Count Pateroff entered' himself for 
 the same prize, those who knew him would not 
 speak of his failure as a thing certain. 
 
 The prize was too great not to be attempted 
 by so very prudent a gentleman. He was less 
 impulsive in his nature than his sister, and did 
 not open his eyes and tallijwith watering mouth 
 of the seven thousands of pounds a year ; but in 
 his quiet way he had weighed and calculated 
 all the advantages to be gained, had even ascer- 
 tained at what rate he could insure the lady's 
 life, and had made himself certain that nothing 
 in the deed of Lord Ongar's marriage settlement 
 
118 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 entailed any pecuniary penalty on his widow's 
 second marriage. Then he had gone down, as 
 we know, to Ongar Park, and as he had walked 
 from the lodge to the house and back again, he 
 had looked around him complacently, and told 
 himself that the place would do vevy well. For 
 the English character, in spite of the pigheaded- 
 ness of many Englishmen, he had — as he would 
 have said himself — much admiration, and he 
 thought that the life of a country gentleman, 
 with a nice place of his own — with such a very 
 nice place of his own as was Ongar Park — and so 
 very nice an income, would suit him well in his 
 declining years. 
 
 And he had certain advantages, certain aids 
 toward his object, which had come to him from 
 circumstances ; as, indeed, he had also certain 
 disadvantages. He knew the lady, which was 
 in itself much. He knew much of the lady's 
 history, and had that cognizance of the saddest 
 circumstances of her life, which in itself creates 
 an intimacy. It is not necessary now to go 
 back to those scenes which had disfigured the 
 last months of Lord Ongar's life, but the reader 
 will understand that what had then occurred 
 gave the count a possible footing as a suitor. 
 And the reader will also understand the disad- 
 vantages which had at this time already shown 
 themselves in the lady's refusal to see the count. 
 
 It may be thought that Sophie's standing with 
 Lady Ongar would be a great advantage to her 
 brother; but I doubt whether thebrother trusted 
 either the honesty or the discretion of his sister. 
 He would have been willing to purchase such 
 assistance as she might give, not in Archie's 
 pleasant way, with bank-notes hidden under his 
 glove, but by acknowledgments for services to 
 be turned into solid remuneration when the mar- 
 riage should have taken place, had he not feared 
 that Sophie might communicate the fact of such 
 acknowledgments to the other lady — tnaking her 
 own bargain in doing so. He had calculated all 
 this, and had come to the conclusion that he 
 had better make no direct proposal to Sophie ; 
 and when Sophie made a direct proposal to him, 
 pointing out to him in glowing language all the 
 fine things which such a marriage would give 
 him, he had hardly vouchsafed to her a word qf 
 answer. "Very well," said Sophie to herself, 
 " very well. Then we both know what we are 
 about." 
 
 Sophie herself would have kept Lady Ongar 
 from marrying any one had she been able. Not 
 even a brotHer's gratitude would be so service- 
 able to her as the generous kindness of a devoted 
 friend. That she might be able to sell both her 
 services to a lover, and also to keep Julie from 
 marrying, was a lucky combination of circum- 
 stances which did not occur to her till Archie 
 came to her with the money in his glove. That 
 complicated game she was now playing, and 
 was aware that Harry Clavering was the great 
 stumbling-block in her way. A woman even 
 less clever than Sophie would hai^e perceived 
 that Lady Ongar was violently attached to Har- 
 ry ; and Sophie, when sho did see it, thought 
 
 that there was nothing left for her but to make 
 her hay while the sun was yet shining. Then she 
 heard the story of Florence Burton, and again 
 she thought that Fortune was on her side. She 
 told the story of Florence Burton — with what 
 result we know ; and was quite sharp enough to 
 perceive afterward that the tale had had its in- 
 tended effect, even though her Julie had reso- 
 lutely declined to speak either of Harry Claver- 
 ing or of Florence Burton. 
 
 Count Pateroff had again called in Bolton 
 Street, and had again been refused admittance. 
 It was plain to him to see by the servant's man- 
 ner that it was intended that he should under- 
 stand that he was not to be admitted. Under 
 such circumstances, it was necessary that he 
 must either abandon his pursuit, or that be 
 must operate upon Lady Ongar through some 
 other feeling than her personal regard for him- 
 self. He might, perhaps, have trusted much to 
 his own eloquence if he could have seen her; 
 but how is a man to be eloquent in his wooing 
 if he can not see the lady whom he covets ? 
 There is, indeed, the penny post, but in these 
 days of legal restraints there is no other method 
 of approaching an unwilling beauty. Forcible 
 abduction is put an end to as regards Great 
 Britain and Ireland. So the count had resort 
 to the post. 
 
 His letter was very long, and shall not, there- 
 fore, be given to the reader. He began by tell- 
 ing Lady Ongar that she owed it to him for the 
 good services he had done her, to read what he 
 might say, and to answer him. He then gave 
 her various reasons why she should see him, 
 pleading, among other things, in language which 
 she could understand, though the words were 
 purposely as ambiguous as they could be made, 
 that he had possessed and did possess the power 
 of doing her a grievous injury, and that he had 
 abstained, and — hoped that he might be able to 
 abstain for the future. She knew that the words 
 contained no threat — that, taken literally, they 
 were the reverse of a threat, and mounted to a 
 promise ; but she understood also all that he 
 had intended to imply. Long as his own letter 
 was, he said nothing in it as to his suit, confining 
 himself to a request that she should see him. 
 But with his letter he sent her an inclosure 
 longer than the letter itself, in which his wishes 
 were clearly explained. 
 
 This inclosure purported to be an expression 
 of Lord Ongar's wishes on many subjects, as 
 they had been communicated to Count Pater- 
 off in the latter days of the lord's life ; but as 
 the manuscript was altogether in the count's 
 writing, and did not even pretend to have been 
 subjected to Lord Ongar's eye, it simply amount- 
 ed to the count's own story of their alleged con- 
 versations. There might have been no such con- 
 versations, or their tenor might have been very dif- 
 ferent from that which the count represented, or 
 the statements and opinions, if expressed at all by 
 Lord Ongar, might have been expressed at times 
 when no statements or opinions coming from 
 him could be of any value. But as to these 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 119 
 
 conversations, if they could have been verified 
 as having come from Lord Ongar's mouth when 
 he was in full possession of such faculties as he 
 possessed — all that would have amounted to 
 nothing with Lady Ongar. To Lord Ongar 
 alive she had owed obedience, and had been 
 obedient. To Lord Ongar dead she owed no 
 obedience, and would not be obedient. 
 
 Such would have been her feelings as to any 
 document which could have reached her, pur- 
 porting to contain Lord Ongar's wishes ; but this 
 document was of a nature which made her spe- 
 cially antagonistic to the exercise of any such 
 marital authority from the grave. It was very 
 long, and went into small details — details which 
 were very small ; but the upshot of it all was a 
 tendering of great thanks to Count Pateroff, and 
 the expression of a strong wish that the count 
 should marry his widow. " O. said that this 
 would be the only thing for J.'s name." "O. 
 said that this would be the safest course for his 
 own honor." " O. said, as he took my hand, 
 that in promising to take this step I gave him 
 great comfort." "O. commissioned me to speak 
 to J. in his name to this effect." The O. was 
 of course Lord Ongar, and the J. was of course 
 Julia. It was all in French, and went on in 
 the same strain for many pages. Lady Ongar 
 answered the letter as follows : 
 
 "Lady Ongar presents her compliments to 
 Count Pateroff, and begs to return the inclosed 
 manuscript, which is, to her, perfectly valueless. 
 Lady Ongar must still decline, and now more 
 strongly than before, to receive Count Pateroff. 
 " Bolton Street, May, 186-." 
 
 She was quite firm as she did this. She had 
 no doubt at all on the matter. She did not feel 
 that she wanted to ask for any advice. But she 
 did feel that this count might still work her ad- 
 ditional woe, that her cup of soitow might not 
 even yet be full, and that she was sadly — sadly 
 in want of love and protection. For aught she 
 knew, the count might publish the whole state- 
 ment, and people might believe that those words 
 came from her husband, and that her husband 
 had understood what would be best for her fame 
 and for his honor. The whole thing was a 
 threat, and not to save herself from any misery 
 would she have succumbed to a menace ; but 
 still it was possible that the threat might be car- 
 ried out. 
 
 She was sorely in want of love and protection. 
 At this time, when the count's letter reached her, 
 Harry had been with her ; and we know what 
 had passed between them. She had bid him 
 go to Florence — and love Florence — and marry 
 Florence — and leave her in desolation. That 
 had been her last command to him. But we 
 all know what such commands mean. She had 
 not been false in giving him these orders. She 
 had intended it at the moment. The glow of 
 self-sacrifice had been warm in her bosom, and 
 she had resolved to do without that which she 
 wanted in order that another might have it. 
 But when she thought of it afterward in her 
 
 loneliness, she told herself that Florence Burton 
 could not want Harry's love as she wanted it. 
 There could not be such need to this girl, who 
 possessed father and mother, and brothers, and 
 youth, as there was to her, who had no other 
 arm on which she could lean, besides that of the 
 one man for whom she had acknowledged her 
 love, and who had also declared his passion for 
 her. She made no scheme to deprive Florence 
 of her lover. In the long hours of her own soli- 
 tude she never revoked, even within her own 
 bosom, the last words she had said to Harry Cla- 
 vering. But not the less did she hope that he 
 might come to her again, and that she might 
 learn from him that he had freed himself from 
 that unfortunate engagement into which her 
 falseness to him had driven him. 
 
 It was after she had answered Count Pater- 
 off's letter that she resolved to go out of town 
 for three or four days. For some short time she 
 had been minded to go away altogether, and not 
 to return till after the autumn ; but this scheme 
 gradually diminished itself and fell away, till 
 she determined that she would come back after 
 three or four days. Then came to her Sophie 
 — her devoted Sophie— Sophie, whom she de- 
 spised and hated ; Sophie, of whom she was so 
 anxious to rid herself that in all her plans there 
 was some little under-plot to that effect , Sophie, 
 whom she knew to be dishonest to her in any 
 way that might make dishonesty profitable ; and 
 before Sophie had left her, Sophie had engaged 
 herself to go with her dear friend to the Isle of 
 Wight ! As a matter of course, Sophie was to 
 be frank on this expedition. On such expedi- 
 tions, Sophies are always franked as a matter of 
 course. And Sophie would travel with all im- 
 aginable luxury — a matter to which Sophie was 
 by no means indifferent, though her own private 
 life was conducted with an economy that was 
 not luxurious. But, although all these good 
 things came in Sophie's way, she contrived to 
 make it appear that she was devoting herself in 
 a manner that was almost sacrificial to the friend 
 of her bosom. At the same time Lady Ongar 
 sent a few words, as a message, to the count by 
 his sister. Lady Ongar, having told to Madame 
 Gordeloup the story of the document which had 
 reached her, and having described her own an- 
 swer, was much commended by her friend. 
 
 " You are quite right, dear, quite. Of course 
 I am fond of my brother. Edouard and I have 
 always been the best of friends. But that does 
 not make me think you ought to give yourself 
 to him. Bah ! Why should a woman give away 
 every thing? Edouard is a fine fellow. But 
 what is that ? Fine fellows like to have all the 
 money themselves." 
 
 "Will you tell him, from me," said Lady 
 Ongar, " that I will take it as a kindness on his 
 part if he will abstain from coming to my house. 
 I certainly shall not see him with my own con- 
 sent." 
 
 Sophie promised, and probably gave the mes- 
 sage ; but when she also informed Edouard of 
 Lady Ongar's intended visit to the Isle of Wight, 
 
120 
 
 THE CLAVEBINGS. 
 
 telling him the day on wTiicU they were going 
 and the precise spot, with the name of the hotel 
 at which they were to stay, she went a little be- 
 yond the commission which her dearest friend 
 had given her. 
 
 At the western end of the Isle of Wight, and 
 on the farther shore, about three miles from the 
 point of the island which we call the Needles, 
 there is a little break in the cliff, known to all 
 stay-at-home English travelers as Freshwater 
 Gate. Here there is a cluster of cottages and 
 two inns, and a few bathing-boxes, and ready 
 access by easy ascents to the breezy downs on 
 either side, over which the sea air blows with 
 all its salt and wholesome sweetness. At one 
 of these two inns Lady Ongar located herself 
 and Sophie ^ and all Ereshwater, and all Yar- 
 mouth, and all that end of the island were alive 
 to the fact that the rich widowed countess re- 
 specting whom such strange tales were told, had 
 come on a visit to these parts. Inn-keepers like 
 such visitors. The more venomous are the sto- 
 ries told against them, the more money are they 
 apt to spend, and the less likely are they to ex- 
 amine their bills. A rich woman altogether 
 without a character is a mine of wealth to an 
 inn-keeper. In the present case no such godsend 
 had come in the way ; but there was supposed 
 to be a something a little odd, and the visitor 
 was on that account the more welcome. . 
 
 Sophie was not the most delightful companion 
 in the world for such a place. London was her 
 sphere, as she herself had understood when de- 
 claiming against those husbands who keep their 
 wives in the country. And she had no love for 
 the sea specially, regarding all winds as nui- 
 sances excepting such as had been raised by her 
 own efforts, and thinking that salt from a salt- 
 cellar was more convenient than that brought to 
 her on the breezes. It was now near the end 
 of May, but she had not been half an hour at 
 the inn before she was loud in demanding a fire ; 
 and when the fire .came she was unwilling to 
 leave it. ■ Her gesture was magnificent when 
 Lady Ongar proposed to her that she should 
 bathe. What ! . put her own dear little dry 
 body, by her own will, into the cold sea ! She 
 shrugged herself, and shook herself, and, with- 
 out speaking a word, declined with so much 
 eloquence that it was impossible not to admire 
 her. Nor would she walk. On the first day, 
 during the warmest part of the day, she allow- 
 ed herself t6 be taken out in a carriage belong- 
 ing to the inn ; but after her drive she clung to 
 the fire, and consumed her time with a French 
 novel. 
 
 Nor was Lady Ongar much more comfortable 
 in the Isle of Wight than she had been in Lon- 
 don. ■ The old poet told us how Black Care sits 
 behind the horseman, and some modern poet 
 will some day describe to us that tenible god- 
 dess as she takes her place with the stoker close 
 to the fire of the locomotive engine. Sitting 
 with Sophie opposite to her, Lady Ongar was 
 not happy, even though her eye rested on the 
 lines of that magnificent coast. Once indeed. 
 
 on the evening of their first day, Sophie left her, 
 and she was alone for nearly an hour. Ah! 
 how happy could she have been if Han'y Cla- 
 vering might have been there with her. Per- 
 haps' a day might come in which .Harry might 
 bring her there. In such a case Atra Cura 
 would be left behind, and then she might be 
 altogether happy. She sat dreaming of this for 
 above an hour, and Sophie was still away. 
 When Sophie returned, which she did all too 
 soon, she explained that she had been in her 
 bedroom. She had been very busy, and now 
 had come down to make herself comfortable. 
 
 On the next evening Lady Ongar declared 
 her Intention of going up on the downs by her- 
 self. They had dined at five, so that she might 
 have a long evening, and soon after six she 
 started. " If I do not break down I will get as 
 far as the Needles," she said. Sophie, who had 
 heard that the distance was three miles, lifted 
 up her hands in despair. ' ' If you are not back 
 before nine I shall send the people after you." 
 Consenting to this with a laugh, Lady Ongar 
 made her way np to the downs, and walked 
 steadily on toward the extreme point of the 
 island. To the Needles themselves she did 
 not make her way. These rocks are now ap- 
 proached, as all the stay-at-home travelers know, 
 through a fort, and down to the fort she did not 
 go. But turning a little from the highest point 
 of the hill toward the cliffs on her left hand, she 
 descended till she reached a spot from which 
 she could look down on the pebbly beach lying 
 some three hundred fset below her, and on the 
 soft shining ripple of the quiet waters as they 
 moved themselves with a pleasant sound on the 
 long strand which lay stretched in a .line from 
 the spot beneath her out to the point of the isl- 
 and. The evening was warm, and almost trans- 
 parent in its clearness, and very quiet. There 
 was no sound even of a breeze. When she 
 seated herself close upon the margin of the cliff, 
 she heard the small waves moving the stones 
 which they washed, and the sound was as the 
 sound of little children's voices, \erj distant. 
 Looking down, she could see through the won- 
 derful transparency of the water, and the peb- 
 bles below it were bright as diamonds, and the 
 sands were burnished like gold. And each tiny 
 silent wavelet, as it moved up toward the shore 
 and lost itself at last in its own effort, stretched 
 itself the whole length of the stand. Such 
 brightness on the sea-shore she had never seen 
 before, nor had she e.ver listened as now she list- 
 ened to that infantine babble of the baby waves. 
 She sat there close upon the margin, on a seat 
 of chalk which the winds had made, looking, 
 listening, and forgetting for a while that she 
 was Lady Ongar whom people did not know, 
 who lived alone in the world with Sophie Gor- 
 deloup for her friend, and whose lover was be- 
 trothed to another woman. She had been there 
 perhaps half an hour, and had learned to be at 
 home on her perch, sitting there in comfort, 
 with no desire to move, when a voice which she 
 well knew at the first sound startled her, and 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 121 
 
 she rose quickly to her feet. . "Lady Ongar," 
 said the voice, "are you not rather near the 
 edge?" As she turned round there was Count 
 Pateroff with his hand already upon her dress, 
 so that no danger might be produced by the 
 suddenness of his speech 
 
 "There is nothing to fear," she said, stepping me here? 
 
 "I certainly shall not excuse you; nor, far- 
 ther than I can help it, shall I listen to you." 
 " There are a few words which I must say." 
 " Count Pateroff, I beg that you will leave 
 me. This is treacherous and unmanly, and can 
 do you no good. By what right do you follow 
 
 "Lady Ongar, are you not rather near the edge?" 
 
 back from her seat. As she did so, he dropped 
 his hand from her di-ess, and, raising it to his 
 head, lifted his hat from his forehead. "You 
 will excuse me, I hope, Lady Ongar," he said, 
 "for having taken this mode of speaking to 
 you." 
 
 " I follow you for your own good. Lady On- 
 gar ; I do it that you may hear me say a few 
 words that are necessary for you to hear." 
 
 "I will hear no words from yon — that is, 
 none- willingly. By this time you ought to 
 know me and to understand me." She had be- 
 
122 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 gun to walk up the hill very rapidly, and for a 
 moment or two he had thought that she would 
 escape him ; but her breath had soon failed her, 
 and she found herself compelled to stand while 
 he regained his place beside her. This he had 
 not done without an effort, and for some minutes 
 they were both silent. "It is very beautiful," 
 at last he said, pointing away over the sea. 
 
 "Yes — it is very beautiful," she answered. 
 " Why did you disturb me when I was so hap- 
 py?" But the count was still recovering his 
 breath, and made no answer to this question. 
 When, however, she attempted to move on again, 
 itill breasting the hill, he put his hand upon her 
 irm very gently. 
 
 "Lady Ongar,"he said, "you must listen to 
 tne for a moment. Why not do it without a 
 quarrel?" 
 
 " If you mean that I can not escape from you, 
 it is true enough." 
 
 "Why should you want to escape? Did I 
 ever hurt you ? Before this, have I not pro- 
 tected you from injury ?" 
 
 " No — never. You protect me !" 
 
 ' ' Yes — I ; from your husband, from yourself, 
 and from the world. You do not know — not 
 yet, all that I have done for you. Did you read 
 what Lord Ongar had said?" 
 
 " I read what it pleased you to write.'' 
 
 ' ' What it pleased me I Do you pretend to 
 think that Lord Ongar did not speak as he 
 speaks there? Do you not know that those 
 were his own words? Do you not recognize 
 them ? Ah ! yes, Lady Ongar, you know them 
 to be true." 
 
 " Their truth or falsehood is nothing to me. 
 They are altogether indifferent to me either 
 way." 
 
 " That would be very well if it were possible ; 
 but it is not. There ; now we are at the top, 
 and it will be easier. Will yon let me have the 
 honor to offer you my arm ? No ! Be it so ; 
 but I think you would walk the easier. It would 
 not be for the first time." 
 
 "That is a falsehood." As she spoke she 
 stepped before him, and looked into his face 
 vrith eyes full of passion. "That is a positive 
 falsehood. I never walked with a hand resting 
 on your arm." 
 
 There came over his face the pleasantest smile 
 as he answered her. " You forget every thing," 
 he said — " every thing. But it does not matter. 
 Other people will not forget. Julie, you had 
 better take me for your husband. You will be 
 better as my wife, and happier, than you can be 
 otherwise." 
 
 " Look down there, Count Pateroff— down to 
 the edge. If my misery is too great to be borne, 
 I can escape from it there on better terms than 
 you propose to me." 
 
 " Ah ! That is what we call poetry. Poetry 
 is very pretty, and in saying this as you do, you 
 make yourself divine. But to be dashed over 
 the cliffs and broken on the rocks — in prose it 
 is not so well." 
 
 " Sir, will you allow me to pass on while you 
 
 remain, or will you let me rest here while yon 
 return alone?" 
 
 "No, Julie, not so. I have found you with 
 too much difficulty. In London, you see, I 
 could not find you. Here, for a minute, you 
 must listen to me. Do you not know, Julie, 
 that your character is in my hands?" 
 
 "In your hands? No — never; thank God, 
 never. But what if it were ?" 
 
 "Only this — that I am forced to play the 
 only game that you leave open to me. Chance 
 brought you and me together in such a way that 
 nothing but marriage can be beneficial to either 
 of us ; and I swore to Lord Ongar that it should 
 be so. I mean that it shall be so, or that you 
 shall be punished for your misconduct to him 
 and to me." 
 
 "Yon are both insolent and false. But listen 
 to me, since you are here and I can not avoid 
 you. I know what your threats mean." 
 
 "I have never threatened you. I have prom- 
 ised you my aid, but have used no threats." 
 
 " Not when you tell me that I shall be pun- 
 ished ? But to avoid no punishment, if any be 
 in your power, will 1 ever willingly place my- 
 self in your company. You nJay write of me to 
 what papers you please, and repeat of me what- 
 ever stories you may choose to fabricate, but you 
 will not frighten me into compliance by doing 
 so. I have, at any rate, spirit enough to resist 
 such attempts as that." 
 
 "As you are living at present, you are alone 
 in the world ?" 
 
 "And I am content to remain alone." 
 
 "You are thinking, then, of no second mar- 
 riage ?" 
 
 "If I were, does that concern you? But I 
 will speak no farther word to you. If you fol- 
 low me into the inn, or persecute me fai-ther by 
 forcing yourself upon me, I will put myself un- 
 der the protection of the police." 
 
 Having said this, she walked on as quickly as 
 her strength would permit, while he walked by 
 her side, urging npon her his old arguments as 
 to Lord Ongar's expressed wishes, as to his own 
 efforts on her behalf, and at last as to the strong 
 affection with which he regarded her. But she 
 kept her promise, and said not a word in answer 
 to it all. For more than an hour they walked 
 side by side, and during the greater part of that 
 time not a syllable escaped from her. From 
 moment to moment she kept her eye warily on 
 him, fearing that he might take her by the arm, 
 or attempt some violence with her. But he was 
 too wise for this, and too fully conscious that no 
 such proceeding on his part could be of any ser\-- 
 ice to him. He continued, however, to speak 
 to her words which she could not avoid hearing, 
 hoping rather than thinking that he might at 
 last frighten her by a description of all the evil 
 which it was within his power to do her. But 
 in acting thus he showed that he knew nothing 
 of her character. She was not a woman whom 
 any prospect of evil cottld possibly frighten into 
 a distasteful marriage. 
 
 Within a few hundred yards of the hotel there • 
 
THE CLAVERINGS, 
 
 123 
 
 is another fort, and at this point the path taken 
 by Lady Ougar led into the private grounds of 
 the inn at which she was staying. Here the 
 count left her, raising his hat as he did so, and 
 saying that he hoped to s^ her ajgain before she 
 left the island. 
 
 "If you do so," said she, "it shall be in pres- 
 ence of those who can protect me." And so 
 they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVin. 
 
 WHAT CECILIA BUKTON DID FOK HEE SISTEK- 
 IN-LAW. 
 
 As soon as Harry Clavering had made his 
 promise to Mr. Burton, and had declared that 
 he would be in Onslow Crescent that same even- 
 ing, he went away from the offices at the Adel • 
 phi, feeling it to be quite impossible that he 
 should recommence his work there at that ino- 
 ment, even should it ever be within his power 
 to do so. Nor did Burton expect that he should 
 stay. He understood, from what had passed, 
 piuch of Harry's trouble, if not the whole of it ; 
 and though he did not despair on behalf of his 
 sister, he was aware that her lover had fallen 
 into a difficulty, from which he could not extri- 
 cate himself without great suffering and much 
 struggling. But Burton was a man who, in 
 spite of something cynical on the surface of his 
 character, believed well of mankind generally, 
 and well also of men as individuals. Even 
 though Harry had done amiss, he might be 
 saved. And though Harry's conduct to Flor- 
 ence might have been bad, nay, might have 
 
 been false, still, as Burton believed, he was too 
 good to be cast aside, or spurned out of the way, 
 without some farther attempt to save him. 
 
 When Clavering had left him Burton went 
 back to his work, and after a, while succeeded 
 in riveting his mind on the papers before him. 
 It was a hard struggle with him, but ho did it, 
 and did not leave his business till his usual hour. 
 It was past five when he took down his hat and 
 his umbrella, and, as I fear, dusted his boots be- 
 fore he passed out of the office on to the passage. 
 As he went he gave sundry directions to porters 
 and clerks, as was his wont, and then walked off, 
 intent upon his usual exercise before he should 
 reach his home. 
 
 But he had to determine on much with refer- 
 ence to Florence and Harry before he saw his 
 wife. How was the meeting of the evening to 
 take place, and in what way should it be com- 
 menced ? If there were indispensable cause for 
 his anger, in what way should he show it, and 
 if necessity for vengeance, how should his sister 
 be avenged ? There is nothing more difficult 
 for a man than the redressing of injuries done 
 to a woman who is very near to him and very 
 dear to him. Ijhp whole theory of Christian 
 meekness and forgiveness becomes broken to 
 pieces and falls to the ground almost as an ab- 
 surd theory, even at the idea of such wrong. 
 What man ever forgave an insult to his wife or 
 an injury to his sister because he had taught 
 himself that to forgive trespasses is a religious 
 duty? Without an argument, without a mo- 
 ment's thought, the man declares to himself that 
 such trespasses as those are not included in the 
 general order. But what is he to do ? Thirty 
 years since his course was easy, and, unless the 
 sinner were a clergyman, he could in some sort 
 satisfy his craving for revenge by taking a pistol 
 in his hand and having a shot at the offender. 
 That method was doubtless barbarous and un- 
 reasonable, but it was satisfactory and sufficed. 
 But what can he do now ?■ A thoughtful, pru- 
 dent, painstaking man, such as was Theodore 
 Burton, feels that it is not given to him to at- 
 tack another with his fists, to fly at his enemy's 
 throat, and carry out his purpose after the man- 
 ner of dogs. Such a one has probably some- 
 thing round his heart which tells him that if so 
 attacked he could defend himself; but he knows 
 that he has no aptitude for making such on- 
 slaught, and is conscious that such deeds of arms 
 ■would be unbecoming to him. In many, per- 
 haps in most of such cases, he may, if he please, 
 have recourse to the laws. But any aid that 
 the law can give him is altogether distasteful to 
 him. The name of her that is so dear to him 
 should be kept quiet as the grave under such 
 misfortune, not blazoned through ten thousand 
 columns for the amusement of all the crowd. 
 There is nothing left for him but to spurn the 
 man — not with his foot, but with his thoughts ; 
 and the bitter consciousness that to such spum- 
 ing the sinner will be indifferent. The old way 
 was barbarous certainly, and unreasonable ; but 
 there was a satisfaction in it that has been often 
 
121 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 wanting since the use of pistols went out of 
 fashion among us. 
 
 All this passed through Burton's mind as he 
 walked home. One would not have supposed 
 him to be a man eager for bloodshed — he with 
 a wife whom he deemed to be perfect, with chil- 
 dren who in his eyes were gracious as young 
 gods, with all his daily work which he loved as 
 good workers always do ; but yet, as he thought 
 of Florence, as he thought of the possibility of 
 treachery on Harry's part, he regarded almost 
 with dismay the conclusion to which he was 
 forced to come — that there could be no punish- 
 ment. He might proclaim the offender to the 
 world as false, and the world would laugh at 
 the proclaimer, and shake hands with the of- 
 fender. To sit together with such a man on a 
 bane! of powder, or fight him over a handker- 
 chief, seemed to him to be reasonable, nay, sal- 
 utary, under such a grievance. There are sins, 
 he felt, which the gods should punish with in- 
 stant thunderbolts, and such sins as this was of 
 such nature. His Florence — pure, good, loving, 
 true, herself totally void of all suspicion, fault- 
 less in heart as well as mind, the flower of that 
 Burton flock which had prosnered so well — that 
 she should be sacrificed thrOTgh the treachery 
 of a man who, at his best, had scarcely been 
 worthy of her ! The thought of this was almost 
 too much for him, and he gnashed his teeth as 
 he went on his way. 
 
 But yet he had not given up the man. Though 
 he could not restrain himself from foreshadow- 
 ing the misery that would result from such base- 
 ness, yet he told himself that he would not con- 
 demn before condemnation was necessary. Har- 
 ry Clavering might not be good enough for Flor- 
 ence. What man was good enough for Florence ? 
 But still, if married, Harry, he thought, would 
 not make a bad husband. Many a man who is 
 prone enough to escape from the bonds which 
 he has undertaken to endure — to escape from 
 them before they are riveted — is mild enough 
 under their endurance when they are once fas- 
 tened upon him. Harry Clavering was not of 
 such a nature that Burton could tell himself 
 that it would be well that his sister should es- 
 cape, even though her way of escape must lay 
 through the fire and water of outraged love. 
 That Harry Clavering was a gentleman, that 
 he was clever, that he was by nature affection- 
 ate, soft in manner, tender of heart, anxious to 
 please, good-tempered, and of high ambition. 
 Burton knew well f and he partly recognized 
 the fact that Harry had probably fallen into his 
 present fault more by accident than by design. 
 Clavering was not a skilled and practical de- 
 ceiver. At last, as he drew near to his own 
 door, he resolved on the line of conduct he 
 would pursue. He would tell his wife every 
 thing, and she should receive Harry alone. 
 
 He was weary when he reached home, and 
 was a little cross with his fatigue. Good man 
 as he was, he was apt to be fretful on the first 
 moment of his return to his own house, hot with 
 walking, tired with his day's labor, and in want 
 
 of his dinner. His wife understood this well, 
 and always bore with him at such moments, 
 coming down to him in the dressing-room be- 
 hind tlie back parlor, and ministering to his 
 wants. I fear' he took some advantage of her 
 goodness, knowing that at such moments he 
 could grumble and scold without danger of con- 
 tradiction. But the institution was established, 
 and Cecilia never rebelled against its traditional 
 laws. On the present day he had much to say 
 to her, but even that he could not say without 
 some few symptoms of petulant weariness. 
 
 "I'm afraid you've had a terrible long day," 
 she said. 
 
 " I don't know what you call terribly long. I 
 find the days teiTibly short. I have had Harry 
 with me, as I told you I should." 
 
 "Well, well. Say in one word, dear, that it 
 is all right — if it is so." 
 
 " But it is not all right. I wonder what on 
 earth the men do to the boots, that I can never 
 get a pair that do pot hurt me in walking." At 
 this moment she was standing over him with his 
 slippers. 
 
 ' ' Will you have a glass of sherry before din- 
 ner, dear; you are so tired." 
 
 "Sherry— no!" 
 
 "And what about Harry ? You don't mean 
 to say — " 
 
 "If you'll listen, I'll tell you what I do mean 
 to say." Then he described to her as well as he 
 could what had really taken place between him 
 and Harry Clavering at the office. 
 
 "He can not mean to be false if he is coming 
 here," said the wife. 
 
 "He does not mean to be false; but he is 
 one of those men who can be false without 
 meaning it— who allow themselves to drift away 
 from their anchors, and to be carried out into 
 seas of misery and trouble, because they are not 
 careful in looking to their tackle. I think that 
 he may still be held to a right course, and there- 
 fore I have begged him to come here." 
 
 "I am sure that you are right, Theodore. 
 He is so good and so affectionate, and he made 
 himself so much one of us ! " 
 
 "Yes; too easily by half. That is just the 
 danger. But look here. Cissy. I'll tell you 
 what I mean to do. I will not see him myself 
 — at any rate, not at first. Probably I had bet- 
 ter not see him at all. You shall talk to him." 
 
 "By myself!" 
 
 " Why not. You and he have always been 
 great friends, and he is a man who can speak 
 more openly to a woman than to another man." 
 
 "And what shall I say as to your absence?'^ 
 
 "Just the truth. Tell him that I am re- 
 maining in the dining-room because I think 
 his task will be easier with you in my absence. 
 He has got himself into some mess with that 
 woman." 
 
 "With Lady Ongar?" 
 
 " Yes ; not that her name was mentioned be- 
 tween us, but I suppose it is so. " 
 
 "Horrible woman — wicked, wretched crea- 
 ture !" 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 125 
 
 " I know nothing about that, nor, as I sup- 
 pose, do you." 
 
 "My dear, you must have heard." 
 
 " But if I had — and I don't know that I have 
 — I need not have believed. I am told that she 
 married an old man who is now dead, and I 
 suppose she wants a young husband." 
 
 "My dear!" 
 
 " If I were you, Cissy, I would say as little as 
 might be about her. She was an old friend of 
 Harry's — " 
 
 " She jilted him when he was quite a boy; I 
 know that — long before he had seen our Flor- 
 ence." 
 
 " And she is connected with him through his 
 cousin. Let her be ever so bad, I should drop 
 that." . 
 
 ' ' You can't suppose, Theodore, that I want 
 even to mention her name. I'm told that no- 
 body ever visits her." 
 
 " She needn't be a bit the worse on that ac- 
 count. Whenever I hear that there is a woman 
 whom nobody visits, I always feel inclined to go 
 and pay my respects to her. " 
 
 "Theodore, how can you say so?" 
 
 "And that, I suppose, is just what Harry has 
 done. If the world and his wife had visited 
 Lady Ongar, there would not have been all this 
 trouble now." 
 
 Mrs. Burton of course undertook the task 
 which her husband assigned to her, though she 
 did so with much nervous trepidation, and many 
 fears lest the desired object should he lost through 
 her own maladroit management. With her, 
 there was at least no doubt as to the thing to be 
 done — no hesitation as to the desirability of se- 
 curing Harry Clavering for the Burton faction. 
 Every thing in her mind was to be forgiven to 
 Harry, and he was to be received by them all 
 with open arms and loving caresses, if he would 
 only abandon Lady Ongar altogether. To se- 
 cure her lover for Florence was Mrs. Burton's 
 single and simple object. She raised no ques- 
 tions now within her own breast as to whether 
 Harry would make a good husband. Any such 
 question as that should have been asked and an- 
 swered before he had been accepted at Stratton. 
 The thing to be done now was to bring Harry 
 and Florence together, and — since such terrible 
 dangers were intervening — to make them man 
 and wife with as little farther dellay as might be 
 possible. The name of Lady Ongar was odious 
 to her. When men went astray in matters of 
 love it was within the power of Cecilia Burton's 
 heart to forgive them ; but she could not par- 
 don women that so sinned. This countess had 
 once jilted HaiTy, and that was enough to se- 
 cure her condemnation. And, since that, what 
 terrible things had been said of her ! And dear, 
 uncharitable Cecilia Burton was apt to think, 
 when evil was spoken of women — of women 
 whom she did not know — that there could not 
 be smoke without fire. And now this woman 
 was a widow witha large fortune, and wanted a 
 husband 1 What business had any widow to 
 want a husband? It is so easy for wives to 
 
 speak and think after that fashion when they 
 are satisfied with their own ventures. 
 
 It was arranged that when Harry came to 
 the door, Mrs. Burton should go up alone to the 
 drawing-room and receive him there, remaining 
 with her husband in the dining-room till he 
 should come. Twice while sitting down stairs 
 after the cloth was gone she ran up stairs with 
 the avowed purpose of going into the nursery, 
 but in truth that she might see that the room 
 was comfortable, that it looked pretty, and that 
 the chairs were so arranged as to be convenient. 
 The two eldest children were with them in the 
 parlor, and when she started on her second er- 
 rand Cissy reminded her that baby would be 
 asleep. 'Theodore, who understood the little 
 manoeuvre, smiled but said nothing, and his 
 wife, who in such matters was resolute, went 
 and made her farther little changes in the furni- 
 ture. At last there came the knock at the door 
 — the expected knock — a knock which told some- 
 thing of the hesitating, unhappy mind of him 
 who had rapped, and Mrs. Burton started on 
 her business. "Tell him just simply why you 
 are there alone," said her husband. 
 
 "Is it Harry Clavering?" Cissy asked, "and 
 mayn't I go?" 
 
 "It is Harry Clavering," her father said, 
 "and you may not go. ■ Indeed, it is time 'you 
 went somewhere else." 
 
 It was Harry Clavering. He had not spent 
 a pleasant day since he had left Mr. Beilby's 
 offices in the morning, and, now that he had 
 come to Onslow Crescent, he did not expect to 
 spend a pleasant evening. When I declare that 
 as yet he had not come to any firm resolution, 
 I fear that he will be held as being too weak for 
 the r61e of hero even in such pages as these. 
 Perhaps no tenns have been so injurious to the 
 profession of the novelist as those two words, 
 hero and heroine. In spite of the latitude which 
 is allowed to the writer in putting his own in- 
 terpretation upon these words, something heroic 
 is still expected ; whereas, if he attempt to paint 
 from Nature, how little that is heroic should he 
 describe ! How many yojing men, subjected to 
 the temptations which had befallen Hariy Cla- 
 vering — how many young men whom you, deli- 
 cate reader, number among your friends — would 
 have come out from them unscathed? A man, 
 you say, delicate reader, a true man can love 
 but one woman — ^but one at a time. So you 
 say, and are so convinced ; but no conviction 
 was ever more false. When a true man has 
 loved with all his heart and all his soul — does 
 he cease to love — does he cleanse his heart of 
 that passion when circumstances run against 
 him, and he is forced to turn elsewhere for his 
 life's companion ? Or is he untrue as a lover 
 in that he does not waste his life in desolation 
 because he has been disappointed ? Or does his 
 old love perish and die away because another 
 has crept into his heart ? No ; the first love, if 
 that was true, is ever there | and should she and 
 he meet after many years, though their heads 
 be gray and their cheeks wrinkled, there will 
 
126 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 still be a touch of the old passion as their hands 
 meet for a moment. Methtnks that love never 
 dies, unless It be murdered by downright ill 
 usage. It may be so murdered, but even ill 
 usage will more often fail than succeed in that 
 enterprise. How, then, could Harry fail to love 
 the woman whom he had loved first, when she 
 returned to him still young, still beautiful, and 
 told him, with all her charms and all her flat- 
 tery, how her lieart stood toward him ? 
 
 But it is not to be thought that I excuse him 
 altogether. A man, though he may love many, 
 should be devoted only to one. The man's feel- 
 ing to the woman whom he is to marry should 
 be this — that not from love only, but from chiv- 
 alry, from manhood, and from duty, he will be 
 prepared always, and at all hazards, to defend 
 her from every misadventure, to struggle ever 
 that she may be happy, to see that no wind 
 blows upon her with needless severity, that no 
 ravening wolf of a misery shall come near her, 
 that her path be swept clean for her — as clean 
 as may be, and that her roof-tree be made firm 
 upon a rock. There is much of this which is 
 quite independent of love — much of it that may 
 be done without love. This is devotion, and 
 it is this which a man owes to the woman who 
 has once promised to be his wife, a'nd has not 
 forfeited her right. Doubtless Harry Clavering 
 should have remembered this at the first moment 
 of his weakness in Lady Ongar's drawing-room. 
 Doubtless he should have known at once that 
 his duty to Florence made it necessary that he 
 should declare his engagement, even though, in 
 doing so, he might have seemed to caution Lady 
 Ongar on that point on which no woman can 
 endure a caution. But the fault was hers, and 
 the caution was needed. No doubt he should 
 not have returned to Bolton Street. He should 
 not have qozened himself by trusting himself to 
 her assurances of friendship ; he should have 
 kept waim his love for the woman to whom his 
 hand was owed, not suffering himself to make 
 comparisons to her injury. He should have 
 been chivalric, manly, full of high duty. He 
 should have been all this, and full also of love, 
 and then he would have been a hero. But men, 
 as I see them, are not often heroic. 
 
 As he entered the room he saw Mrs. Burton 
 at once, and then looked round quickly ibr her 
 husband. "Harry," said she, "I am so glad 
 to see you once again," and she gave him her 
 hand, and smiled on him with theft sweet look 
 which used to make him feel that it was pleas- 
 ant to be near her. He took her hand and mut- 
 tered some word of greeting, and then looked 
 round again for Mr. Burton. " Theodore is not 
 here," she said ; "he thought it better that you 
 and I should have a little talk together. He said 
 you would like it best so ; but perhaps I ought 
 not to tell yon that." 
 
 " I do like it best so — much best. I can 
 speak to you as I could hardly speak to him." 
 
 " What is it, Harry, that ails you ? What 
 has kept you away from us ? Why do you leave 
 poor Plo 60 long without writing to her ? She 
 
 will be here on Monday. Yon will come and. 
 see her then ? or perhaps you will go with me 
 and meet her at the station ?" 
 
 " Burton said that she was coming, but I did 
 not understand that it was so soon." 
 
 "You do not think it too soon, Harry, do 
 you ?" 
 
 " No," said Harry, but his tone belied his as- 
 sertion. At any rate, he had not pretended to 
 display any of a lover's rapture at this prospect 
 of seeing the lady whom he loved. 
 
 " Sit down, Harry. Why do you stand like 
 that, and look so comfortless ? Theodore says 
 that you have some trouble at heart. Is it a 
 trouble that you can tell to a friend such as I 
 am ?" 
 
 " It is very hard to tell. Oh, Mrs.B.urton, I 
 am broken-hearted. Por the last two weeks I 
 have wished that I might die." 
 
 "Do not say that, Harry; that would be 
 wicked." 
 
 " Wicked or not, it is true. I have been so 
 wretched that I have not known how to hold 
 myself. I could not bring myself to write to 
 Florence." 
 
 "But why not? Yon do not mean that you 
 are false to Florence ? You can not mean that. 
 Harry, say at once that it is not so, and I will 
 promise you her forgiveness, Theodore's for- 
 giveness, all our forgiveness for any thing else. 
 Oh, Harry, say any thing but that." ' In answer 
 to this Harry Clavering had nothing to say, but 
 sat with his head resting on his arm and his 
 face turned away from her. " Speak, Harry ; 
 if you are a man, say something. Is it so? If 
 it be so, I believe that you will have killed her. 
 Why do you not speak to me? Harry Claver- 
 ing, tell me what is the truth." 
 
 Then he told her all his story, not looking 
 her once in the face, not changing his voice, 
 suppressing his emotion till he came to the his- 
 tory of the present days. He described to her 
 how he had loved Julia Brabazon, and how his 
 love had been treated by her ; how he had 
 sworn to himself, when he knew that she had in 
 trath become that lord's wife, that for her sake 
 he would keep himself from loving any other 
 woman. Then he spoke of his first days at 
 Stratton and of his early acquaintance with Flor- 
 ence, and told her how different had been his 
 second love ; how it had grown gradually and 
 with no check to his confidence, till he felt sure 
 that the sweet girl who was so often near him 
 would, if he could win her, be to him a source 
 of joy for all his life. "And so she shall,"said 
 Cecilia, with tears running down her cheeks ; 
 "she shall do so yet." And he went on with 
 his tale, saying how pleasant it had been for him 
 tofindhimselfathomein Onslow Crescent ; how 
 he had joyed in calling her Cecilia, and hav- 
 ing her infants in his arms, as though they were 
 already partly belonging to him. And he told 
 her how he had met the young widow at the 
 station, having employed hintself on her behalf 
 at her sister's instance ; and how cold she had 
 been to him, offending him by her silence and 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 137 
 
 sombre pride. " False woman 1 " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Burton. " Oh, Cecilia, do not abuse her 
 — do not say a word till you know all." " I 
 know that she is false," said Mrs. Burton, with 
 vehement indignation. "She is not false," 
 said Harry ; " if there be falsehood, it is mine." 
 Then he went on, and said how different she 
 was when next he saw her. How then he un- 
 derstood that her solemn and haughty manner 
 had been almost forced on her by the mode of 
 her return, with no other friend to meet her. 
 " She has deserved no friend," said Mrs. Bur- 
 ton. "You wrong her," said Harry ; "you do 
 not know her. If any woman has been ever 
 sinned against, it is she." 
 
 " But was she not false from the very first — 
 false, that she might become rich by marrying 
 a man that she did not love ? Will you speak 
 up for her after that ? Oh, Harry, think of it." 
 
 " I will speak up for her," said Harry ; and 
 now it seemed for the first time that something 
 of his old boldness had returned to him. "I 
 will speak up for her, although she did as you 
 say, because she has suffered as few women have 
 been made to suffer, and because she has re- 
 pented in ashes as few women are called on to 
 repent." And now, as he warmed with his feel- 
 ing for her, he uttered his words faster and with 
 less of shame in his voice. He described how 
 he had gone again and again to Bolton Street, 
 thinking no evil, till — till — till something of the 
 old feeling had come back upon him. He 
 meant to be true in his story, but I doubt wheth- 
 er he told all the truth. How could he tell it 
 all ? How could he confess that the blaze of 
 the woman's womanhood, the flame of her beau- 
 ty, and the fire engendered by her mingled 
 rank and suffering, had singed him and burned 
 him up, poor moth that he was? "And then 
 at last I learned,'' said he, " that — that she had 
 loved me more than I had believed." 
 
 " And is Florence to suffer because she has 
 postponed her love of you to her love of money f" 
 
 "Mrs. Burton, if you do not understand it 
 now, I do not know that I can tell you more. 
 Florence alone in this matter is altogether good. 
 Lady Ongar has been wrong, and I have been 
 wrong. I sometimes think that Florence is too 
 good for me." 
 
 " It is for her to say that, if it be necessary." 
 
 ' ' I have told you 'all now, and you will know 
 why I have not come to you." 
 
 "No, Harry, you have not told me all. 
 Have you told that — woman that she should be 
 your wife?" To this question he made no im- 
 mediate answer, and she repeated it. "Tell 
 me ; have you told her you would marry her?" 
 
 "I did tell her so." 
 
 "And you will keep your word to her?" 
 Harry, as he heard the words, was struck with 
 awe that there should be such vehemence, such 
 anger, in the voice of so gentle a woman as Ce- 
 cilia Burton. "Answer me, sir, do you mean 
 to marry this — countess ?" But still he made 
 no answer. "I do not wonder that you can 
 not speak," she said. " Oh, Florence— oh, my 
 
 darling — my lost, broken-hearted angel !" Then 
 slie turned away heuface and wept. 
 
 "Cecilia," he said, attempting to approach 
 her with his hand, without rising from his 
 chair. 
 
 "No, sir; when I desired you to call me so, 
 It was because I thought you were to be a broth- 
 er. I did not think that there could be a thing 
 so weak as you. Perhaps you had better go 
 now, lest you should meet my husband in his 
 wrath, and he should spurn you." 
 
 But Harry Clavering still sat in his chair, 
 motionless — motionless, and without a word. 
 After a while he turned his face toward her, and 
 even in her own misery she was stricken by the 
 wretchedness of his countenance. Suddenly 
 she rose quickly from her chair, and coming 
 close to him, threw herself on her knees before 
 him. "Harry," she said, "Harry, it is not yet 
 too late. Be our own Harry again — our dear- 
 est Harry. Say that it shall be so. What is 
 this woman to yon ? What has she done for 
 yon, that for her you should throw aside such a 
 one as our Florence? Is she noble, and good, and 
 pure, and spotless as Florence is ? Will she love 
 you with such love as Florence's ? Will she be- 
 lieve in you as Florence believes? Yes, Har- 
 ry, she believes yet. She knows nothing of this, 
 and shall know nothing, if you will only say 
 that you will be true. No one shall know, and 
 I will remember it only to remember your good- 
 ness afterward. Think of it, Harry ; there can 
 be no falseness to one who has been so false to 
 yon. Harry, you will not destroy us all at one 
 blow ?" 
 
 Never before was man so supplicated to take 
 into his arms youth, and beauty, and feminine 
 purity ! And, in truth, he would have yielded 
 — as, indeed, what man would not have yielded 
 — had not Mrs. Burton been interrupted in her 
 prayers. The step of her husband was heard 
 upon the stairs, and she, rising from her knees, 
 whispered quickly, "Do not tell him that it is 
 settled. Let me tell him when you are gone." 
 
 "You two have been a long time together," 
 said Theodore, as he came in. 
 
 ' ' Why did you leave us, then, so long ?" said 
 Mrs. Burton, trying to smile, though the signs 
 of tears were, as she well knew, plain enough. 
 
 "I thought you would have sent for me." 
 
 "Burton," said Harry, "I take it kindly of 
 you. that you allowed me to see your wife alone." 
 
 "Women always understand these things 
 bes^" said he. 
 
 "And you will come again to-morrow, Har- 
 ry, and answer me ray question ?" 
 
 ' ' Not to-morrow. " 
 
 "Florence will be here on Monday." 
 
 "And why should he not come when Flor- 
 ence is here ?" asked Theodore, in an angry 
 tone. 
 
 "Of course he will come; but I want to see 
 him again first. Do I not, Harry ?" 
 
 "I hate mysteries," said Burton. 
 
 "There shall be no mystery," said his wife. 
 " Why did you send him to me, but that there 
 
128 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 are some things difficult to discuss among 
 three ? Will you come to-morrow, Harry ?" 
 
 " Not to-morrow ; but I will write to-morrow 
 — early to-morrow. I will go now, and of 
 course you will tell Burton every thing that I 
 have said. Good-night." They both took his 
 hand, and Cecilia pressed it as she looked with 
 beseeching eyes into his face. What would she 
 not have done to secure the happiness of the sis- 
 ter whom she loved ? On this occasion she had 
 descended low that she might do much. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXIX. 
 
 HOW DAMON PAKTED FKOM PYTHIAS. 
 
 Ladt Ongab, when she left Count Pateroflf 
 at the little fort on the cliff and entered by her- 
 self the gardens belonging to the hotel, had long 
 since made up her mind that there should at last 
 be a positive severance between herself and her 
 devoted Sophie. Tor half an hour she had 
 been walking in silence by the count's side ; and 
 though, of course, she had heard all that he had 
 spoken, she had been able in that time to con- 
 sider much. It must have been through Sophie 
 that the count had heard of her journey to the 
 Isle of Wight; and, worse than that, Sophie 
 must, as she thought, have instigated this pur- 
 suit. In that she wronged her poor friend. 
 Sophie had been simply paid by her brother for 
 giving such information as enabled him to ar- 
 range this meeting. She had not even counsel- 
 ed him to follow Lady Ongar. But now Lady 
 Ongar, in blind wrath, determined that Sophie 
 should be expelled from her bosom. Lady On- 
 gar would find this task of expulsion the less 
 difficult in that she had come to loathe her de- 
 voted friend, and to feel it to be incumbent on 
 her to rid herself of such devotion. Now had 
 arrived the moment in which it might be done. 
 
 And yet there were difficulties. Two ladies 
 living together in Kn inn can not, without much 
 that is disagreeable, send down to the landlord 
 saying that they want separate rooms, because 
 they have taken it into their minds to hate each 
 other. And there would, moreover, be some- 
 thing awkward in saying to Sophie that, though 
 she was discarded, her bill should be paid— for 
 this last and only time. No ; Lady Ongax had 
 already perceived that that would not do. .She 
 would not quarrel with Sophie after that fash- 
 ion. She would leave the Isle of Wight oflrthe 
 following morning early, informing Sophie why 
 she did so, and would offer money to the little 
 Franco-Pole, presuming that it might not be 
 agreeable to the Franco-Pole to be hurried away 
 from her marine or rural happiness so quickly. 
 But in doing this she would be careful to make 
 Sophie understand that Bolton Street was to be 
 closed against her forever afterward. With 
 neither Count Pateroff nor his sister would she 
 ever again willingly place herself in contact. 
 
 It was dark as she entered the house, the 
 walk out, her delay there, and her return hav- 
 
 ing together occupied her thi'ee hours. She had 
 hardly felt the dusk growing on her as she pro- 
 gressed steadily on her way, with that odious 
 man beside her. She had been thinking of 
 other things, and her eyes had accustomed them- 
 selves gradually to the fading twilight. But 
 now, when she saw the glimmer of the lamps 
 from the inn windows, she knew that the night 
 had come upon her, and she began to fear that 
 she had been imprudent in allowing herself to 
 be out so late — imprudent, even had she suc- 
 ceeded in being alone. She went direct to her 
 own room, that, woman-like, she might consult 
 her own face as to the effects of the insult she 
 had received, and then, having, as it were, stead- 
 ied herself, and prepared herself for the scene 
 that was to follow, she descended to the sitting- 
 room and encountered her friend. The friend 
 was the first to speak; and the reader will kind- 
 ly remember that the friend had ample reason 
 for knowing what companion Lady Ongar had 
 been likely to meet upon the downs. 
 
 " Julie, dear, how late you are, " said Sophie, 
 as though she were rather irritated in having 
 been kept so long waiting for her tea. 
 
 "I am late," said Lady Ongar. 
 
 "And don't you think you are imprudent — 
 all alone, you know, dear ; just a leetle impru- 
 dent." 
 
 " Very imprudent, indeed. I have been 
 thinking of that now as I crossed the lawn, and 
 found how dark it was. I have been very im- 
 prudent ; but I have escaped without much in- 
 jury." 
 
 "Escaped! escaped what? Have you es- , 
 caped a cold, or a drunken man ?" 
 
 " Both, as I think." Then she sat down, 
 and, having rung the bell, she ordered tea. 
 
 " There seems to be something very odd with 
 you," said Sophie. " I do not quite understand 
 you." 
 
 ' ' When did you see your brother last ?" Lady 
 Ongar asked. 
 
 " My brother ?" 
 
 "Yes, Count Pateroff. When did you see 
 him last ?" 
 
 " Why do yon want to know ?" 
 
 " Well, it does not signify, as of course you 
 will not tell me. But will you say when you 
 will see him next ?" 
 
 " How can I tell ?" 
 
 "Will it be to-night?" 
 
 " Julie, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Only this, that I wish you would make him 
 understand that if he has any thing to do con- 
 cerning me, lie might as well do it out of hand. 
 For the last hour — " 
 
 " Then you have seen him ?" 
 
 " Yes ; is not that wonderful ? I have seen 
 him." 
 
 "And why could you not tell him yourself 
 what you had to say ? He and I do not agree 
 about certain things, and I do not like to carry 
 messages to him. And you have seen him here 
 on this sacr€ sea-coast?" 
 
 " Exactly so ; on this sacrd sea-coast. Is it 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 129 
 
 not odd that he shonld have known that I was 
 here — known the very inn we were at — and 
 known, too, whither I was going to-night ?" 
 
 " He would learn that from the servants, my 
 dear." 
 
 " No doubt. He has been good enough to 
 amuse me with mysterious threats as to what he 
 would do to punish me if I would not — " 
 
 "Become his wife ?" suggested Sophie. 
 
 " Exactly. It was very flattering on his part. 
 I certainly do not intend to become his wife." 
 
 "Ah ! you like better that young Clavering 
 who has the other sweetheart. He is younger. 
 That is true." 
 
 " Upon my word, yes. I like my cousin, 
 Harry Clavering, much better than I like your 
 brother ; but, as I take it, that has not much to 
 do with it. I was speaking of your brother's 
 threats. I do not understand them ; but I wish 
 he could be made to understand that if he has 
 any thing to do, he had better go and do it. 
 As for marriage, I would sooner marry the first 
 plowboy I could find in the fields." 
 
 "Julie, you need not insult him." 
 
 " I will have no more of your Julie, and I 
 will have iio more of you." As she said this 
 she rose from her chair and walked about the 
 room. " You have betrayed me, and there shall 
 be an end of it." 
 
 "Betrayed you! what nonsense you talk. 
 In what have I betrayed you ?" 
 
 " You set him upon my track here, though 
 you knew I desired to avoid him." 
 
 " And is that all ? I was coming here to this 
 detestable island, and I told my brother. That 
 is my ofiense — and then you talk of betraying ! 
 Julie, you sometimes are a goose." 
 
 "Very often, no doubt; but, Madame Gor- 
 deloup, if you please, we will be geese apart for 
 the future." 
 
 "Oh, certainly — if you wish it." 
 
 " I do wish it." 
 
 "It can not hurt me. I can choose my 
 friends any where. The world is open to me 
 to go where I please into society. I am not at 
 a loss." 
 
 All this Lady Ongar well understood, but she 
 could bear it without injury to her temper. Such 
 revenge was to be expected from such a woman. 
 " I do not want you to be at a loss," she said. 
 "I only want you to understand that after what 
 has this evening occurred between your brother 
 and me, our acquaintance had better cease." 
 
 " And I am ft) be punished for my brother?" 
 
 " You said just now that it would be no pun- 
 isliment, and I was glad to hear it. Society is, 
 as you sav, open to you, and you will lose noth- 
 ing." 
 
 ' ' Of course society is open to me. Have I 
 committed myself? I am not talked about for 
 my lovers by all the town. Why should I be 
 at a loss ? No." 
 
 "I shall return to London to-morrow by the 
 earliest opportunity. I have already told them 
 so, and have ordered a carriage to go to Yar- 
 mouth at eight." 
 
 I 
 
 " And you leav^ me here, alone !" 
 
 "Your brother is here, Madame Gordeloup." 
 
 " My brother is nothing to me. You know 
 well that. He can come and he can go when 
 he please. I come here to follow you — to be 
 companion to you, to oblige you — and now you 
 say you go and leave me in this detestable bar- 
 rack. If I am here alone, I will be revenged." 
 
 " You shall go back with me, if you wish it." 
 
 " At eight o'clock in the morning — and see, 
 it is now eleven ; while you have been wander- 
 ing about alone with my brother in the dark! 
 No, I will not go so early morning as that. To- 
 morrow is Saturday — ^you was to remain till 
 Tuesday." 
 
 " You may do as you please. I shall go at 
 eight to-morrow." 
 
 "Very well. You go at eight, veiy well. 
 And who will pay for the ' heels' when you are 
 gone. Lady Ongar?" 
 
 "I have already ordered the bill up to-mor- 
 row morning. If you will allow me to oifer you 
 twenty jiounds, that will bring you to London 
 when you please to follow. " 
 
 " Twenty pounds I What is twenty pounds ? 
 No, I will not have your twenty pounds. " And 
 she pushed away from her the two notes which 
 Lady Ongar had already put upon the table. 
 " Who is to pay me for the loss of all my time? 
 Tell me that. I have devoted myself to you. 
 Who will pay me for that ?" 
 
 " Not I, certainly, Madame Gordeloup." 
 
 ''Not you! You will not pay me for my 
 time — for a whole year I have been devoted to 
 you ! You will not pay me, and you send me 
 away in this way ? By Gar, you will be made 
 to pay — through the nose." 
 
 As the interview was becoming unpleasant. 
 Lady Ongar took her candle and went away to 
 bed, leaving the twenty pounds on the table 
 As she left the room she knew that the money 
 was there, but she could not bring herself to pick 
 it up and restore it to her pocket. It was im- 
 probable, she thought, that Madame Gordeloup 
 would lea*e it to the mercy of the waiters ; and 
 the chances were that the notes would go into 
 the pocket for which they were intended. 
 
 And such was the result. Sophie, when she 
 was left alone, got up from her seat, and stood 
 for some moments on the rug, making her cal- 
 culations. That Lady Ongar should be very 
 angry about Count PaterolTs presence Sophie 
 had expected, but she had not expected that her 
 friend's anger would be carried to such extrem- 
 ity that she would pronounce a sentence of ban- 
 ishment for life. But, perhaps, after all, it might 
 be well for Sophie herself that such sentence 
 shonld be carried out. This fool of a woman, 
 with her income, her park, and her rank, was 
 going to give herself — so said Sophie to herself 
 — to a young, handsome, proud pig of a fellow 
 — so Sophie called him — who had already shown 
 himself to be Sophie's enemy, and who would 
 certainly find no place for Sophie Gordeloup 
 within his house. Might it not be well that 
 the quarrel should be consummated now, such 
 
130 
 
 THE CLAVEKINGS. 
 
 compensation being obtained as might possibly 
 be extracted? Sophie certainly knew a good 
 deal which it might be for the convenience of 
 ihe future husband to keep dark, or convenient 
 for the future wife that the future husband 
 should not know. Terms might be yet had, 
 
 came a little despondent after long calculation 
 —Sophie herself might acknowledge herself to 
 be wrong, begging pardon, and weeping on her 
 friend's neck. Perhaps it might be worth while 
 to make some farther calculation in bed. Then 
 Sophie, softly drawing the notes toward her as a 
 
 How Damon parted from Pythias. 
 
 although Lady Ongar had refused to pay any 
 thing beyond that trumpery twenty pounds. 
 Terms might be had ; or, indeed, it might be 
 that Lady Ongar herself, when her anger was 
 over, might sue for a reconciliation. Or Sophie 
 — and this idea occurred as Sophie herself be- 
 
 cat might have done, and hiding them some- 
 where about her person, also went to Tier room. 
 In the morning Lady Ongar prepared herself 
 for starting at eight o'clock, and, as a part of 
 that preparation, had her breakfast brought to 
 her up stairs. When the time was up, she do- 
 
THE CLAVEHINGS. 
 
 131 
 
 scended to the sitting-room on the way to the 
 carriage, and there she found Sophie also pre- 
 pared for a journey. 
 
 "lam going too. You will let me go?" 
 said Sophie. 
 
 ' ' Certainly," said Lady Ongar. ' ' I proposed 
 to yon to do so yesterday." 
 
 "You should not be so hard upon your poor 
 friend," said Sophie. This was said in the 
 hearing of Lady Ongar's maid and of two wait- 
 ers, and Lady Ongar made no reply to it, 
 When they were in the carriage together, the 
 maid being then stowed away in a dickey or 
 rumble behind, Sophie again whined and was 
 -repentant. "Julie, you should not be so hard 
 upon your poor Sophie." 
 
 "It seems to me that the hardest things 
 said were spoken by you." 
 
 "Then I will beg your pardon. I am im- 
 pulsive. I do not restrain myself. When I 
 am angrj' I say I know not what. If I said any 
 words that were wrong, I will apologize, and 
 beg to be* forgiven — there — on my knees." 
 And, as she spoke, the adroit little woman con- 
 trived to get herself down upon her knees on 
 the floor of the carriage. "There; say that I 
 am forgiven ; say that Sopliie is pardoned." 
 The little woman had calculated that even 
 should her Julie pardon her, Julie would hard- 
 ly condescend to ask for the two ten- pound 
 notes. 
 
 But Lady Ongar had stoutly determined that 
 there should be no farther intimacy, and had 
 reflected that n, better occasion for a quarrel 
 could hardly be vouchsafed to her than that af- 
 forded by Sophie's treachery in bringing her 
 brother down to Freshwater. She was too 
 strong, and too much mistress of her will, to be 
 cheated now out of her advantage. "Madame 
 Gordeloup, that attitude is absurd : I beg you 
 will get up." 
 
 "Never — never till you have pardoned me." 
 And Sophie crouched still lower, till she was all 
 among the dressing-cases and little bags at the 
 bottom of the carriage. " I will not get up 
 till you say the words, ' Sophie, dear, I forgive 
 you.'" 
 
 " Then I fear you will have an uncomforta- 
 ble drive. Luckily, it will be very short. It is 
 only half an hour to Yarmouth." 
 
 " And I will kneel again on board the pack- 
 et ; and on the — what you call, platform — and 
 in the railway carriage — and in the street. I 
 will kneel to my Julie every where till she say, 
 ' Sophie, dear, I forgive you !' " 
 
 "Madame Gordeloup, pray understand me; 
 between you and me there shall be no farther 
 intimacy." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Certainly not. No farther explanation is 
 necessary, but our intimacy has certainly come 
 to an end." 
 
 "It has." , 
 
 "Undoubtedly." 
 
 " Julie 1" 
 
 " That is such nonsense. Madame Gorde- 
 
 loup, you are disgracing yourself by your pro- 
 ceedings." 
 
 " Oh ! disgracing myself, am I ?" In saying 
 this, Sophie picked herself up from among the 
 dressing-cases and recovered her seat. "I am 
 disgracing myself! Well, I know very well 
 whose disgrace is the most talked about in the 
 world, yours or mine. Disgracing myself— and 
 from you ? What did your husband say of you 
 himself?" 
 
 Lady Ongar began to feel that even a very 
 short journey might be too long. Sophie was 
 now quite up, and was wriggling herself on her 
 seat, adjusting her clothes, which her late atti- 
 tude had disarranged, not in the most graceful 
 manner. 
 
 "You shall see," she continued — "yes, you 
 shall see. Tell me of disgrace ! I have only 
 disgraced myself by being with you. Ah ! — 
 very well. Yes, I will get out. As for being 
 quiet, I shall be quiet whenever I like it. I 
 know when to talk and when to hold my tongue. 
 Disgrace!" So saying, she stepped out of the 
 carriage, leaning on the arm of a boatman who 
 had come, to the door, and who had heard her 
 last words. 
 
 It may be imagined that all this did not con- 
 tribute much to the comfort of Lady Ongar. 
 They were now on the little pier at Yarmouth, 
 and in five minutes every one there knew who 
 she was, and knew also that there had been 
 some disagreement between her and the little 
 foreigner. The eyes of the boatmen, and of 
 the drivers, and of the other travelers, and of 
 the natives going over to the market at Ly- 
 mington, were all on her, and the eyes also of 
 all the idlers of Yarmouth who had congregated 
 there to watch the dispatch of the early boat. 
 But she bore it well, seating herself, with her 
 maid beside her, on one of the benches on the 
 deck, and waiting there with patience till the 
 boat should start. Sophie once or twice mut- 
 tered the word " disgrace !" but beyondthat she 
 remained silent. 
 
 They crossed over the little channel without 
 a word, and without a word made their way up 
 to the railway station. Lady Ongar had been 
 too confused to get tickets for their journey at 
 Yarmouth, but had paid on board the boat for 
 the passage of the three persons — herself, her 
 maid, and Sophie. But, at the station at Ly- 
 mington, the more important business of taking 
 tickets for the journey to London became nec- 
 essary. Lady Ongar had thought of this on 
 her journey across the water, and, when at the 
 railway station, gave her purse to her maid, 
 whispering her orders. The girl took three 
 first-class tickets, and then going gently up to 
 Madame Gordeloup, offered one to that lady. 
 " Ah ! yes ; very well ; I understand," said So- 
 phie, taking the ticket. "I shall take this;" 
 and she held the ticket up in her hand, as 
 though she had some specially mysterious pur- 
 pose in accepting it. • 
 
 She got into the same carriage with Lady 
 Ongar and her maid, but spoke no word on her 
 
132 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 journey up to London. At Basingstoke she 
 had a glass of sherry, for which Lady Ongar's 
 maid paid. Lady Ongar had telegraphed for 
 lier carriage, which was waiting for her, but So- 
 phie betook herself to a cab. " Shall I pay the 
 ■cabman, ma'am ?" said the maid. " Yes," said 
 Sophie, " or stop. It will be half a crown. You 
 had better give me the half crown." The maid 
 did so, and in this way the careful Sophie added 
 another shilling to her store, over and above the 
 twenty pounds, knowing well that the fare to 
 Mount Street was eighteen-pence. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 DOODLES IN MOUNT STKEET. 
 
 Captain Clavehing and Captain Boodle had, 
 as may be imagined, discussed at great length 
 and with much frequency the results of the for- 
 mer captain's negotiations with the Russian spy, 
 and it had been declared strongly by the latter 
 captain, and ultimately admitted by the former, 
 that those results were not satisfactory. Sev- 
 enty pounds had been expended, and, so to say, 
 nothing had been accomplished. It was in vain 
 that Archie, unwilling to have it thought that 
 he had been worsted in diplomacy, argued that 
 with these political personages, and especially 
 with Russian political personages, the ambages 
 were every thing ; that the preliminaries were, 
 in fact, the whole, and that when they were ar- 
 ranged the thing was done. Doodles proved to 
 ilemonstration that the thing was not done, and 
 that seventy pounds was too much for mere 
 preliminaries. "My dear fellow," he said, speak- 
 ing I fear with some scorn in his voice, "where 
 are you? That's wliati want to know. Where 
 are you ? Just nowhere." This was true. All 
 that Archie had received from Madame Gorde- 
 loup in return for his last payment was an inti- 
 mation that no immediate day could be at pres- 
 ent named for a renewal of his personal attack 
 upon the countess, but that a day might be 
 named when he should next come to Mount 
 Street: — provision, of course, being made that he 
 should come with a due qualification under his 
 glove. Now the original basis on which Archie 
 was to cany on his suit had been arranged to be 
 this, that Lady Ongar should be made to know 
 that he was there; and the way in which Doo- 
 dles had illustrated this precept by the artistic 
 and allegorical use of his heel was still fresh in 
 Archie's memory. The meeting in which they 
 liad come to that satisfactory understanding had 
 taken place early in the spring, and now June 
 was coming on, and the countess certainly did 
 not as yet know that her suitor was there. If 
 any thing was to be done by the Russian spy it 
 should be done quickly, and Doodles did not 
 refrain from expressing his opinion that his 
 frienfl was "putting his foot into it," and 
 "making a mull of the whole thing." Now 
 Archie Clavoring was a man not eaten up by 
 
 the vice of self-confidence, but prone rather to 
 lean upon his friends, and anxious for the aid of 
 counsel in di£Sculty. 
 
 "What the devil is a fellow to do?" he ask- 
 ed. "Perhaps I had better give it all up. 
 Every body says that she is as proud as Lucifer ; 
 and, after all, nobody knows what rigs she has 
 been up to." 
 
 But this was by no means the view which 
 Doodles was inclined to take. He was a man 
 who in the field never gave up a race because 
 he was thrown out at the start, having per- 
 ceived that patience would achieve as much, 
 perhaps, as impetuosity. He had ridden many 
 a waiting race, and had won some of them. He 
 was never so sure of his hand at billiards as 
 when the score was strong against him. "Al- 
 ways fight while there is any fight left in you," 
 was a maxim with him. He never surrendered 
 a bet as lost till the evidence as to the facts was 
 quite conclusive, and had taught himself to re- 
 gard any chance, be it ever so remote, as a kind 
 of property. 
 
 ' ' Never say die," was his answer to Archie's 
 remark. "You see, Clavvy, you have still a 
 few good cards, and you can never know what a 
 woman really means till you have popped your- 
 self. As to what she did when she was away, 
 and all that, you see, when a woman has got 
 seven thousand a year in her own right, it cov- 
 ers a multitude of sins." 
 
 " Of course, I know that." 
 
 "And why should a fellow be uncharitable? 
 If a man is to believe all that he hears, by Geoi-ge, 
 they're all much of a muchness. For my part 
 I never believe any thing. I always suppose 
 every horse will run to win ; and though there 
 may be a cross now and again, that's the surest 
 line to go upon. D'you understand me now?" 
 Archie said that of course he understood him ; 
 but I fancy that Doodles had gone a little too 
 deep for Archie's intellect. 
 
 "I should say, drop this woman, and go at 
 the widow yourself at once." 
 
 ' ' And lose all my seventy pounds for noth- 
 ing!" 
 
 "You're not soft enough to suppose that you'll 
 ever get it back again, I hope ?" Archie as- 
 sured his friend that he was not soft enough 
 for any such hope as that, and then the two re- 
 mained silent for a while, deeply considering 
 the posture of the affair. " I'll tell you what 
 I'll do for you," said Doodles ; " and, upon my 
 word, I think it will be the best thing." 
 
 " And what's that ?" 
 
 "I'll go to this woman myself." 
 
 ' ' What— to Lady Ongar ?" 
 
 " No, but to the spy, as you call her. Prin- 
 ciples are never the best for this kind of work. 
 When a man has to pay the money himself, he 
 can never make so good a bargain as another 
 can make for him. That stands to reason. 
 And I can be blunter with her ■about it than 
 you can — can go straight at it, you know ; and 
 you may bo sure of this, she won't get any mon- 
 .ey from me, unless I get the marbles for it." 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 133 
 
 " You'll take some with you, then ?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; that is, if it's convenient. We 
 were talking of going two or three hundred 
 pounds, you know, and you've only gone seven- 
 ty as yet. Suppose you hand me over the odd 
 thirty. If she gets it out of me easy, tell me 
 my name isn't Boodle." 
 
 There was much in this that was distasteful 
 to Captain Olavering, but at last he submitted, 
 and handed over the thirty pounds to his friend. 
 Then there was considerable doubt whether the 
 embassador should announce himself by a note, 
 but it was decided at last that his arrival should 
 not be expected. If he did not find the lady at 
 home or disengaged on the first visit, or on the 
 second, he might on the third or the fourth. 
 He was a persistent, patient little man, and as- 
 sured his friend that he would certainly see Ma- 
 dame Gordeloup before a week had passed over 
 their heads. 
 
 On the occasion of his first visit to Mount 
 Street, Sophie Gordeloup was enjoying her re- 
 treat in the Isle of Wight. When he called the 
 second time she was in bed, the fatigue of her 
 journey on the previous day — the day on which 
 she had actually risen at seven o'clock in the 
 morning — having oppressed her much. She 
 had returned in the cab alone, and had occupied 
 herself much on the same evening. Now that 
 she was to be parted from her Julie, it was need- 
 ful that she should be occupied. She wrote a 
 long letter to her brother — much more confiden- 
 tial than her letters to him had lately been — 
 telling him how much she had suffered on his 
 behalf, and describing to him with great energy 
 the perverseness, malignity, and general pig- 
 headedness of her late friend. Then she wrote 
 an anonymous letter to Mrs. Burton, whose name 
 and address she had learned, after having ascer- 
 tained from Archie the fact of Harry Clavering's 
 engagement. In this letter she described the 
 wretched wiles by which that horrid woman, 
 Lady Ongar, was straggling to keep Harry and 
 Miss Barton apart. "It is very bad, but it is 
 true, "said the diligent little woman. " She has 
 been seen in his embrace ; I know it." After 
 that she dressed and went out into society 
 — the society of which she had boasted as being 
 open to her — to the house of some hanger-on of 
 some embassy, and listened, and whispered, and 
 laughed when some old sinner joked with her, 
 and talked poetry to a young man who was fool- 
 ish and lame, but who had some money, and got 
 11 glass of wine and a cake for nothing, and so 
 was very busy ; and on her return home palcu- 
 lated that her cab-hire for the evening had been 
 judiciously spent. But her diligence had been 
 so great that when Captain Boodle called the 
 next morning at twelve o'clock she was still in 
 bed. Had she been in dear Paris, or in dearer 
 Vienna, that would have not hindered her fmm 
 receiving the visit; but in pigheaded London this 
 could not be done ; and, therefore, when she had 
 duly scrutinized Captain Boodle's card, and had 
 learned from the servant that Captain Boodle 
 desired to see herself on very particular busi- 
 
 ness, she made an appointment with him for the 
 following day. 
 
 On the following day at the same hour Doo- 
 dles came and was shown up into her room. 
 He had scrupulously avoided any smartness of 
 apparel, calculating that a Newmarket costume 
 would be, of all dresses, the most efficacious in 
 filling her with an idea of his smartness ; where- 
 as Archie had probably injured himself much by 
 his polished leather boots, and general newness 
 of clothing. Doodles, therefore, wore a cut-away 
 coat, a colored shirt with a fogle round his neck, 
 old brown trowsers that fitted very tightly round 
 his legs, and was careful to take no gloves with 
 him. He was a man with a small bullet head, 
 who wore his hair cut very short, and had no 
 other beard than a slight appendage on his low- 
 er chin. He certainly did possess a considera- 
 ble look of smartness, and when he would knit 
 his brows and nod his head, some men were apt 
 to think that it was not easy to get on the soft 
 side of him. 
 
 Sophie on this occasion was not arrayed with 
 that becoming negligence which had graced her 
 appearance when Captain Clavering had called. 
 She knew that a visitor was coming, and the 
 questionably white wrapper had been exchanged 
 for an ordinary dress. 'This was regretted, rath- 
 er than otherwise, by Captain Boodle, who had 
 received from Archie a description of the lady's 
 appearance, and who had been anxious to see 
 the spy in her proper and peculiar habiliments. 
 It must be remembered that Sophie knew noth- 
 ing of her present visitor, and was altogether 
 unaware that he was in any way connected with 
 Captain Clavering. 
 
 "You are Captain Boddle," she said, looking 
 hard at Doodles, as he bowed to her on entering 
 the room. 
 
 "Captain Boodle, ma'am, at your service." 
 
 "Oh, Captain Bood-dle ; it is English name, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 " Certainly, ma'am, certainly. Altogether 
 English, I believe. Our Boodles come out of 
 Warwickshire ; small property near Leaming- 
 ton — doosed small, I'm sorry to say." 
 
 She looked at him very hard, and was alto- 
 gether unable to discover what was the nature 
 or probable mode of life of the young man be- 
 fore her. She had lived much in England, and 
 had known Englishmen of many classes, but she 
 could not remember that she had ever become 
 conversant with such a one as he who was now 
 before her. Was he a gentleman, or might he 
 be a house-breaker? "A doosed small prop- 
 erty near Leamington, " she said, repeating the 
 words after him. " Oh !" 
 
 "But my visit to you, ma'am, has nothing to 
 do with that." 
 
 "Nothing to do with the small property." 
 
 "Nothing in life." 
 
 "Then, Captain Bood-dle, what may it have 
 to do with?" 
 
 Hereupon Doodles took a chair, not having 
 been invited to go through that ceremony. Ac- 
 cording to the theory created in her mind at the 
 
134 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 instant, this man was not at all like an English 
 captain. Captain is an unfortunate title, some- 
 what equivalent to the foreign count — unfortu- 
 nate in this respect, that it is easily adopted by 
 many whose claims to it are very slight. Archie 
 Clavering, with his polished leather boots, had 
 looked like a captain — had come up to her idea 
 of a captain — ^but this man ! The more she re- 
 garded him, the stronger in her mind became 
 the idea of the house-breaker. 
 
 "My business, ma'am, is of a very delicate 
 nature — of a nature very delicate indeed. But I 
 think that you and I, who understand the world, 
 may soon come to understand each other." 
 ' "Oh, you understand the world. Very well, 
 sir. Go on." 
 
 "Now, ma'am, money is money, you know." 
 
 " And a goose is a goose ; but what of that ?" 
 
 " Yes, a goose is a goose, and some people are 
 not geese. Nobody, ma'am, would think of call- 
 ing you a goose." 
 
 " I hope not. It would be so uncivil, even an 
 Englishman would not say it. Will you go 
 on?" 
 
 " I think you have the pleasure of knowing 
 LadyOngar?" ■ 
 
 ' ' Knowing who ?" said Sophie, almost shriek- 
 ing. 
 
 "Lady Ongar." 
 
 During the last day or two Sophie's mind had 
 been concerned very much with her dear Julie, 
 but had not been concerned at all with the af- 
 fairs of Captain Clavering, and, therefore, when 
 Lady Ongar's name was mentioned, her mind 
 went away altogether to the quarrel, and did not 
 once refer itself to the captain. Could it be 
 that this was an attorney, and was it possible 
 that Julie would be mean enough to make 
 claims upon her? Claims might be made for 
 more than those twenty pounds. " And you," 
 she said, "do you know Lady Ongar ?" 
 
 " I have not that honor myself." 
 
 " Oh, you have not ; and do you want to be 
 introduced ?" 
 
 "Not exactly — not at present; at some fu- 
 ture day I shall hope to have the pleasure. 
 But I am right in believing that she and you 
 are very intimate ? Now what are you going to 
 do for my friend Archie Clavering ?" 
 
 "Oh-h-h !" exclaimed Sophie. 
 
 "Yes. What are you going to do for my 
 friend Archie Clavering ? Seventy pounds, you 
 know, ma'am, is a smart bit of money ! " 
 
 " A smart bit of money, is it? That is what 
 you think on your leetle property down in War- 
 wickshire." 
 
 " It isn't ray property, ma'am, at all. It be- 
 longs to my uncle." 
 
 " Oh, it is your uncle that has the leetle 
 property. And what had your uncle to do with 
 Lady Ongar? What is your uncle to your 
 friend Archie ?" 
 
 " Nothing at all, ma'am — nothing on earth." 
 
 " Then why do you tell me all this rigmarole 
 about your uncle and his leetle property, and 
 Warwickshire? What have I to do with your 
 
 uncle ? Sir, I do not understand you — not at 
 all. Nor do I know why I have the honor to see 
 you here. Captain Bood-dle." 
 
 Even Doodles, redoubtable as he was — even 
 he, with all his smartness, felt that he was over- 
 come, and that this woman was too much for 
 him. He was altogether perplexed, as he could 
 not perceive whether, in all her tirade about the 
 little property, she had really misunderstood 
 him, and had In truth thought that he had been 
 talking about his uncle, or whether the whole 
 thing was cunning on her part. The reader, 
 perhaps, will have a more correct idea of this 
 lady than Captain Boodle had been able to ob- 
 tain. She had now risen from her sofa, and 
 was standing as though she expected him to go ; 
 but he had not as yet opened the budget of his 
 business. 
 
 "I am here, ma'am," said he, "to speak to 
 you about my friend, Captain Clavering." 
 
 "Then you can go back to your friend, and 
 tell him I have nothing to say. And more than 
 that^CaptainBood-dle"— the woman intensified 
 the name in a most disgusting manner, with the 
 evident purpose of annoying him ; of that he 
 had become quite sure — "more than that, his 
 sending you here is an impertinence. Will you 
 tell him that ?" 
 
 "No, ma'am, I will not." 
 
 "Perhaps you are his laquais," continued the 
 inexhaustible Sophie, "and are obliged to come 
 when he send you?" 
 
 "I am no man's laqnais, ma'am." 
 
 " If so, I do not blame you ; or, perhaps, it is 
 your way to make your love third or fourth hand 
 down in Warwickshire ?" 
 
 "Damn Warwickshire!" said Doodles, who 
 was put beyond himself. 
 
 "With all my heart. Damn Warwickshire." 
 And the horrid woman grinned at him as she 
 repeated his words. ' ' And the leetle property, 
 and the uncle, if you wish it ; and the leetle 
 nephew — and the leetle nephew — and the leetle 
 nephew !" She stood over him as she repeat- 
 ed the last words with wondrous rapidity, and 
 grinned at him, and grimaced and shook her- 
 self, till Doodles was altogether bewildered. If 
 this was a Knssian spy he would avoid such in 
 future, and keep himself for the milder acerbi- 
 ties of Newmarket and the easier chaff of his 
 club. He looked up into her face at the present 
 moment, striving to think of some words by 
 which he might assist himself. He had as yet 
 performed no part of his mission, but any such 
 performance was now entirely out of the ques- 
 tion. The woman had defied him, and had al- 
 together thrown Clavering overboard. There 
 was no farther question of her services, and there- 
 fore he felt himself to be quite entitled to twit 
 her with the payment she had taken. 
 
 ' ' And how about my friend's seventy pounds ?" 
 said he. 
 
 ' ' How about seventy pounds ! a leetle man 
 comes here and tells me he is a Booddle in War- 
 wickshire, and says he has an uncle with a very 
 leetle property, and asks me how about seventy 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 13r> 
 
 pounds ! Suppose I ask you how about the po- 
 liceman, what will you say then ?" 
 
 "You send for him, and you shall hear what 
 I say." 
 
 "No, not to take away such a leetle man as 
 you. I send for a policeman when I am afraid. 
 Booddle, in Warwickshire, is not a terrible man. 
 Suppose you go to your friend and tell him from 
 me that he have chose a very bad Mercury in 
 his affairs of love — the worst Mercury I ever see. 
 i'erhaps the Warwickshire Mercuries are not 
 very good. Can you tell me. Captain Booddle, 
 how they make love down in Warwickshire ?" 
 
 "And that is all the satisfaction I am to 
 have ?" 
 
 "Who said you was to have satisfaction? 
 Very little satisfaction I should think you ever 
 have, when you come as a Mercury." 
 
 " My friend means to know something about 
 that seventy pounds." 
 
 "Seventy pounds! If you talk to me any 
 more of seventy pounds, I will fly at your face." 
 As she spoke this she jumped across at him as 
 though she were really on the point of attacking 
 him with her nails, and he, in dismay, retreated 
 to the door. "You and yonr seventy pounds! 
 Oh, you English ! What mean mens you are ! 
 Oh ! a Frenchman would despise to do it. Yes ; 
 or a Russian or a Pole. But you — you want it 
 all down in black and white, like a butcher's 
 beel. You know nothing, and understand noth- 
 ing, and can never speak, and can never hold 
 your tongues. You have no head but the head 
 of a bull. A bull can break all the china in a 
 shop — dash, smash, crash- — all the pretty things 
 gone in a minute ! So can an Englishman. 
 Your seventy pounds ! You will come again to 
 me for seventy pounds, I think." In her energy 
 she had acted the bull, and had exhibited her 
 idea of the dashing, the smashing, and the crash- 
 ing by the motion of her head and the waving 
 of her hands. 
 
 ' ' And you decline to say any thing about the 
 seventy pounds?" said Doodles, resolving that 
 his courage should not desert him. 
 
 Whereupon the divine Sophie laughed. "Ha! 
 ha ! ha ! I see you have not got on any gloves, 
 Captain Booddle." 
 
 " Gloves — no. I don't wear gloves." 
 
 ' ' Nor your uncle with the leetle property in 
 Warwickshire ? Captain Clavering, he wears a 
 glove. He is a handy man." Doodles stared 
 at her, understanding nothing of this. "Per- 
 haps it is in your waistcoat pocket," and she ap- 
 proached him fearlessly, as though she were 
 about to deprive him of his watch. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said he, re- 
 treating. 
 
 "Ah! you are not a handy man, like my 
 friend the other captain, so you had better go 
 away. Yes, you had better go to Warwickshire. 
 In Warwickshire, I suppose, they make ready 
 ("or your Michaelmas dinners. You have four 
 months to get fat. Suppose you go away and 
 get fat." 
 
 Doodles understood nothing of her sarcasm. 
 
 but began to perceive that he might as well take 
 his departure. The woman was probably a lu- 
 natic, and his friend Archie had no doubt been 
 grossly deceived when he was sent to her for as- 
 sistance. He had some ftiint idea that the sev- 
 enty pounds might be recovered from such a 
 madwoman ; buttin the recovery his friend would 
 be exposed, and he saw that the money must be 
 abandoned. At any rate, he had not been soft 
 enough to dispose of any more treasure. 
 
 "Good-morning, ma'am," he said, very curtly. 
 
 "Good-morning to you. Captain Booddle. 
 Are you coming again another day ?" 
 
 "Not that I know of, ma'am." 
 
 " You are very vpelcome to stay away. I like 
 your friend the better. Tell him to come and 
 be handy with his glove. As for you, suppose 
 you go to the leetle property." 
 
 Then Captain Boodle went, and, as soon as 
 he had made his way out into the open street, 
 stood still and looked around him, that by the 
 aspect of things familiar to his eyes he might be 
 made certain that he was in a world with which 
 he was conversant. While in that room with 
 the spy he had ceased to remember that he was 
 in London — his own London, within a mile of 
 his club, within a mile of Tattersall's. He had 
 been, as it were, removed to some strange world 
 in which the tact, and courage, and acuteness 
 natural to him had not been of avail to him. 
 Madame Gordeloup had opened a new world to 
 him — a new world of which he desired to make 
 no farther experience. Gradually he began to 
 understand why he had been desired to prepare 
 himself for Michaelmas eating. Gradually some 
 idea about Archie's glove glimmered across his 
 brain. A wonderful woman certainly was the 
 Russian spy — a phenomenon which in future 
 years he might perhaps be glad to remember 
 that he had seen in the flesh. The first race- 
 horse which he might ever own and name hini- 
 self he would certainly call the Russian Spy. 
 In the mean time, as he slowly walked across 
 Berkeley Square, he acknowledged to himself 
 that she was not mad, and acknowledged also 
 that the less said about that seventy pounds the 
 better. From thence he crossed Piccadilly, and 
 sauntered down St. James's Street into Pall 
 Mall, revolving in his mind how he would carry 
 himself with Clavvy. He, at any rate, had his 
 ground for triumph. He had parted with no 
 money, and had ascertained by his own wit that 
 no available assistance from that quarter was to 
 be had in the matter which his friend had in 
 hand. 
 
 It was some hours after this when the two 
 friends met, and at that time Doodles was up to 
 his eyes in chalk and the profitable delights of 
 pool. But Archie was too intent on his busi- 
 ness to pay much regard to his friend's proper 
 avocation. "Well, Doodles," he said, hardly 
 waiting till his embassador had finished his 
 stroke and laid his ball close waxed to one of 
 the cushions, " well, have you seen her?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I've seen her," said Doodles, seat- 
 ing himself on an exalted bench which ran round 
 
136 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 the room, while Archie, with anxious eyes, stood 
 before him. 
 
 "Well?" said Archie. 
 
 " She's a rum 'un. Thank 'ee, GriftRs, you 
 always stand to me like n brick." This was 
 said to a young lieutenant who had failed to hit 
 the captain's ball, and now tendered him a shil- 
 ling with a very bitter look. 
 
 " She is queer," said Arcliie, "certainly." 
 
 "Queer! By George, I'll back her for the 
 queerest bit of horseflesh going any way about 
 these diggings. I thought she was mad at first, 
 but I believe she knows what she's about." 
 
 "She knows what she's about well enough. 
 She's worth all the money, if you can only get 
 her to work." 
 
 " Bosh, my dear fellow.'" 
 
 " Why bosh ? What's up now ?" 
 
 ' ' Bosh ! Bosh ! Bosh ! Me to play, is it ?" 
 Down he went, and, not finding a good open 
 for a hazard, again waxed himself to the cush- 
 ion, to the infinite disgust of Griggs, who did in- 
 deed hit the ball this time, but in such a way as 
 to make the loss of another life from Griggs's 
 original three a matter of certainty. " I don't 
 think it's hardly fair," whispered Griggs to a 
 ■friend, " a man playing always for safety. It's 
 not the game I like, and I sha'n't play at the 
 same table with Doodles any more." 
 
 "It's all bosh," repeated Doodles, coming 
 back to his seat. " She don't moan to do any 
 thing, and never did. I've found her out." 
 
 "Found out what?" 
 
 " She's been laughing at you. She got your 
 money out from under your glove, didn't she ?" 
 
 "Well, I did put it there." 
 
 "Of course you did. I knew that I should 
 find out what was what if I once went there. I 
 got it all out of her. But, by George, what a wom- 
 an she is ! She swore at me to my very face." 
 
 " Swore at you ! In French, you mean ?" 
 
 "No, not in French at all, but damned mo 
 in downright English. By George ! how I did 
 laugh — me and every body belonging to me. 
 I'm blessed if she didn't." 
 
 ' ' There was nothing like that about her when 
 I saw her." 
 
 "You didn't turn her inside out as I've 
 done; but stop half a moment." Then he de- 
 scended, chalked away at his cue hastily, pock- 
 eted a shilling or two, and returned. "You 
 didn't turn her inside out as I've done. I tell 
 you, Olavvy, there's nothing to be done there, 
 and there never was. If you'd kept on going 
 yourself she'd have drained yon as dry — as dry 
 as that table. There's your thirty pounds back, 
 and, upon ray word, old fellow, you ought to 
 thank me." 
 
 Archie did thank him, and Doodles was not 
 without his triumph. Of the frequent references 
 to Warwickshire which he had been forrfed to 
 endure, he said nothing, nor yet of the reference 
 to Michaelmas dinners; and, gradually, as he 
 came to talk frequently to Archie of the Bnssian 
 spy, and perhaps also to one or two other* gf his 
 more intimate friends, he began to convince him- 
 
 self that he really had wormed the truth out of 
 Madame Gordelonp, and got altogether the bet- 
 ter of that lady in a very wonderful way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 HAKET CLAVEKING'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Hakkt Clavering, when he went away from 
 Onslow Crescent after his interview with Cecilia 
 Burton, was a wretched, pitiable man. He had 
 told the truth of himself, as far as he was able 
 to tell it, to a woman whom he thoroughly es- 
 teemed, and, having done so, was convinced that 
 she could no longer entertain any respect for 
 him. He had laid bare to her all his weakness, 
 and for a moment she had spurned him. It 
 was true that she had again reconciled herself 
 to him, struggling to save both him and her sis- 
 ter from future misery — that she had even con- 
 descended to implore him to be gracious to Flor- 
 ence, taking that which to her mind seemed then 
 to be the surest path to her object ; but not the 
 less did he feel that she must despise him. 
 Having promised his hand to one woman — to a 
 woman whom he still professed that he loved 
 dearly — he had allowed himself to be cheated 
 into offering it to another. And he knew that 
 the cheating had been his own. It was he who 
 had done the evil. Julia, in showing her affec- 
 tion for him, had tendered her love to a man 
 whom she believed to be free. He had intend- 
 ed to walk straight. He had not allowed him- 
 self to be enamored of the wealth possessed by 
 this woman who had thrown herself at his feet 
 But he had been so weak that he had fallen in 
 his own despite. 
 
THE CLAVERIKGS. 
 
 137 
 
 There is, I suppose, no yonng man possessed 
 of average talents and average education who 
 does not early in life lay out for himself some 
 career with more or less precision — some career 
 which is high in its ten,dencies and noble in its 
 aspirations, and to which he is afterward com- 
 pelled to compare the circumstances of the life 
 which he shapes for himself. In doing this he 
 may not attempt, perhaps, to lay down for him- 
 self any prescribed amount of success which he 
 will endeavor to reach, or even the very pathway 
 by which he will strive to be successful ; but he 
 will tell himself what are the vices which he will 
 avoid, and what the virtues which he will strive 
 to attain. Few yonng men ever did this with 
 more precision than it had been done by Harry 
 Clavering, and few with more self-confidence. 
 Very early in life he had been successful — so 
 successful as to enable him to emancipate him- 
 self not only from his father's absolute control, 
 but almost also from any interference on his fa- 
 ther'sj)art. It had seemed to be admitted that 
 he was a better man than his father, better than 
 the other Claverings — the jewel of the race, the 
 Clavering to whom the family would in future 
 years look up, not as their actual head, but as 
 their strongest prop and most assured support. 
 He had said to himself that he would be an hon- 
 est, truthful, hard-working man, not covetous 
 after money, though conscious that a laborer 
 was worthy of his hire, and conscious also that 
 the better the work done the better should be 
 his wages. Then he had encountered a blow — 
 a heavy blow from a false woman — and he had 
 boasted to himself that he had borne it well, as 
 a man should bear all blows. And now, after 
 all these resolves and all these boastings, he 
 found himself brought by his own weakness to 
 such a pass that he hardly dared to look in the 
 face any of his dearest and most intimate friends. 
 
 He was not remiss in telling himself all this. 
 He did draw the comparison ruthlessly between 
 the character which he had intended to make 
 his own and that which he now had justly earned. ' 
 He did not excuse himself. We are told to love 
 others as ourselves, and it is hard to do so. But 
 I think that we never hate, others, never despise 
 others, as we are sometimes compelled by our 
 own convictions and self-judgment to hate and 
 to despise ourselves. Harry, aa he walked home 
 on this evening, was lost in disgust at his own 
 conduct. He could almost have hit his head 
 against the walls, or thrown himself beneath the 
 wagons as he passed them, so thoroughly was he 
 ashamed of his own life. Even now, on this 
 evening, he had escaped from Onslow Crescent 
 — basely escaped — without having declared any 
 purpose. Twice on this day he had escaped, 
 almost by subterfuges ; once from Burton's of- 
 fice, and now again from Cecilia's presence. 
 How long was this to go on, or how could life 
 he endurable to him under such circumstances? 
 
 In parting from Cecilia, and promising to 
 write at once, and promising to come again in a 
 few days, he had had some idea in his head that 
 he would submit his fate to the arbitrament of 
 
 Lady Ongar. At any rate he must, he thought, 
 see hei', and finally arrange with her what the 
 fate of both of them should be, before he could 
 make any definite statement of his purpose in 
 Onslow Crescent. The last tender of his hand 
 had been made to Julia, and he could not re- 
 new his former promises on Florence's behalf 
 till he had been absolved by Julia. 
 
 This may, at any rate, be pleaded on his be- 
 half—that in all the workings of his mind at 
 this time there was very little of personal van- 
 ity. Very personally vain he had been when 
 Julia Brabazon — the beautiful and noble-born 
 Julia — had first confessed at Clavering that she 
 loved him; but that vanity had been speedily 
 knocked on the head by her conduct to him. 
 Men when they are jilted can hardly be vain of 
 the conquest which has led to such a result. 
 Since that there had been no vanity of that sort. 
 His love to Florence had been open, honest, and 
 satisfactory, but he had not considered himself 
 to have achieved a wonderful triumpli at Strai- 
 ten. And when he found that Lord Ongar's 
 widow still loved him — that he was still regard- 
 ed with affection by the woman who had for- 
 merly wounded him — there was too much of 
 pain, almost of tragedy, in his posMron, to ad- 
 mit of vanity. He would say to himself that, 
 as far as he knew his own heart, he thought he 
 loved Julia the best ; but, nevertheless, he thor- 
 oughly wished that she had not returned from 
 Italy, or that he had not seen her when she had 
 so returned. , 
 
 He had promised to write, and that he would 
 do this very night. He had failed to make Ce- 
 cilia Burton understand what he intended to do, 
 having, indeed, hardly himself resolved ; but be- 
 fore he went to bed he would botli resolve and 
 explain to her his resolution. Immediately, 
 therefore, on his return home, he sat down at 
 his desk with the pen in his hand and the paper 
 before him. 
 
 At last the words came. I can hardly say 
 that they were the product of any fixed resolve 
 made before he commenced the writing. I 
 think that his mind worked more fully when the 
 pen was in his hands than it had done during 
 the hour through which he sat listless, doing 
 nothing, struggling to have « will of his own, 
 but failing. The letter, when it was written, 
 was as follows : 
 
 '■'■ BInomslJury Fquare, Mny, 1S6-. 
 
 "Dearest Mks. BniiTON, — I said that I 
 would write to-morrow, but I am writing now, 
 immediately on my return home. . Whatever 
 else yon may think of me, pray be sure of this, 
 that I am most anxious to make yon know and 
 understand my own position at any rate as well 
 as I do myself. I tried to explain it to yon 
 when I was with you this evening, but I fear 
 that I failed ; and when Mr. Burton came in 1 
 could not say any thing farther. 
 
 "I know that I have behaved very badly to 
 your sister — very badly, even though she should 
 never become aware that I have done so. Kot 
 that that is possible, for if she were to be my 
 
138 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 wife to-morrow I should tell her every thing. 
 But, badly as yon must think of me, I have never 
 for a moment had a premeditated intention to 
 deceive her. I believe yon do know on what 
 terms I had stood with Miss Brabazon before ^ 
 her marriage, and that when she married, what- j 
 ever my feelings might be, there was no self-ac- ! 
 cusation. And after that you know all that 
 took place between me and Florence till the re- 
 turn of Lord Ongar's widow. Up to that time 
 every thing had been fair between us. I had 
 told Florence of my former attachment, and she 
 jirobably thought but little of it. Such things 
 are so common with men ! Some change hap- 
 pens as had happened with me, and a man's 
 second love is often stronger and more worthy 
 of a woman's acceptance than the first. At any 
 rate, she knew it, and there was, so far, an end 
 of it. And you understood, also, how very anx- 
 ious I was to avoid delay in our marriage. No 
 one knows that better than yon — not even Flor- 
 ence — for I have talked it over with you so oft- 
 en ; and you will remember how I have begged 
 you to assist me. I don't blame my darling 
 Florence. She was doing what she deemed 
 best ; but oh, if she had only been guided by 
 what you%nce said to her ! 
 
 "Then Lord Ongar's widow returned; and 
 dear Mrs. Burton, though I fear you think ill of 
 her, you must remember that as far as you know, 
 or I, she has done nothing wrong, has been in 
 no respect false, since her marriage. As to her 
 early conduct to me, she did what many women 
 have done, but what no woman should do. But 
 how can I blame her, knowing how terrible has 
 been my own weakness ! But as to her con- 
 duct since her marriage, I implore you to believe 
 with me that she has been sinned against griev- 
 ously, and has not sinned. Well, as you know, I 
 met her. It was hardly unnatural that I should 
 do so, as we are connected. But whether nat- 
 ural or unnatural, foolish or wise, T went to her 
 often. I thought at first that she must know of 
 my engagement as her sister knew it well, and 
 had met Florence. But she did not know it ; 
 and so, having none near her that she could love, 
 hardly a friend but myself, grievously wronged 
 by the world and her own relatives, thinking that 1 
 with her wealth she could make some amend to : 
 me for her former injury, she — Dear Mrs. Bur- j 
 ton, I think you will understand it now, and will 
 see that she, at least, is free from blame. j 
 
 "I am not defending myself; of course all 
 this should have been without effect on me. 
 But I had loved her so dearly ! I do love her 
 still so dearly! Love like that does not die. I 
 When she left me it was natural that I should ; 
 seek some one else to love. When she returned 
 to me — when I found that in spite of her faults 
 she had loved me through it all, I — I yielded 
 and became false and a traitor. I 
 
 " I say that! love her still ; but I know well 
 that Florence is far the nobler woman of the two. I 
 Florence never could have done what she did. 
 In nature, in mind, in acquirement, in heart, 
 Florence is the better. The man who marries 
 
 Florence must be happy if any woman can make 
 a man happy. Of her of whom I am now speak- 
 ing, I know well that I can not say that. How, 
 then, you will ask, can I be fool enough, having 
 had such a choice, to doubt between the two ! 
 How is it that man doubts between vice and vir- 
 tue, between honor and dishonor, between heav- 
 en and hell ? ^ 
 
 "But all this is nothing to you. I do not 
 know whether Florence would take me now. I 
 am well aware that I have no right to expect 
 that she should. But, if I understood you aright 
 this evening, she, as yet, has heard nothing of 
 all this. What must she think of me for not 
 writing to her ! But I could not bring myself 
 to write in a false spirit ; and how could I tell 
 her all that I have now told to you ? 
 
 " I know that you wish that our engagement 
 should go on. Dear Mrs. Burton, I love you so 
 dearly for wishing it ! Mr. Burton, when he 
 shall have heard every thing, will, I fear, think 
 differently. For me, I feel that I must sqp Lady 
 Ongar before I can again go to your house, and 
 I write now chiefly to tell you that this is what 
 I have determined to do. I believe she is now 
 away, in the Isle of Wight, but I will see her as 
 soon as she returns. After that I will either 
 come to Onslow Crescent or send. Florence 
 will be with you then. She, of course, must 
 know eveiy thing, and you have my permission 
 to show this letter to her if you think well to do 
 so. Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
 " Haeet Claveking." 
 
 This he delivered himself the next morning 
 at the door in Onslow Crescent, taking care not 
 to be there till after Theodore Burton should 
 have gone from home. He left a card also, so 
 that it might be known not only that he had 
 brought it himself, but that he had intended 
 Mrs. Burton to be aware of that fact. Then 
 he went and wandered about, and passed his 
 day in misery, as such men do when they are 
 thoroughly discontented with their own conduct. 
 This was the Saturday on which Lady Ongar 
 returned with her Sophie from the Isle of Wight ; 
 but of that prematnre.return Harry knew nothing, 
 and therefore allowed the Sunday to paps by 
 without going to Bolton Street. On the Mon- 
 day morning he received a letter from home 
 which made it necessary — or induced him to 
 suppose it to be necessary, that he should go 
 home to Clavering, at any rate for one day. 
 This he did on the Monday, sending a line to 
 Mrs. Burton to say whither he was gone, and 
 that he should be back by Wednesday night or 
 Thursday morning, and imploring her to give 
 his love to Florence, if she would venture to do 
 so. Mrs. Burton would know what must be his 
 first business in London on his return, and she 
 might be sure he would come or send to Onslow 
 Crescent as soon as that was over. 
 
 Harry's letter — the former and longer leSter, 
 Cecilia had read over, till she nearly knew it 
 by heart, before her husband's return. She 
 well understood that he would be very hard 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 139 
 
 upon Harry. He ha<l been inclined to forgive 
 Clavering for what had been remiss — to forgive 
 the silence, the absence from the oiBce, an^ 
 the want of courtesy to his wife, till Harry 
 had confessed his sin ; but he could not endure 
 that his sister should seek the hand of a man 
 who had declared himself to be in doubt 
 whether he would take it, or that any one 
 should seek it for her, in her ignorance of all 
 the truth. His wife, on the other hand, simply 
 looked to Florence's comfort and happiness. 
 That Florence should not suffer the pang of 
 having been deceived and rejected was all in 
 all to Cecilia. " Of course she must know it 
 some day," the wife had pleaded to her hus- 
 band. "He is not the man to keep any thing 
 secret. But if she is told when he has returned 
 to her, and is good to her, the happiness of 
 the return will cure the other misery." But 
 Burton would not submit to this. "To be com- 
 fortable at present is not every thing," he said. 
 "If the man be so miserably weak that he does 
 not even now know his own mind, Florence 
 had better take her punishment, and be quit of 
 him." 
 
 Cecilia had narrated to him with passable 
 fidelity what had occurred up stairs, while he 
 was sitting alone in the dining-room. That 
 she, in her anger, had at one moment spurn- 
 ed Harry Clavering, and that in the next she 
 had knelt to him, imploring him to come back 
 to Florence — those two little incidents she did 
 not tell to her husband. Harry's adventures 
 with Lady Ongar, as far as she knew them, 
 she described accurately. "I can't make any 
 apology for him ; upon my life I can't," said 
 Burton. " If I know what it is for a man to 
 behave ill, falsely, like a knave in such mat- 
 ters, he is so behaving." So Theodore Burton 
 spoke as he took his candle to go away to his 
 work ; but his wife had induced him to promise 
 that he would not write to Stratton or take 
 any other step in the matter till they had waited 
 twenty-four hours for Harry's promised letter. 
 
 The letter came before the twenty-four hours 
 were expired, and Burton, on his return home 
 on the Saturday, found himself called upon to 
 read and pass judgment upon Harry's confession. 
 " What right has he to speak of her as his dar- 
 ling Florence," he exclaimed, " while he is con- 
 fessing his own knavery ?" 
 
 "But if she is his darling—" pleaded his 
 wife. 
 
 " Trash ! But the word from him in such 
 a, letter is simply an additional insult. And 
 what does he know about this woman who has 
 come back? He vouches for. her, but what 
 can he know of hor? Just what she tells him. 
 He is simply a fool." 
 
 "But you can not dislike him for believing 
 her word." 
 
 " Cecilia," said he, holding down the letter 
 as he spoke, "you are so carried away by^your 
 love for Florence, and your fear lest a marriage 
 which has been once talked of should not take 
 place, that you shut your eyes to this man's^ 
 
 true character. Can you believe any good of 
 a man who tells you to your face that he is 
 engaged to two women at once ?" 
 
 "I think I can," said Cecilia, hardly ventur- 
 ing to express so dangerous an opinion above 
 her breath. 
 
 "And what would you think of a woman 
 who did so ?" 
 
 ' ' Ah ! that is so different ! I can not explain 
 it, but you know that it is different." 
 
 " I know that you would forgive a man any 
 thing, and a woman nothing." To this she sub- 
 mitted in silence, having probably heard the re- 
 proof before, and he went on to finish the let- 
 ter. "Not defending himself!" he exclaimed, 
 " then why does he not defend himself? When 
 a man tells me that he does not, or can not de- 
 fend himself, I know that he is a sorry fellow, 
 without a spark of spirit." 
 
 "I don't think that of Harry. Surely that 
 letter shows a spirit." 
 
 " Such a one as I should be ashamed to see 
 in a dog. No man should ever be in a position 
 in which he can not defend himself. No man, 
 at any rate, should admit himself to be so placed. 
 Wish that he should go on with his engage- 
 ment ! I do not wish it at all. I am sorry for 
 Florence. She will suffer terribly. But the 
 loss of such a lover as that is infinitely a lescer 
 loss than would be the gain of such a husband. 
 You had better write to Florence, and tell her 
 not to come." 
 
 "Oh, Theodore!" 
 
 "That is my advice." 
 
 ' 'But there is no post between this and Mon- 
 day," said Cecilia, temporizing. 
 
 " Send her a message by the wires." 
 
 "You can not explain this by a telegram, 
 Theodore. Besides, why should she not come ? 
 Her coming can do no harm. If you were to 
 tell your mother now of all this, it would pre- 
 vent the possibility of things ever being right." 
 
 "Things — that is, this thing, never will be 
 right," said he. 
 
 " But let us see. She will be here on Mon- 
 day, and if you think it best you can tell her 
 every thing. Indeed, she must be told when 
 she is here, for I could not keep it from her. 
 I could not smile and talk to her about him, 
 and make her think that it is all right." 
 
 " Not you ! I should be very sorry if you 
 could." 
 
 "But I think I could make her understand 
 that she should not decide upon breaking with 
 him altogether." 
 
 "And I think I could make her understand 
 that she ought to do so." 
 
 " But you wouldn't do that, Theodore?" 
 
 " I would, if I thought it my duty." 
 
 " But, at any rate, she must come, and we can 
 talk of that to-morrow." ' 
 
 As to Florence's coming, Burton had given 
 way, beaten, apparently, by that argument about 
 thepost. Onthe Sundayvery little wassaid about 
 Harry Clavering. Cecilia studiously avoided the 
 subject, and Burton had not so far decided on 
 
uo 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 dropping Harry altogether as to make him anx- 
 ious to express any such decision. After all, 
 such dropping or not dropping must be the work 
 of Florence herself. On the Monday morning 
 Cecilia had a farther triumph. On that day her 
 husband was very fully engaged, having to meet 
 a synod of contractors, surveyors, and engineers, 
 to discuss which of tlie remaining thoroughfares 
 of London should' not be knocked down by the 
 coming railways, and he could not absent him- 
 self from the Adelphi. It was therefore ar- 
 ranged that Mrs. Burton should go to the Pad- 
 dington Station to meet her sister-in-law. She 
 therefore would have the first word with Flor- 
 ence, and the earliest opportunity of impressing 
 the new-comer with her own ideas. "Of course, 
 you must say something to her of this man," 
 said her husband, "but the less you say the bet- 
 ter. After all, she must be left to judge for her- 
 self." In all matters such as this — in all affairs 
 of tact, of social intercourse, and of conduct be- 
 tween man and man, or man and woman, Mr. 
 Burton was apt to be eloquent in his domestic 
 discussion, and sometimes almost severe ; but 
 the final arrangement of them was generally left 
 to his wife. He enunciated principles of strat- 
 egy — much, no doubt, to her benefit; but she 
 actually fought the battles. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXII. 
 
 PLOEENCE BUETON PACKS UP A PACKET. 
 
 Though nobody had expressed to Florence at 
 Stratton any fear of Harry Clavering's perfidy, 
 that young lady was not altogether easy in her 
 mind. Weeks and weeks had^jassed, and she 
 had not heard from him. Her mother was man- 
 ifestly uneasy, and had announced, some days 
 liefore Florence's departure, her surprise and an- 
 noyance in not having heard from her eldest 
 son. Wlien Florence inquired as to the subject 
 of the expected letter, her mother put the ques- 
 tion aside, saying, with a little assumed irrita- 
 Ijility, that of course she liked to get an answer 
 to her letters when she took the trouble to write 
 them. And wlien the day for Florence's jour- 
 ney drew nigh, the old lady became more and 
 more uneasy, showing plainly .that she wished 
 her daughter was not going to London. But 
 Florence, as she was quite determined to go, said 
 nothing to all this. Her father was also uneasy, 
 and neither of them had for some days named 
 her lover in her hearing. She knew that there 
 Was sometliing wrong, and felt that it was bet- 
 ter that she should go to London and learn the 
 truth. 
 
 No female heart was over less prone toauspi- 
 cinn than the heart of Florence Burton. Among 
 those with whom she had been most intimate 
 nothing had occurred to teach her that men could 
 be false, or women either. When she had lieard 
 from Harry Clavering the story of Julia Braba- 
 zon, she had,not making much arcu.sation against 
 
 of her mind as a bold, bad woman, who could 
 forget her sex, and sell her beauty and her wom- 
 anhood for money. There might be such a 
 woman here and there, or such a man. There 
 were murderers in the world, but the bulk of 
 mankind is not made subject to murdererSj^ 
 Florence had never considered the possibility 
 that she herself- could become liable to such a 
 misfortune. And then, when the day came that 
 she was engaged, her confidence in the man cho- 
 sen by her was unlimited. Such love as hers 
 rarely suspects. He with whom she had to do 
 was Harry Clavering, and therefore she could 
 not be deceived. Moreover, she was supported 
 by a self-respect and a self-confidence which did 
 not at first allow her to dream that a man who 
 had once loved her would ever wish to leave her. 
 It was to her as though a sacrament as holy as 
 that of the Church had passed between them, 
 and she could not easily bring herself to think 
 that that sacrament had been as nothing to 
 Harry Clavering. But, nevertheless, there was 
 something wrong, and when she left her father's 
 house at Stratton, she was well aware that she 
 must prepare herself for tidings that might be 
 evil. She could bear any thing, she thought, 
 without disgracing herself; but there were ti- 
 dings which might send her back to Stratton a 
 broken woman, fit perhaps to comfort the de- 
 clining years of her father and mother, but fit 
 for nothing else. 
 
 Her mother watched her closely as she sat at 
 her breakfast that morning, but much could not 
 be gained by watching Florence Burton when 
 Florence wished to conceal her thoughts. Many 
 messages were sent to Theodore, to Cecilia, and 
 to the children, messages to others of the Bur- 
 ton clan who were in town, but not a word was 
 said of Harry Clavering. The very absence of 
 his name was enough to make them all wretched, 
 but Florence bore it as the Spartan boy bore the 
 fox beneath his tunic. Mrs. Burton could hard- 
 ly keep herself from a burst'of indignation; but 
 she had been strongly warned by her husband, 
 and restrained herself till Florence was gone. 
 "If he is playing her false," said she, as soon 
 as she was alone with her old husband, "he 
 shall suffer for it, though I have to tear his face 
 with my own fingers." 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear — nonsense." 
 
 "It is not nonsense, Mr. Burton. A gentle- 
 man, indeed ! He is to be allowed to be dis- 
 honest to my girl because lie is a gentleman ! 
 I wish there was no such thing as a gentleman 
 — so I do. Perhaps there would be more hon- 
 est men then." It was unendurable to her that 
 a girl of hers should be so treated. 
 
 Immedijately on the arrival of the ti-ain at the 
 London platform, Florence espied Cecilia, and 
 in a minute was in her arms. There was a spe- 
 cial tenderness in her sister-in-law's caress, which 
 at once told Florence that her fears had not been 
 without cause. Who has not felt the evil ti- 
 dings conveyed by the exaggerated tenderness 
 of a special kiss ? But while on the platform and 
 
 the sinner in speech, put Julia down in the books amiu^ the porters she said nothing of herself. 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 141 
 
 She asked after Theodore, and heard of the rail- 
 way confederaoy with a show of delight. " He'd 
 like to make a line from Hyde Park Corner to 
 the Tower of London," said Florence, with a 
 smile. Then she asked after the children, and 
 specially for the baby ; but as yet she spoke no 
 word of Harry Clavering. The trunk and the 
 bag were at last found, and the two ladies were 
 packed into a cab, and had started. Cecilia, 
 when they were seated, got hold of Florence's 
 hand, and pressed it warml}'. "Dearest," she 
 said, "I am so glad to have you with us once 
 again." " And now," said Florence, speaking 
 with a calmness that was almost unnatural, ' ' tell 
 me all the truth." 
 
 All the truth ! What a demand it was. And 
 yet Cecilia had expected that none less would 
 be made upon her. Of course Florence must 
 have known that there was something wrong. 
 Of course she would ask as to her lover imme- 
 diately upon her arrival. "And now tell me 
 all the truth." 
 
 "Oh, Florence!" 
 
 "The truth, then, is very bad," said Florence, 
 gently. ' ' Tell me first of all whether you have 
 seen him. Is he ill?" 
 
 "He was with us on Friday. He is not 
 ill." 
 
 " Thank God for that. Has any thing hap- 
 pened to him? Has he lost money?" 
 
 " No ; I have heard nothing about money." 
 
 " Then he is tired of me. Tell me at once, 
 my own one. You know me so well — you know 
 I can bear it. Don't treat me as though I were 
 a coward ?" 
 
 "No, it is not that ; it is not that he is tired 
 of you. If you had heard him speak of you on 
 Friday — that you were the noblest, purest, dear- 
 est, best of women." This was imprudent on 
 her part, but what loving woman could at such 
 a moment have endured to be prudent. 
 
 "Then what is it?" asked Florence, almost 
 sternly. " Look here, Cecilia ; if it be any thing 
 touching himself or his own character, I will put 
 up with it, in spite of any thing my brother may 
 say. Though he had been a murderer, if that 
 were possible, I would not leave him. I will 
 never leave him unless he leaves me. Where 
 is he now, at this moment?" 
 
 "He is in town." Mrs. Burton had not re- 
 ceived Harry's note, telling her of his journey to 
 Clavering, before she had left home. Now at 
 this moment it was waiting for her in Onslow 
 Crescent. 
 
 "And am I to see him? Cecilia, why can 
 not you tell me how it is ? In such a case I 
 should tell you — should tell you every thing at 
 once, because I know that you are not a coward. 
 Why can not you do so to me ?" 
 
 "You have heard of Lady Ongar?" 
 
 "Heard of her — yes. She treated Harry 
 very badly before her marriage." 
 
 " She has come back to London, a widow." 
 
 ' ' I know she has. And Harry has gone back 
 to her ? Is that it ? Do you mean to tell me 
 tEat Harry and Lady Ongar are to be married ?" 
 
 " No, I can not say that. I hope it is not so. 
 Indeed, I do not think it." 
 
 "Then what have I to fear? Does she ob- 
 ject to his marrying me ? What has she to do 
 between us ?" 
 
 " She wishes that Harry should come back to 
 her, and Harry has been unsteady. He has been 
 with her often, and he has been very weak. It 
 may be all right yet, Flo, it may indeed — if you 
 can forgive his weakness." 
 
 Something of the truth had now come home 
 to Florence, and she sat thinking of it long be- 
 fore she spoke again. This widow, she knew, 
 was very wealthy, and Harry had loved her be- 
 fore he had come to Stratton. Harry's first love 
 had come b^ck free— free to wed again, and able 
 to make the fortune of the man she might love 
 and marry. What had Florence to give to any 
 man that could be weighed with this? Lady 
 Ongar was very rich; Florence had already 
 heard all this from Harry — was very rich, was 
 clever, and was beautiful; and, moreover, she 
 had been Harry's first love. Was it reasonable 
 that she, with her little claims, her puny attrac- 
 tions, should stand in Harry's way when such a 
 prize as that came across him ! And as for his 
 weakness — might it not bo strength rather than 
 weakness — the strength of an old love which he 
 could not quell, now that the woman was free 
 to take him ? For herself — had she not known 
 that she had only come second ? As she thought 
 of him with his noble bride and that bride's 
 great fortune, and of her own insignificance, her 
 low birth, herdoubtful prettiness — prettiness that 
 had ever been doubtful to herself, of her few ad- 
 vantages, she told herself that she had no right 
 to stand upon her claims. ' ' I wish I had known 
 it sooner," she said, in a voice so soft that Ce- 
 cilia strained her ears to catch the words. "I 
 wish I had known it sooner. I would not have 
 come up to be in his way." 
 
 " But you will be in no one's way, Flo, unless 
 it be in hers." 
 
 " And I will not be in hers," said Florence, 
 speaking somewhat louder, and raising her liead 
 in pride as she spoke. " I will be neither in 
 hers nor in his. I think I will go back atonce." 
 
 Cecilia, upon this, ventured to look round at 
 her, and saw that she was very pale, but that 
 her eyes were dry and her lips pressed close to- 
 gether. It had not occurred to Mrs. Burton 
 that her sister-in-law would take it in this way 
 — that she would express herself as being will- 
 ing to give way, and that she would at once sur- 
 render her lover to her rival. The married wom- 
 an, she who was already happy with a hus- 
 band, having enlisted all her sympathies on the 
 side of a marriage between Florence and Harry 
 Clavering, could by no means bring herself to 
 agree to this view. No one liked success better 
 than Cecilia Burton, and to her success would 
 consist in rescuing Harry from Lady Ongar and 
 securing him for Florence. In fighting this 
 battle she had found that she would have against 
 her Lady Ongar — of course, and then her hus- 
 band, and Hany himself too, as she feared , 
 
142 
 
 THE CLAVEMNGS. 
 
 and now also slie must reckon Florence also 
 among her opponents. But she could not en- 
 dure the idea of failing in such a cause. " Oh, 
 Florence, I think you are so wrong," she said. 
 
 " You would feel as I do, if you were in my 
 place." 
 
 "But people can not always judge best when 
 they feel the most. What you should think of 
 is his happiness." 
 
 " So I do — and of his future career." 
 
 " Career ! I hate to hear of careers. Men 
 do not want careers, or should not want them. 
 Could it be good for him to marry a woman who 
 has been false — who has done as she has, simply 
 because she has made herself rich by her wicked- 
 ness ? Do you believe so much in riches your- 
 self?" 
 
 " If he loves her best, I will not blame him," 
 said Florence. "He knew her before he had 
 seen me. He was quite honest, and told me 
 all the story. It is not his fault if he still likes 
 her the best. " 
 
 When they reached Onslow Crescent, the first 
 half hour was spent with the children, as to 
 whom Florence could not but observe that even 
 from their mouths the name of Harry Clavering 
 was banished. But she played with Cissy and 
 Sophie, giving them their little presents from 
 Stratton ; and sat with the baby in her lap, 
 kissing his pink feet and making little soft 
 noises for his behoof, sweetly as she might have 
 done if no terrible crisis in her own life had 
 now come upon her. Not a tear as yet had 
 moistened her eyes, and Cecilia was partly 
 aware that Florence's weeping would be done 
 in secret. ' ' Come up with me into my room ; 
 I have something to show you, " she said, as the 
 nurse took the baby at last ; and Cissy and 
 Sophie were at the same time sent away with 
 their brother. " As I came in I got a note from 
 Harry, but, before you see that, I must show 
 you the letter which he wrote to me on Friday. 
 He has gone down to Clavering — on some busi- 
 ness — for one day. " Mrs. Burton, in her heart, 
 could hardly acquit him of having run out of 
 town at the moment to avoid the arrival of Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 They went up stairs, and the note was, in 
 fact, read before the letter, "I hope there is 
 nothing wrong at the parsonage," said Florence. 
 
 "You see he says he will be back after one 
 day." 
 
 "Perhaps he has gone to tell them — of this 
 change in his prospects." 
 
 " No, dear, no ; you do not yet understand 
 his feelings. Head his letter, and you will know 
 more. If there is to he a change, he is, at any 
 rate, too much ashamed of it to spenk of it. He 
 does not wish it himself. It is simply this — 
 that she has thrown herself in his way, and he 
 has not known how to avoid her." 
 
 Then Florence read the letter very slowly, go- 
 ing over most of the sentences more than once, 
 and struggling to learn from them what were 
 really the wishes of the writer. When she came 
 to Harry's exculpation of Lady Ongar, she be- 
 
 lieved it thoroughly, and said so — meeting, how- 
 ever, a direct contradiction on that point from 
 her sister-in-law. When she had finished it, 
 she folded it up and gave it back. " Cissy," she 
 said, "I know that I ought to go back. I doj 
 not want to see him, and I am glad that he has 
 gone away." 
 
 " But you do not mean to give him up?" 
 
 "Yes, dearest." 
 
 "But you said you would never leave him 
 unless he left you." 
 
 " He has left me." 
 
 "No, Florence, not so. Do you not see what 
 be says — that he knows you are the only woman 
 that can make him happy?" 
 
 "He has not said that ; but if he had, itwould 
 make no matter. He understands well how it 
 is. He says that I could not take him now, even 
 if he came to me, and I can not. How could 
 I ? What ! wish to marry a man who does not 
 love me — who loves another — when I know that 
 I am regarded simply as a barrier between them 
 — when by doing so I should mar his fortunes ? 
 Cissy, dear, when you think of it, you will not 
 wish it." 
 
 "Mar his fortunes! It would make them. 
 I do wish it, and he wishes it too. I tell you 
 that I had him here, and I know it. Why should 
 you be sacrificed ?" 
 
 " What is the meaning of self-denial, if no 
 one can bear to suffer ?" 
 
 "But he will sufi^er too — and all for her ca- 
 prices ! You can not really thinkthat her money 
 would do him any good. Who would ever speak 
 to him again, or even see him? What would 
 the world say of him ? Why, his own father, 
 and mother, and sisters would disown him, if 
 they are such as you say they are." 
 
 Florence would not argue it farther, but went 
 to her room, and remained there alone till Ce- 
 cilia came to tell her that her brother had re- 
 turned. What weeping there may have been 
 there need not be told. Indeed, as I think, 
 there was not much, for Florence was a girl 
 whose education had not brought her into the 
 way of hysterical sensations. The Burtons were 
 an active, energetic pgople, who sympathized with 
 each other in labor and success — and in endur- 
 ance also ; but who had little sympathy to ex- 
 press for the weakness of grief. When her chil- 
 dren had stumbled in their play, bruising their 
 little noses, and barking their little shins, Mrs. 
 Burton, the elder, had been wont to bid them 
 rise, asking them what their legs were for if they 
 could not stand. So they had dried their own 
 little eyes with their own little fists, and had 
 learned to understand that the rubs of the world 
 were to be borne in silence. This rub that had 
 come to Florence was of grave import, and had 
 gone deeper than the outward skin ; but still the 
 old lesson had its effect. 
 
 Florence rose from the bed on which she was 
 lying, and prepared to come down. "Do not 
 commit yourself to him as to any thing," said 
 Cecilia. 
 
 "I understand what that means," Florence 
 
THE CLAyERINGS. 
 
 143 
 
 answered. "He thinks as I do. But never 
 mind. He will not say much, and I shall say 
 less. It is bad to talk of this to any man — 
 even to a brother." 
 
 Burton also received his sister with that ex- 
 ceptional affection which declares pity for some 
 'overwhelming misfortune. He kissed her lips, 
 which was rare with him, for he would generally 
 but just touch her forehead, and he put his hand 
 behind her w*st and partly embraced her. "Did 
 Cissy vnanage to find you at the station ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes — easily." 
 
 " Theodore thinks that a woman is no good 
 for any such purpose as that," said Cecilia. " It 
 is a wonder to him, no doubt, that we are not 
 now wandering about London in search of each 
 other — and of him." 
 
 "I think she would have got home quicker 
 if I could have been there," said Burton. 
 
 "We were in a cab in one minute — weren't 
 we, Florence f The difference would have been 
 that you would have given a porter sixpence, 
 and I gave him a shilling, having bespoken him 
 before." 
 
 " And Theodore's time was worth the six- 
 pence, I suppose," said Florence. 
 
 "That depends," said Cecilia. " How did 
 the synod go on ?" 
 
 "The synod made an ass of itself — as synods 
 always do. It is necessary to get a lot of men 
 together for the show of the thing, otherwise 
 the world will not believe. That is the meaning 
 of committees. But the real work must always 
 be done by one or two men. Come — I'll go 
 and get ready for dinner." 
 
 The subject — the one real subject, had thus 
 been altogether avoided at this first meeting 
 with the man of the house, and the evening 
 passed without any allusion to it. Much was 
 made of the children, and much was said of the 
 old people at home ; but still there was a con- 
 sciousness over them all that the one matter of 
 importance was being kept in the background. 
 They were all thinking of Harry Clavering, but 
 no one mentioned his name. They all knew 
 that they were unhappy and heavy-hearted 
 through his fault, but no one blamed him. He 
 had been received in that house with open arms, 
 had been warmed in their bosom, and had stung 
 them ; but, though they were all smarting from 
 the sting, they uttered no complaint. Burton 
 had made up his mind that it would be better to 
 pass over the matter thus in silence — to say noth- 
 ing farther of Harry Clavering. A misfortune 
 had come upon them. They must bear it, and 
 go on as before. Harry had been admitted 
 into the London oflSce on the footing of a paid 
 clerk — on the same footing, indeed, as Burton 
 himself, though with a much smaller salary and 
 inferior work. This position had been accorded 
 to him, of course, through the Burton interest, 
 and it was understood that if he chose to make 
 himself useful, he could rise in the business as 
 Theodore had risen. But he could only do so 
 as one of the Burtons. For the last three months 
 he had declined to take his salary, alleging that 
 
 private affairs had kepthim away from the office. 
 It was to the hands of Theodore Burton himself 
 that such matters came for management, and 
 therefore there had been no necessity for farther 
 explanation. Harry Clavering would of course 
 leave the house, and there would be an end of 
 him in the records of the Burton family. He 
 would have come and made his mark — a terrible 
 mark, and would have passed on. Those whom 
 he had bruised by his cruelty, and knocked over 
 by his treachery, must get to their feet again as 
 best they could, and say as little as might be of 
 their fall. There are knaves in this world, and 
 no one can suppose that he has a special right 
 to be exempted from their knavery because he 
 himself is honest. It is on the honest that the 
 knaves prey. That was Burton's theory in this 
 matter. He would learn from Cecilia how Flor- 
 ence was bearing herself; but to Florence her- 
 self he would say little_ or nothing, if she bore 
 with patience and dignity, as he believed she 
 would, the calamity which had befallen her. 
 
 But he must write to his mother. The old 
 people at Stratton must not be left in the dark 
 as to what was going on. He must write to his 
 mother, unless he could learn from his wife that 
 Florence herself had communicated to them at 
 home the fact of Harry's iniquity. But he asked 
 no question as to this on the first night, and on 
 the following morning he went off, having sim- 
 ply been told that Florence had seen Harry's 
 letter, that she knew all, and that she was car- 
 rying herself like an angel. 
 
 "Not like an angel that hopes?" said Theo- 
 dore. 
 
 "Let her alone for a day Or two," said Ce- 
 cilia. "Of course she must have a few days 
 to think of it. I need hardly tell you that you 
 will never have to be ashamed of your sister." 
 
 The Tuesday and the Wednesday passed by, 
 and though Cecilia and Florence, when together, 
 discussed the matter, no change was made in the 
 wishes or thoughts of either of them. Florence, 
 now that she was in town, had consented to re- 
 main till after Harry should return, on the un- 
 derstanding that she should not be called upon 
 to see him. He was to be told that she forgave 
 him altogether — that his troth was returned to 
 him, and that he was free, but that in such cir- 
 cumstances a meeting between them could be of 
 no avail. And then a little packet was made 
 up, which was to be given to him. How was it 
 that Florence had brought with her all his pres- 
 ents and all his letters ? But there they were 
 in her box up stairs, and, sitting by herself, with 
 weary fingers she packed them, and left them 
 packed under lock and key, addi-essed by her- 
 self to Harry Clavering, Esq. Oh, the misery 
 of packing such a parcel! The feeling with 
 which a woman does it is never encountered by 
 a man. He chucks the things together in wrath 
 — the lock of hair, the letters in the pretty Ital- 
 ian hand that have taken so much happy care in 
 the writing, the jeweled shirt-studs, which were 
 first put in by the fingers that gave them. They 
 are thrown together, and given to some other 
 
Ui 
 
 THE CLAVEKINGS. 
 
 woman to deliver. But the girl lingers over her 
 torture. She reads the letters again. She thinks 
 of the moments of bliss which each little toy 
 lias given. She is loth to part with every thing. 
 She would fain keep some one thirig-^the small- 
 est of them all. She doubts — till a feeling of 
 maidenly reserve constrains her at last, and the 
 
 ing of the shirt-studs, but he would understand 
 that. As for the lock of hair — doubtless it had 
 been burned. 
 
 Cecilia said but little in answer to this. She 
 would not, as yet, look upon the matter as Flor- 
 ence looked at it, and as Theodore did also. 
 Harry was to be liack in town on Thursday 
 
 I'lorence Burton makes up a Packet. 
 
 coveted trifle, with careful, painstaking fingers, 
 is put with the rest, and the parcel is made com- 
 plete, and the address is written with precision. 
 " Of course I can not see him," said Florence. 
 "You will hand to him what I have to send to 
 him ; and you must ask him, if he has kept any 
 of my letters, to return them." She said noth- 
 
 morning. He could not, probably, be seen oi 
 heard of on that day, because of his visit to 
 Lady Ongar. It was absolutely necessary that 
 he should see Lady Ongar before he could come 
 to Onslow Terrace, with possibility of becoming 
 once more the old Harry Clavering whom they 
 were all to love. But Mrs. Burton would by 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 145 
 
 no moans give up all hope. It was useless to 
 say any thing to Florence, but she still hoped 
 that good might come. 
 
 And then, as she thought of it all, a project 
 came into her head. Alas, and alas ! Was 
 she not too late with her project ? Why had 
 she not thought of it on Tuesday or early on the 
 Wednesday, when it might possibly have been 
 executed ? But it was a project which she 
 must have kept secret from her husband, of 
 which he would by no means have approved ; 
 and as she remembered this, she told herself 
 that perhaps it was as well that things should 
 take their own course without such interference 
 as she had contemplated. 
 
 On the Thursday morning there came to her a 
 letter in a strange hand. It was from Clavering 
 — from Harry's mother. Mrs. Clavering wrote, 
 as she said, at her son's request, to say that he 
 was confined to his bed, and could not be in 
 London as soou as he expected. Mrs. Burton 
 was not to suppose that he was really ill, and 
 none of the family were to be frightened. From 
 ihis Mrs. Burton learned that Mrs. Clavering 
 knew nothing of Harry's apostasy. The letter 
 went on to say that Harry would write as soon 
 as he himself was able, and would probably be 
 in London early next week — at any rate before 
 the end of it. He was a little feverish, but there 
 was no cause for alarm. Florence, of course, 
 could only listen and turn pale. Now, at any 
 rate, she must remain in London. 
 
 Mrs. Burton's project might, after all, be 
 feasible,; but then what if her husband should 
 really be angry with her? Th^t was a, misfor- 
 tune which never yet had come upon her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIIL 
 
 SHOWING -WHY HAEEY CLAVERING WAS WANTED 
 AT THE KECTOKT. 
 
 The letter- which had summoned Harry to 
 the jiarsonage had been from his mother, and 
 had begged him to come to Clavering at once, 
 as trouble had come upon them from an unex- 
 pected source. His father had quarreled with 
 Mr. Saul. The rector and the curate had had 
 an interview, in which there had been high 
 words, and Mr. Clavering had refused to see Mr. 
 Saul again. Fanny also was in great trouble, 
 and the parish was, as it were, in hot water. 
 Mrs. Clavering thought that Harry had better 
 run down to Clavering and see Mr. Saul. 
 Harry, not unwillingly, acceded to his mother's 
 request, much wondering at the source of this 
 new misfortune. As to Fanny, she, as he be- 
 lieved, had held out no enconragement to Mr. 
 Saul's overtures. When Mr. Saul had proposed 
 to her — making that first offer of which Harry 
 had been aware — nothing could have been more 
 steadfast than her rejection of the gentleman's 
 hand. Harry had rejiarded Mr. Saul as little 
 less than mad to think of such a thing, but, 
 thinking of him as a man very different in his 
 K 
 
 ways and feelings from other men, had believed 
 that he might go on at Clavering comfortably 
 as curate in spite of that little accident. It ap- 
 peared, however, that he was not going on com- 
 fortably ; but Harry, when he left London, could 
 not quite imagine how such violent discomfort 
 should have arisen tliat the rector and the curate 
 should be unable to meet each other. If the 
 reader will allow me, I will go back a little and 
 explain this. 
 
 The reader already knows what Fanny's 
 brothers did npt know — namely, that Mr. Saul 
 had pressed his suit again, and had pressed it 
 very strongly; and he also knows that Fanny's 
 reception of the second offer was very different 
 from her reception of the first. She had begun 
 to doubt — to doubt whether her first judgment 
 as to Mr. Saul's character had not been unjust — 
 to doubt whether, in addressing her, he was not 
 right, seeing that his love for her was so strong 
 — to doubt whether she did not like him better 
 than she had thought she did — to doubt whether 
 an engagement with a penniless curate was in 
 truth a position utterly to be reprehended and 
 avoided. Young penniless curates must love 
 soifiebody as well as young beneficed vicars and 
 rectors. And then Mr. Saul pleaded his cause 
 so well ! 
 
 She did not at once speak to her mother on 
 the matter, and the fact that she had a secret 
 made her very wretched. She had left Mr. Saul 
 in doubt, giving him no answer, and he had said 
 that he would ask her again in a few days what 
 was to be his fate. She hardly knew how to 
 tell her mother of this till she had told herself 
 what were her own wishes. She thoroughly, de- 
 sired to have her mother in her confidence, and 
 promised herself that it should be so before Mr. 
 Saul renewed his suit. He was a man vyho was 
 never hurried or impatient in his doings. But 
 Fanny put off' the interview with her mother — 
 put off her own final resolution till it was too 
 late, and Mr. Saul came upon her again when 
 she was but ill prepared for him. 
 
 A woman, when she doubts whether she loves 
 or does not love, is inclined five parts out of six 
 toward the man of whom she is thinking. When 
 a woman doubts,-she is lost, the cynics say. I 
 simply assert, being no cynic, that when a woman 
 doubts, she is won. The more Fanny thought 
 of Mr. Saul, the more she felt that he was not 
 the man for which she had first taken him — that 
 he was of larger dimensions as regarded spirit, 
 manhood, and heart, and better entitled to a 
 woman's love. She would not tell herself.that 
 she was attached to him ; but, in all her argu- 
 ments with herself against him, she rested her 
 objection mainly on the fact that he had but 
 seventy pounds a year. And then the threat- 
 ened attack, the attack that was to be final, came 
 upon her before she was prepared for it ! 
 
 They had been together as usual daring the 
 intervening time. It was, indeed, impossible 
 that they should not be together. . Since she had 
 first begun to doubt about Mr. Saul, she had been 
 more diligent than heretofore in visiting the poor 
 
U6 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 and in attending to her school, as though she 
 were recognizing the duty which would specially 
 he hers if she were to many such a one as he. 
 And thus they had been brought together more 
 than ever. AH this her mother had seen, and 
 seeing, had trembled ; but she had not thought 
 it wise to say any thing till Fanny should speak. 
 Fanny was very good and very prudent. It 
 could not be but that Fanny should know how 
 impossible must be such a marriage. As to the 
 rector, he had no suspicions on the matter. Saul 
 had made himself an ass on one occasion, and 
 there hud been an end of it. As a curate Saul 
 was invaluable, and therefore the fact of his hav- 
 ing made himself an ass had been forgiven him. 
 It was thus that the rector looked at it. 
 
 It was hardly more than ten days since the 
 last walk in Cumberley Lane when Mr. Saul re- 
 newed the attack. He did it again on the same 
 spot, and at the same hour of the day. Twice 
 a week, always on the same days, he was in the 
 chapel up at this end of the parish, and on these 
 days he could always find Fanny on her way 
 home. When he put his head in at the dittle 
 school door and asked for her, her mind misgave 
 her. He had not walked home with her since, 
 and though he had been in the school with her 
 often, had always left her there, going about his 
 own business, as though he were by no means 
 desirous of her company. Now the time had 
 come, and Fanny felt that she was not prepared. 
 But she took up her hat, and went out to him, 
 knowing that there was no escape. 
 
 " Miss Clavering,"said he, "have you thought 
 of what I was saying to you?" To this she made 
 no atiswer, but merely played with the point of 
 the parasol which she held in her hand. "Yon 
 can not but have thought of it," he continued. 
 "You could not dismiss it altogether from your 
 thoughts." 
 
 " I have thought about it, of course," she said. 
 
 ' ' And what does your mind say ? Or, rather, 
 what does your heart say? Both should speak, 
 but I would sooner hear the heart first. " 
 
 "I am sure, Mr. Saul, that it is quite im- 
 possible." 
 
 "In what way impossible?" 
 
 "Papa would not allow it." 
 
 "Have you asked him?" 
 
 "Oh dear, no." 
 
 " Or Mrs. Clavering?" 
 
 Fanny blushed as she remembered how she 
 had permitted the days to go by without asking 
 her mother's counsel. "No; I have spoken 
 to no one. Why should I, when I knew that it 
 is impossible?" 
 
 " May I speak to Mr. Clavering?" To this 
 Fanny made no immediate answer, and then Mr. 
 Saul urged the question again. "May I speak 
 to your father?" 
 
 Fanny felt that she was assenting, even in that 
 she did not answer such a question by an im- 
 mediate refusal of her permission ; and yet she 
 did not mean to assent. "Miss Clavering," he 
 said, "if you regard me with affection, you have 
 no right to refuse me this request. I tell you 
 
 so boldly. If you feel for me that love whicli 
 would enable you to accept me as your husband, 
 it is your duty to tell me so — your duty to me, 
 to yourself, and to your God." 
 
 Fanny did not quite see the thing in this 
 light, and yet she did not wish to contradict 
 him. At this moment she forgot that, in or- 
 der to put herself on perfectly firm ground, she 
 should have gone back to the first hypothesis, 
 and assured him that she did not feel any such 
 regard for him. Mr. Saul, whose intellect was 
 more acute, took advantage of her here, and 
 chose to believe that that matter of her affection 
 was now conceded to him. He knew what he 
 was doing well, and is open to a charge of soime 
 Jesuitry. "Mr. Saul," said Fanny, with grave 
 prudence, "it can not be right for people to 
 marry when they have nothing to live upon." 
 When she had shown him so plainly that she 
 had no other piece left on the board to play than 
 this, the game may be said to have been won on 
 his side. 
 
 " If that he your sole objection, " said he, " you 
 can not but think it right that I and your father 
 should discuss it." To this she made no reply 
 whatever, and they walked along the lane for a 
 considerable way in silence. Mr. Saul would 
 have been glad to have had the interview over 
 now, feeling that at any future meeting he 
 would have stronger power of assuming the po- 
 sition of an accepted lover than he would do 
 now. Another man would have desired to get 
 from her lips a decided word of love — to take 
 her hand, perhaps, and to feel some response 
 from it — to go farther than this, as is not un- 
 likely, and plead for the happy indulgences of 
 an accepted lover. But Mr. Saul abstained, 
 and was wise in abstaining. She had not so 
 far committed herself but that she might even 
 now have drawn back, had he pressed her too 
 hard. For hand-pressing, and the titillations 
 of love-making, Mr. Saul was not adapted ; but 
 he was a man who, having once loved, would 
 love on to the end. 
 
 The way, however, was too long to be com- 
 pleted without farther speech. Fanny, as she 
 walked, was struggling to find some words by 
 which she might still hold her ground, but the 
 words were not forthcoming. It seemed to her- 
 self that she was being carried away by this 
 man, because she had suddenly lost her remem- 
 brance of all negatives. The more she strug- 
 gled the more she failed, and at last gave it up 
 in despair. Let Mr. Saul say what he would, 
 it was impossible that they should be married. 
 All his arguments about duty were nonsense. 
 It could not be her duty to marry a man who 
 would have to starve in his attempt to keep her. 
 She wished she had told him at first that she 
 did not love him, but that seemed to be too late 
 now. The moment that she was in the house she 
 would go to her mother and tell her every thing. 
 
 "Miss Clavering," said he, "I shall see your 
 father to-morrow." 
 
 " No, no," she ejaculated. 
 
 ' ' I shall certainly do so, in any event. I shall 
 
THE CLAVEBINGS. 
 
 147 
 
 either tell him that I must leave the parish, ex- 
 plaining to him why I must go, or I shall ask 
 him to let me remain here in the hope that I 
 may become his son-in-law. You will not now 
 tell me that I ani to go?" Fanny was again 
 silent, her memory failing her as to either neg- 
 ative or affirmative that would be of service. 
 "To stay here hopeless would be impossible to 
 me. Now I am not hopeless. Now I am full 
 of hope. I think I could be happy, though I 
 had to wait as Jacob waited." 
 
 "And perhaps have Jacob's consolation," 
 said ITanny. She was lost by the joke, and he 
 knew it. A grim smile of satisfaction crossed 
 his thin face as he heard it, and there was a 
 feeling of triumph at his heart. " I am hardly 
 fitted to be a patriai'ch, as the patriarchs were 
 of cJd," he said. " Though the seven years 
 should fce prolonged to fourteen, I do not think 
 I should seek any Leah." 
 
 They were soon at the gate, and his work for 
 that evening was done. He would go home to 
 his solitary room at a neighboring farm-house, 
 and sit in triumph as he ate his morsel of cold 
 mutton by himself. He, without any advantage 
 of person to back him, poor, friendless, hitherto 
 conscious that he was unfitted to mix even in 
 ordinary social life — he had won the heart of the 
 fairest woman he had ever seen. "You will 
 give me your hand at parting," he said, where- 
 upon she tendered it to him with her eyes fixed 
 upon the ground. " I hope we understand each 
 other, " he continued. ' ' You may, at any rate, 
 understand this, that I love you with all my 
 heart and all my strength. If things prosper 
 with me, all my prosperity shall be for you. If 
 there be no prosperity for me, you shall be my 
 only consolation in this world. You are my 
 Alpha and my Omega, my first and last, my be- 
 ginning and end — my every thing, my all." 
 Then he turned away and left her, and there 
 had come no negative from her lips. As far as 
 her lips were concerned, no negative was any 
 longer possible to her. 
 
 She went into the house knowing that she 
 must at once seek her mother ; but she allowed 
 herself first to remain for some half hour in her 
 own bedroom, preparing the words that she would 
 use. The interview she knew would be diffi- 
 cult — much more difficult than it would have 
 been before her last walk with Mr. Saul ; and 
 the worst of it was that she could not quite 
 make up her mind as to what it was that she 
 wished to say. She waited till she should hear 
 her mother's step on the stairs. At last Mrs. 
 Clavering came up to dress, and then Tanny, 
 following her quickly into her bedroom, abrupt- 
 ly began : 
 
 "Mamma," she said, "I want to speak to 
 you very much." 
 
 "Well, my dear." 
 
 "But you mustn't be in a hurry, mamma." 
 Mi's. Clavering looked at her watch, and de- 
 claring that it still wanted three quarters of an 
 hour to dinner, promised that she would not be 
 very much in a hurry. 
 
 " Mamma, Mr. Saul has been speaking to me 
 again." " 
 
 " Has he, my dear ? You can not, of course, 
 help it if he chooses to speak to you, but he 
 ought to know that it is very foolish. It must 
 end in his having to leave us." 
 
 "That is what he says, mamma. He says 
 he must go away unless — " 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 " Unless I will consent that he shall remain 
 here as — " 
 
 "As your accepted lover. Is that it, Fan- 
 ny?" 
 
 "Yes, mamma.", 
 
 "Then he must go, I suppose. What else 
 can any of us say ? I shall be sorry both for 
 his sake and for your papa's." Mrs. Clavering, 
 as she said this, looked at her daughter, and saw 
 at once that this edict on her part did not settle 
 the difficulty. There was that in Fanny's face 
 which showed trouble and the necessity of far- 
 ther explanation. " Is not that what you think 
 yourself, my dear?" Mrs. Clavering asked. 
 
 "I should be very sorry if he had to leave 
 the parish on my account." 
 
 "We all shall feel that, dearest; but what 
 can we do ? I presume you don't wish him to 
 remain as your lover?" 
 
 "I don't know, mamma," said Fanny. 
 
 It was then as Mrs. Clavering had feared. 
 Indeed, from the first word that Fanny had spo- 
 ken on the present occasion, she had almost been 
 sure of the facts, as they now were. To her 
 father it would appear wonderful that his daugh- 
 ter should have come to love such a man as Mr. 
 Saul, but Mrs. Clavering knew better than he 
 how far perseverance will go with women — per- 
 severance joined with high mental capacity, and 
 with high spirit to back it. She was grieved 
 but not surprised, and would at once have ac- 
 cepted the idea of Mr. Saul becoming her son- 
 in-law, had not the poverty of the man been so 
 much against him. "Do you mean, my dear, 
 that you wish him to remain here after what he 
 has said to you? That would be tantamount 
 to accepting him. You understand that, Fan- 
 ny — eh, dear?" 
 
 "I suppose it would, mamma." 
 
 " And is that what you mean ? Come, dear- 
 est, tell me the whole of it. What have you 
 said to him yourself? What has he been led to 
 think from the answer you have given him to- 
 day?" 
 
 "He says that he means to see papa to-mor- 
 row." ■ 
 
 "But is he to see him with your consent? " 
 Fanny had hitherto placed herself in the nook 
 of a bow window which looked out into the 
 garden, and there, though she was near to the 
 dressing-table at which her mother was sitting, 
 she could so far screen herself as almost to hide 
 her face when she was speaking. From this re- 
 treat her mother found it necessary to withdraw 
 her; so she rose, and, going to a sofa in the 
 room, bade her daughter come and sit beside 
 her. "A doctor, my dear, can never do any 
 
148 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 jiood," she said, " unless the patient will tell him 
 every thing. Have yoii told Mr. Saul that he 
 may see papa — as coming from you, you know f " 
 
 "No, mamma, I did not tell him that. I 
 told him that it would be altogether impossible, 
 because we should be so poor." 
 
 "He ought to have known that himself." 
 
 "But I don't think he ever thinks of such 
 things as that, mamma. I can't tell you quite 
 what he said, but it went to show that he didn't 
 regard money at all." 
 
 " But that is nonsense ; Is it not, Fanny ?" 
 
 "What he means is, not that people, if they 
 are fond of each other, ought to marry at once 
 when they have got nothing to live upon, but 
 that they ought to tell each other so, and then 
 he content to wait. I suppose he thinks that 
 some da)' he may have a living." 
 
 "But Fanny, are you fond of him — and have 
 you ever told him so?" 
 
 "I have never told him so, mamma." 
 
 "But you are fond of him ?" To this ques- 
 tion Fanny made no answer, and now Mrs. 
 Clavering knew it all. She felt no inclination 
 to scold her daughter, or even to point out in 
 very strong language how foolish Fanny had 
 been in allowing a man to engage her affections 
 merely by asking for them. The thing was a 
 misfortune, and should have been avoided by 
 the departure of Mr. Saul from the parishafter 
 his first declaration of love. He had been al- 
 lowed to remain for the sake of the rector's 
 comfort, and the best must now be made of it. 
 That Mr. Saul must now go was certain, and 
 Fanny must endure the weariness of an attach- 
 ment with an absent lover to which her father 
 would not consent. It was very bad, but Mrs. 
 Clavering did not think that she could make it 
 better by attempting to scold her daughter into 
 renouncing the man. 
 
 "I suppose you would like me to tell papa 
 all this before Mr. Saul comes to-morrow?" 
 
 "If you think it best, mamma." 
 
 "And you mean, dear, that you would wish 
 to accept him, only that he has no income ?" 
 
 " I think so, mamma." 
 
 " H:ive you told him so?" 
 
 "I did not tell him so, but he understands 
 it." 
 
 "If you did not tell him so, you might still 
 think of it again." 
 
 But Fanny had surrendered herself now, and 
 wns determined to make no farther attempt at 
 sending the garrison up to the wall. "I am 
 sure, mamma, that if he were well off, like Ed- 
 ward, I should accept him. It is only because 
 he has no income." 
 
 "But you have not told him that ?" 
 
 "I would not tell him any thing without 
 your consent and papa's. He said he should 
 go to papa to-morrow, and I could not prevent 
 that. I did say that I knew it was quite im- 
 possible." 
 
 The mischief wns done, and there was no 
 help for it. Mrs. Clavering told her daughter 
 that she would talk it all over with the vector 
 
 that night, so that Fanny was able to come 
 down to dinner without fearing any farther scene 
 on that evening. But on the following morn- 
 ing she did not appear at prayers, nor was she 
 present at the breakfast table. Her mother 
 went to her early, and she immediately asked 
 if it was considered necessary that she should 
 see her father before Mr. Saul came. But this 
 was not required of her. "Papa says that it is 
 out of the question," said Mrs. Clavering. " I 
 told him so myself," said Fanny, beginning to 
 whimper. "And there must be no engage- 
 ments," said Mrs. Clavering. "No, mamma. 
 I haven't engaged myself. I told him it was 
 impossible." "And papa thinks that Mr. Saul 
 must leave him," continued Mrs. Clavering. 
 "I knew papa would say that; but, mamma, I 
 shall not forget him for that reason." To this 
 Mrs. Clavering made no reply, and Fanny was 
 allowed to remain up stairs till Mr. Saul had 
 come and gone. 
 
 Very soon after breakfast Mr. Saul did come. 
 His presence at the rectory was so common that 
 the servants were not generally summ.oned to 
 announce his arrivals, but his visits were made 
 to Mrs. Clavering and Fanny more often than 
 to the rector. On this occasion he rang the bell, 
 and asked for Mr. Clavering, and was shown 
 into the rector's so-called study, in a way that 
 the maid-servant felt to be unusual. And the 
 rector was sitting uncomfortably prepared for 
 the visit, not having had his after-breakfast ci- 
 gar. He had been induced to declare that he 
 was not, and would not be, angry with Fanny; 
 but Mr. Saul was left to such indignation as he 
 thought it incumbent on himself to express. 
 In his opinion, the iriarriage was impossible, not 
 only because there was no money, but because 
 Mr. Saul was Mr. Saul, and because Fanny 
 Clavering was Fanny Clavering. Mr. Saul was 
 a gentleman ; but that was all that could be 
 said of him. There is a class of country clergy- 
 men in England, of whom Mr. Clavering was 
 one, and his son-in-law, Mr. Fielding, another, 
 which is so closely allied to the squirearchy as 
 to possess a double identity. Such clergymen 
 are not only clergymen, but they are country 
 gentlemen also. Mr. Clavering regarded cler- 
 gymen of his class — of the country gentlemen 
 class — as being quite distinct from all others, 
 and as being, I may say, very much higher than 
 all others, without reference to any money ques- 
 tion. When meeting his brother rectors and ' 
 vicars, he had quite a different tone in address- 
 ing them, as they might belong to his class or to 
 another. There was no offense in this. The 
 clerical country gentlemen understood it all as 
 though there were some secret sign or shibbo- 
 leth between them ; but the outsiders had no 
 complaint to make of arrogance, and did not 
 feel themselves aggrieved. They hardly knew 
 that there was an inner clerical familiarity to 
 which they were not admitted. But, now that 
 there wns a young curate from the outer circle 
 demanding Mr. Clwvering's daughter in mar- 
 riage, and that without a shilling in his pocket, 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 141) 
 
 Mr. Claveririg felt that the eyes of the offender 
 must be opened. The nuisance to him was 
 very great, but this opening of Mr. Saul's eyes 
 was a duty from which he could not shrink. 
 
 He got up when the curate entered, and 
 greeted his curate as though he were unaware 
 of the purpose of the present visit. The whole 
 burden of the story was to be thrown upon Mr. 
 Saul. But that gentleman was not long in 
 cnsting the burden from his shoulders. "Mr. 
 Clavering," he said, "I have come to ask your 
 permission to be a suitor for your daughter's 
 hand." 
 
 The rector was almost taken aback by the 
 abruptness of the request. " Quite impossible, 
 Mr. Saul," he said — "quite impossible. I am 
 told by Mrs. Clavering that you were speaking 
 to Fanny again about this yesterday, and I must 
 say that I think you have been behaving very 
 badly." 
 
 " In what way have I behaved badly ?" 
 
 "In endeavoring to gain her affections be- 
 hind my back." 
 
 "But, Mr. Clavering, how otherwise could I 
 gain them ? How otherwise does any man gain 
 any woman's love. If you mean — " 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Saul, I don't think that 
 there is any necessity for an argument between 
 you and me on this point. That you can not 
 marry Miss Clavering is so self-evident that it 
 does not require to be discussed. If there were 
 nothing else against it, neither of you have got 
 a penny. I have not seen my daughter since I 
 heard of this madness — hear me out if you 
 please, sir — since I heard of this madness, but 
 her mother tells me that she is quite aware of 
 that fact. Your coming to me with such a prop- 
 osition is an absurdity, if it is nothing worse. 
 Now you must do one of two things, Mr. Saul. 
 You must either promise me that this shall be 
 at an end altogether, or you must leave the 
 parish."' 
 
 "I certainly shall not promise you that my 
 hopes as they regard your daughter will be at 
 an end." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Saul, the sooner you go the bet- 
 ter." 
 
 A dark cloud came across Mr. Saul's brow as 
 he heard these last words. "This is the way 
 in which you would send away your groom, if 
 he had offended you," he said. 
 
 " I do not wish to be unnecessarily harsh," 
 said Mr. Clavering, "and what I say to you 
 now I say to you not as my curate, but as to a 
 most unwarranted suitor for my daughter's hand. 
 Of course I can not turn you out of the parish 
 at a day's notice. I know that well enough. 
 But your feelings as a gentleman ought to make 
 you aware that you should go at once." 
 
 " And that is to be my only answer?" 
 
 "What answer did you expect?" 
 
 " I have been thinking so much lately of the 
 answers I might get from ypur daughter, that I 
 have not made other calculations. Perhaps I 
 had no right to expect any other than that you 
 have now given me." 
 
 "Of course you had not. And now I ask 
 you again to give her up." 
 
 "I shall not do that, certainly. " 
 
 "Then, Mr. Saul, you must go ; and, incon- 
 venient as it will be to myself — terribly incon- 
 venient, I must ask you to go at once. Of 
 coarse I can not allow you to meet my daughter 
 any more. As long as you remain she will ht- 
 debarred from going to her school, and you will 
 be debarred from coming here." 
 
 "If I say that I will not seek' her at the 
 school ?" 
 
 ' ' I will not have it. It is out of the question 
 that you should remain in the parish. You 
 ought to feel it." 
 
 "Mr. Clavering, my going — I mean my in- 
 stant going— is a matter of which I have not 
 yet thought. I must consider it before I give 
 you an answer." 
 
 "It ought to require no consideration," said 
 Mr. Clavering, rising from his chair — "none at 
 all — not a moment's. Heavens and earth ! 
 Why, what did you suppose you were to live 
 upon? But I won't discuss it. I will not say 
 one more word upon a subject which is so dis- 
 tasteful to me. You must excuse me if I leave 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Saul tlien departed, and from this inter- 
 view had arisen that state of things in the par- 
 ish which had induced Mrs. Clavering to call 
 Harry to their assistance. The rector had be- 
 come more energetic on the subject than any of 
 them had expected. He did not actually forbid 
 his wife to see Mr. Saul, but he did say that Mr. 
 Saul should not come to the rectory. Then 
 there arose a question as to the Sunday servi- 
 ces, and yet Mr. Clavering would have no inter- 
 course with his curate. He would have no in- 
 tercourse with him unless he would fix an im- 
 mediate day for going, or else promise that he 
 would think no more of Fanny. Hitherto he 
 had done neither, and therefore Mrs. Clavering 
 had sent for her son. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MR. Saul's abode. 
 
 When Harry Clavering left London he was 
 not well, though he did not care to tell himself 
 that he was ill. But he had been so harassed 
 by his position, was so ashamed of himself, and 
 as yet so unable to see any escape from his 
 misery, that he was sore with fatigue and al- 
 most worn out with trouble. On his arrival at 
 the parsonage, his mother at once asked him if 
 he was ill, and received his petulant denial with 
 an ill-satisfied countenance. That there was 
 something wrong between him and Florence she 
 suspected, but at the present moment she was 
 not disposed to inquire into that matter. Har- 
 ry's love-affairs had for her a great interest, but 
 Fanny's love-affairs at the present moment weri' 
 paramount in her bosom. Fanny, indeed, had 
 become very troublesome since Mr. Saul's visit 
 to her father. On the evening of her conversa- 
 
150 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 tion with her mother, and on the following morn- 
 ing, Fanny had carried herself with bravery, and 
 Mrs. Clavering had been disposed to think that 
 her daughter's heart was not wounded deeply. 
 She had admitted the impossibility of her mar- 
 riage with Mr. Saul, and had never insisted on 
 the strength of her attachment ; but no sooner 
 was she told that Mr. Saul had been banished 
 from the house, than she took upon herself to 
 mope in the most love-lorn fashion, and behaved 
 herself as though she were the victim of an all- 
 absorbing passion. Between her and her father 
 no word on the subject had been spoken, and 
 even to her mother she was silent, respectful, 
 and subdued, as it becomes daughters to be who 
 are hardly used when they are in love. Now 
 Mrs. Clavering felt that in this her daughter 
 was not treating her well. 
 
 " But you don't mean to say that she cares 
 for him ?" Harry said to his mother, when they 
 were alone on the evening of his arrival. 
 
 "Yes, she cares for him, certainly. As far 
 as I can tell, she cares for him very much." 
 
 " It is the oddest thing I ever knew in my 
 life. I should have said he was the last man in 
 the world for success of that kind." 
 
 " One never can tell, Harry. You see he is 
 a very good young man." 
 
 ' ' But girls don't fall in love with men because 
 they're good, mother." 
 
 "I hope they do — for that and other things 
 together. " 
 
 "Bnt he hat got none of the other things. 
 What a pity it was that he was let to stay here 
 after he first made a fool of himself." 
 
 "It's too late to think of that now, Harry. 
 
 Of course she can't marry him. They would 
 have nothing to live on. I should say that he 
 has no prospect of a living. " 
 
 " I can't conceive how a man can do such a 
 wicked thing," said Harry, moralizing, and for- 
 getting for a moment his own sins. " Coming 
 into a house like this, and in such a position, 
 and then undermining a girl's affections, when 
 he must know that it is quite out of the question 
 that he should marry her ! I call it downright 
 wicked. It is treachery of the worst sort, and, 
 coming from a clergyman, is of course the more 
 to be condemned. I sha'n't be slow to tell him 
 my mind." 
 
 "You will gain nothing by quarreling with 
 him." 
 
 "But how can I help it, if I am to see him at 
 all?" 
 
 " I mean that I would not be rough with him. 
 The great thing is to make him feel that he 
 should go away as soon as possible, and renounce 
 all idea of seeing Panny again. You see, your 
 father will have no conversation with him at all, 
 and it is so disagreeable about the services. 
 They'll have to meet in the vestry-room on Sun- 
 day, and they won't speak. Will not that be 
 terrible ? Any thing will be better than that he 
 should remain here." 
 
 " And what will my father do for a curate ?" 
 
 "He can't do any thing till he knows when 
 Mr. Saul will go. He talks of taking all the 
 services himself. " 
 
 "He couldn't do it, mother. He must not 
 think of it. However, I'll see Saul the first 
 thing to-morrow." 
 
 The next day was Tuesday, and Harry pro- 
 posed to leave the rectory at ten o'clock for Mr. 
 Saul's lodgings. Before he did so, he had a 
 few words with his father, who professed even 
 deeper animosity against Mr. Saul than his son. 
 "After that," he said, "I'll believe that a girl 
 may fall in love with any man ! People say all 
 manner of things about the folly of girls; but 
 nothing but this — nothing short of this^would 
 have convinced me that it was possible that 
 Fanny should have been such a fool. An ape 
 of a fellow— not made like a man — with a thin, 
 hatchet face, and unwholesome, stubby chin. 
 Good heavens!" 
 
 " He has talked her into it." 
 
 "But he is such an ass. As far as I know 
 him, he can't say Bo ! to a goose." 
 
 "There I think you are perhaps wrong." 
 
 " Upon my word, I've never been able to get 
 a word from him except about the parish. Ho 
 is the most uncompanionable fellow. There's 
 Edward Fielding is as active a clergyman as 
 Saul; but Edward Fielding has something to 
 say for himself" 
 
 " Saul is a cleverer man than Edward is, but 
 his cleverness is of a different sort." 
 
 "It is of a sort that is very invisible to me. 
 But what does all that matter? He hasn't got 
 a shilling. When I was a curate, we didn't 
 think of doing such things as that." Mr. Cla- 
 vering had only been a curate for twelve months. 
 
fiijii CijAVJtcaiNGS. 
 
 151 
 
 and during that time had become engaged to 
 his present wife with the consent of every one 
 concerned. "But clergymen were gentlemen 
 then. I don't know what the Church will come 
 to ; I don't, indeed." 
 
 After this, Harry went away upon his mission. 
 What a farce it was that he should be engaged 
 to make straight the affairs of other people, when 
 . his own affairs were so very crooked ! As he 
 walked up to the old farm-house in which Mr. 
 Saul was living, he thought of this, and acknowl- 
 edged.to himself that he could hardly make him- 
 self in earnest about his sister's affairs because 
 of his own troubles. He tried to fill himself 
 with a proper feeling of dignified wrath and 
 high paternal indignation against the poor cu- 
 rate ; but under it all, and at the back of it all, 
 and in front of it all, there was ever present to 
 him his own position. Did he wish to escape 
 from Lady Ongar ; and if so, how was he to do 
 it ? And if he did not escape from Lady Ongar, 
 how was he ever to hold up his head again ? 
 
 He had sent a note to Mr. Saul on the pre- 
 vious evening giving notice of his intended visit, 
 and had received an answer, in which the curate 
 had promised that he would be at home. He 
 had never before been in Mr. Saul's room, and 
 as he entered it, felt more strongly than ever 
 how incongruous was the idea of Mr. Saul as a 
 suitor to his sister. The Claverings had always 
 had things comfortable around them. They 
 were a people who had ever lived on Brussels 
 carpets, and had seated themselves in capa- 
 cious chairs. Ormolu, damask hangings, and 
 Sevres china were not familiar to them ; but 
 they had never lacked any thing that is needed 
 for the comfort of the first-class clerical world. 
 Mr. Saul in his abode boasted but few comforts. 
 He inhabited a big bedroom, in which there was 
 a vast fireplace, and a very small grate — the 
 grate being very much more modern than the 
 fireplace. There was a small rag of a carpet 
 near the hearth, and on this stood a large deal 
 table — a table made of unalloyed deal, withput 
 any mendacious paint, putting forward a pre- 
 tense in the direction of mahogany. One 
 wooden Windsor arm-chair — very comfortable 
 in its way — was appropriated to the use of Mr. 
 Saul himself, and two other small wooden chairs 
 flanked the bther side of the fireplace. In one 
 distant corner stood Mr. Saul's small bed, and 
 in another distant corner stood his small dress- 
 ing-table. Against the wall stood a rickety 
 deal press in which he kept his clothes. Other 
 furniture there was none. One of the large 
 windows facing toward the farm-yard had been 
 permanently closed, and in the wide embrace 
 was placed a portion of Mr. Saul's library — books 
 which he had brought with him from college ; 
 and on the ground, under this closed window, 
 were arranged the others, making a long row, 
 which stretched from the bed to the dressing- 
 table, very pervious, I fear, to the attacks of 
 mice. The big table near the fireplace was 
 covered with books and papers — and, alas ! with 
 dust ; for he had fallen into that terrible habit 
 
 which prevails among bachelors, of allowing his 
 work to remain ever open, never finished, al- 
 ways confused — with papers above books, and 
 books above papers — looking as though no useful 
 product could ever be made to come forth from 
 such chaotic elements. But there Mr. Saul 
 composed his sermons, and studied his Bible, 
 and follpwed up, no doubt, some special darling 
 pursuit which his ambition dictated. But there 
 he did not eat his meals ; that had been made 
 impossible by the pile of papers and dust ; and 
 his chop, therefore, or his boiled rasher, or bit 
 of pig's fry, was deposited for him on the little 
 dressing-table, and there consumed. 
 
 Such was the solitary apartment of the gentle- 
 man who now aspired to the hand of Miss Cla- 
 vering ; and for this accommodation, including 
 attendance, he paid the reasonable sum of £10 
 per annum. He then had £60 left with which 
 to feed himself, clothe himself like a gentleman 
 — a duty somewhat neglected — and perform his 
 charities ! 
 
 Harry Clavering, as he looked around him, 
 felt almost ashamed of his sister. The walls 
 were whitewaslied, and stained in many places; 
 and the floor in the middle of the room seemed 
 to be verry rotten. What young man who has 
 himself ^welt ever In comfort would like such 
 a house ror his sister ? Mr. Saul, however, came 
 forward with no marks of visible shame on his 
 face, and greeted his visitor frankly with an 
 open hand. "You came down from London 
 yesterday, I suppose ?" said Mr. Saul. 
 
 " Just so," said Han-y. 
 
 "Take a seat;" and Mr. Saul suggested the 
 arm-chair, but Harry contented himself with 
 one of the others. " I hope Mrs. Clavering is 
 well?" "Quite well," said Harry, cheerfully. 
 "And your fatherland sister ? " Quite well, 
 thank you," said Harry, very stiffly. "I would 
 have come down to you at the rectory," said Mr. 
 Saul, "instead of bringing you up here; only, 
 as you have heard, no doubt, I and your father 
 have unfortunately had a difference." This Mr. 
 Saul said without any apparent effort, and then 
 left Harry to commence the farther conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Of course, you know what I'm come here 
 about?" said Harry. 
 
 "Not exactly ; at any rate, not so clearly but 
 what I would wish you to tell me." 
 
 "You have gone to my father as a suitor for 
 my sister's hand." 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 " Now you must know that that is altogether 
 impossible — a thing not to be even talked of. " 
 
 "So your father says. I need not tell you 
 that I was very sorry to hear him speak in that 
 way." 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, you can't really be in 
 earnest? You can't suppose it possible that he 
 would allow such an engagement?" 
 
 "As to the latter question, I have no answer 
 to give ; but'I certainly was — and certainly am 
 in earnest." 
 
 " Then I must say that I think you have a 
 
152 
 
 THE ^AVERINGS. 
 
 very erroneous idea of what the conduct of a 
 gentleman should be." 
 
 " Stop a moment, Clavering," said Mr. Saul, 
 rising, and standing with his back to the big 
 fireplace. "Don't allow yourself to say in a 
 hurry words which you will afterward regret. 
 I do not think you can have intended to come 
 here and tell me that I am not a gentleman." 
 
 " I don't want to have an argument with you ; 
 but you must give it up ; that's all. " 
 
 " Give what up ? If you mean give up your 
 sister, I certainly shall never do that. She may 
 give me up, and if you have any thing to say on 
 that head, you had better .say it to her." 
 
 "What right can you have — without a shil- 
 ling in the worlds' 
 
 " I should have no right to marry her in such 
 a condition — with your fathei-'s consent or with- 
 out it. It is a thing which I have never pro- 
 posed to myself for a moment — or to her." 
 
 "And what have you proposed to yourself?" 
 
 Mr. Saul paused a moment before he spoke, 
 looking down at the dusty heap upon his table, 
 as though hoping that inspiration might come 
 to him from them. " I will tell you what I 
 have proposed," said he, at last, "as nearly as 
 I can put it into woi'ds. I propose to myself to 
 have the image in my heart of one hnimin being 
 whom I can love above all the world Deside ; I 
 propose to hope that I, as others, may some day 
 marry, and that she whom I so love may become 
 my wife ; I propose to bear with such courage as 
 I can much certain delay, and probable absolute 
 failure in all this ; and I propose also to expect 
 — no, hardly to expect — that that which I will 
 do for her, she will do for me. Now you know 
 all my mind, and you may be sure of this, that 
 I will instigate your sister to no disobedience." 
 
 "Of coui"se she will not see you again." 
 
 " I shall think that hard after what has passed 
 between us ; but I certainly shall not endeavor 
 to see her clandestinely." 
 
 "And, under these circumstances, Mr. Saul, 
 of course you must leave us." 
 
 " So your father says." 
 
 "But leave us at once, I mean. It can not 
 lie comfortable that you and my father should 
 go on in the parish together in this way." 
 
 "What does your father mean by 'at once?'" 
 
 "The sooner the better ; say in two months' 
 time at farthest." 
 
 " Very well. I will go in two months' time. 
 I have no other home to go to, and no other 
 means of livelihood ; but, as your father wishes 
 it, I will go at the end of two months. As I 
 comply with this, I hope my request to see your 
 sister once before I go will not be refused." 
 
 " It could do no good, Mr. Saul." 
 
 "To me it would do great good — and, as I 
 think, no harm to her." 
 
 "My father, I am sure, will not allow it. 
 Indeed, why should he ? Nor, as I understand, 
 would my sister wish it." 
 
 " Has she said so?" 
 
 " Not to me ; but she has acknowledged that 
 •iny idea of a marriage between herself and you 
 
 is quite impossible, and after that I'm sure she'll 
 have too much sense to wish for an interview. 
 If there is any thing farther that I can do for 
 you, I shall be most happy. Mr. Sanl did not 
 see that Harry Clavering could do any thing 
 for him, and then Harry took his leave. The 
 rector, when he heard of the arrangement, ex- 
 pressed himself as in some sort satisfied. One 
 month would have been better than two, but 
 then it could hardly be expected that Mr. Saul 
 could take himself away instantly, without look- 
 ing for a hole in which to lay his head. " Of 
 com-se it is understood that he is not to see her?" 
 the rector said. In answer to this, Harry ex- 
 plained what had taken place, expressing his 
 opinion that Mr. Saul would, at any rate, keep 
 his word. "Interview, indeed!" said the rector. 
 "It is the man's audacity that most astonishes 
 me. It passes me to think how such a fellew 
 can dare to propose such a thing. What is it 
 that he expects as the end of it ?" Then Harry 
 endeavored to repeat what Mr. Saul had said as 
 to his own expectations, but he was quite aware 
 that he failed to make his father understand 
 those expectations as he had understood them 
 when the words came from Mr. Saul's own 
 mouth. Harry Clavering had acknowledged to 
 himself that it was impossible not to respect the 
 poor curate. 
 
 To Mrs. Clavering, of course, fell the task of 
 explaining to Fanny what had been done, and 
 what was going to be done. " He is to go away, 
 my dear, at the end of tw o months." 
 
 "Very well, mamma." 
 
 "And, of course, you and he are not to meet 
 before that." 
 
 " Of course not, if you and papa say so." 
 
 " I have told your papa that it will only be 
 necessary to tell you this, and that then yon can 
 go to your school just as usual, if you jilease. 
 Neither papa nor I would doubt your word for a 
 moment." 
 
 "But what can I do if he comes to me?" 
 asked Fanny, almost whimpering. 
 
 "He has said that he will not, and we do not 
 doubt his word either." 
 
 "That I am sure you need not. Whatever 
 any body may say, Mr. Saul is as much a gen- 
 tleman as though he had the best living in the 
 diocese. No one ever knew him break his 
 word — not a hair's breadth — or do — any thing 
 else — that he ought — not to do." And Fanny, 
 as she pronounced this rather strong eulogium, 
 began to sob. Mrs. Clavering felt that Fanny 
 was headstrong, and almost ill-natured, in speak- 
 ing in this tone of her lover, after the manner 
 in which she had been treated ; but there could 
 be no use in discussing Mr. Saul's virtues, and 
 therefore she let the matter drop. " If you will 
 take my advice," she said, "you will go about 
 your occupations just as usual. You'll soon re. 
 cover your spirits in that way." 
 
 "I don't want to recover my spirits," said 
 Fanny ; " but, if you wish it, I'll go on with the 
 schools." 
 
 It was quite manifest now that F.inny in- 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 153 
 
 tended to play the r6]e of a broken-hearted 
 yonng lady, and to regard the absent Mr. Saul 
 with passionate devotion. That this should be 
 so Mr. Clavering felt to be the more cruel, be- 
 cause no such tendencies had been shown before 
 the paternal sentence against Mr. Saul had been 
 passed. Fanny, in telling her own tale, had be- 
 gun by declaring that any such an engagement 
 was an impossibility. She had not asked per- 
 mission to have Mr. Saul for a lover. She had 
 given no hint that she even hoped for such per- 
 mission. But now, when that was done which 
 she herself had almost dictated, she took upon 
 herself to live as though she were ill used as 
 badly as a heroine in a castle among the Apen- 
 nines ! And in this way she would really be- 
 come deeply in love with Mr. Saul ; thinking 
 nf all which, Mrs. Clavering almost regretted 
 that the edict of banishment had gone forth. It 
 would, perhaps, have been better to have left Mr. 
 Saul to go about the parish, and to have laughed 
 Fanny out of her fancy. But it was too late 
 now for that, and Mrs. Clavering said nothing 
 farther on the subject to any one. 
 
 On the day following his visit to the farm- 
 house Harry Clavering was unwell — too unwell 
 to go back to-London ; and on the next day he 
 was ill in bed. Then it was that he got his 
 mother to write to Mrs. Burton ; and then, also, 
 he told his mother a part of his troubles. When 
 the letter was written he was very anxious to 
 see it, and was desirous that it should be 
 specially worded,- and so written as to make 
 Mrs. Burton certain that he was in truth too ill 
 to come to London, though not ill enough to 
 create alarm. " Why not simply let me say that 
 you are kept here for a day or two ?" asked Mrs. 
 Clavering. 
 
 "Because I promised that I would be in 
 Onslow Terrace to-morrow, and she must not 
 think that I would stay away if I could avoid it." 
 
 Then Mrs. Clavering closed the letter and 
 directed it. When she had done that, and put 
 on it the postage-stamp, she asked, in h. voice 
 that was Intended to be indifferent, whether 
 Florence was in London ; and, hearing that she 
 was so, expressed her surprise that the letter 
 should not be written to Florence. 
 
 "My engagement was with Mrs. Burton," 
 said Harry. 
 
 " I hope there is nothing wrong between you 
 and Florence ?" said his mother. To this ques- 
 tion Harry made no immediate answer, and Mrs. 
 Clavering was afraid to presfe it. But after 
 a while he recurred to the subject himself. 
 "Mother," he said, "things are wrong between 
 Florence and me." 
 
 "Oh, Harry! what has she done?" 
 
 " It is rather what have I done ? As for her, 
 she has simply trusted herself to a man who has 
 been false to her." | 
 
 "Dear Harry, do not say that. What is that | 
 you mean ? It is not true about Lady Ongar ?" 
 
 " Then you have heard, mother? Of course 
 I do not know what you have heard, but it can 
 hardlv be worse than the truth. But yon must 
 
 not blame her. Whatever fault there may be 
 is all mine." Then he told her much of what 
 had occurred in Bolton Street. We may sup- 
 pose that he said nothing of that mad caress — 
 nothing, perlwps, of the final promise which he 
 made to Julia as he last passed out of her pres- 
 ence ; but he did give her to understand that he 
 had in some way returned to his old passion for 
 the woman whom he had first loved. 
 
 I should describe Mrs. Clavering in language 
 too highly eulogistic were I to lead the reader 
 to believe that she was altogether averse to such 
 advantages as would accrue to her son from a 
 marriage so brilliant as that which he might 
 now make with the grandly dowered widow of 
 the late earl. Mrs. Clavering by no means de- 
 spised worldly goods ; and she had, moreover, 
 an idea that her highly-gifted son was better 
 adapted to the spending than to the making of 
 money. It had come to be believed at the 
 rectory that though Harry had worked very hard 
 at college — as is the case with many highly-born 
 young gentlemen — and though he would, un- 
 doubtedly, continue to work hard if he were 
 thrown among congenial occupations — such as 
 politics and the like — nevertheless, he would 
 never excel greatly in any drudgery that would 
 be necessary for the making of money. There 
 had been something to be proud of in this, but 
 there had, of course, been more to regret. But 
 now, if Harry were to marry Lady Ongar, all 
 trouble on that score would be over. But poor 
 Florence ! When Mrs. Clavering allowed her- 
 self to think of the matter, she knew that Flor- 
 ence's claims should be held as paramount. 
 And when she thought farther and thought 
 seriously, she knew also that Harry's honor and 
 Harry's happiness demanded that he should be 
 true to the girl to whom his hand had been 
 promised. And, then, was not Lady Ongar's 
 name tainted ? It might be that she had suffer- 
 ed cruel ill-usage in this. It might be that no 
 such taint had been deserved. Mrs. Clavering 
 could plead the injured woman's cause when 
 speaking of it without any close reference to her 
 own belongings ; but it would have been very 
 grievous to her, even had there been no Florence 
 Burton in the case, that her son should make 
 his fortune by marrying a woman as to whose 
 character the world was in doubt. 
 
 She came to him late in the evening, when 
 his sister and father had just left him, and, sit- 
 ting with her hahd upon his, spoke one word, 
 which perhaps had more weight with Harry than 
 any woid that had yet been spoken. "Have 
 you slept, dear?" she said. 
 
 "A little before my father came in." 
 
 "My darling," she said, " you will be true to 
 Florence ; will you not ?" Then there was a 
 pause. "My own Harry, tell me that you will 
 be true where your truth is due." 
 
 "I will, mother," he said. 
 
 " My own boy — my darling boy — my own true 
 gentleman!" Harry felt that he did not de- 
 serve the praise; but praise undeserved, though 
 it may be satire in disguise, is often very useful. 
 
154 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 On the next day Harry was not better, but 
 the doctor still said that tliere was no cause for 
 alarm. He was suiFcring from a low fever, and 
 his sister had better be kept out of his room. 
 He would not sleep, and was restless, and it 
 might be some time before he could return to 
 London. 
 
 Early in the day the rector came into his son's 
 bedroom, and told him and his mother, who was 
 there, the news which he had just heard from 
 the great house. " Hugh has come home," he 
 said, " and is going out yachting for the rest of 
 the summer. They are going to Norway in 
 Jack Stuart's yacht. Archie is going with 
 them." Now Archie was known to be a great 
 man in a yacht, cognizant of ropes, well up in 
 booms and spars, very intimate with bolts, and 
 one to whose hands a tiller came as naturally 
 as did the saddle of a steeple-chase horse to the 
 legs of his friend Doodles. ' ' They are going 
 to fish," said the rector. 
 
 " But Jack Stuart's yacht is only a river-boat 
 — or just big enough for Cowes Harbor, but noth- 
 thing more," said Harry, roused in his bed to 
 some excitement by the news. 
 
 "I know nothing about Jack Stuart or his 
 boat either," said the rector; "but that's what 
 they told me. He's down here, at any rate, for 
 I saw the servant that came with him." 
 
 "What a shame it is, " said Mrs. Clavering 
 — "a scandalous shame." 
 
 "You mean his going away?" said the rec- 
 tor. 
 
 "Of course I do — his leaving her here by 
 herself, all alone. He can have no heart — after 
 losing her child, and suffering as she has done. 
 It makes me ashamed of my own name." 
 
 "You can't alter him, my dear. He has his 
 good qualities and his bad, and the bad ones are 
 by far the more conspicuous." 
 
 " I don't know any good qualities he has." 
 
 " He does not get into debt. He will not 
 destroy the property. He will leave the family 
 after him as well off as it was before him ; and, 
 though he is a hard man, he does nothing act- 
 ively cruel. Think of Lord Ongar, and then 
 you'll remember that there are worse men than 
 Hugh. Not that I like him. 1 am never com- 
 fortable for a moment in his presence. I always 
 feel that he wants to quarrel Vith me, and that 
 I almost want to quarrel with him." 
 
 " I detest him," said Harry, from beneath the 
 bedclothes. 
 
 "You won't be tronbled with him any more 
 this Slimmer, for he means to be off in less than 
 a week." 
 
 " And what Is she to do ?" asked Mrs. Claver- 
 ing. 
 
 "Live here, as she has done ever since Julia 
 mfifried. I don't see that it will make much 
 difference to her. He's never with her when 
 he's in England, and I should think she must be 
 inore comfortable without him than with him." 
 
 " It's a great catch for Archie," said Harry. 
 
 " Archie Clavering is a fool," said Mrs. 
 Clavering. 
 
 "They say he understands a yacht," said the 
 rector, who then left the room. 
 
 The rector's news was all true. Sir Hugh 
 Clavering had come down to the Park, and had 
 announced his intention of going to Norway in 
 Jack Stuart's yacht. Archie also had been in- 
 vited to join the party. Sir Hugh intended to 
 leave the Thames in about a week, and had not 
 thought it necessary to give his wife any inti- 
 mation of the fact, till he told her himself of 
 bis intention. He took, I think, a delight in 
 being thus overharsh in his harshness to her. 
 He proved to himself thus not only that he was 
 master, but that he would be master without 
 any let or drawback, without compunctions, and 
 even without excuses for his ill conduct. There 
 should be no plea put in bj' him in his absences 
 that he had only gone to catch a few fish, when 
 his intentions had been other than piscatorial. 
 He intended to do as he liked now and always, 
 and he intended that his wife should know that 
 such was his intention. She was now childless, 
 and therefore he had no other terms to keep 
 with her than those which appertained to her 
 necessities for bed and board. There was the 
 house, and she might live in it; and there were 
 the butchers, and the bakers, and other trades- 
 men to supply her wants. Nay, there were the 
 old carriage and the old horses at her disposal, 
 if they could be of any service to her. Such 
 were Sir Hugh Clavering's ideas as to the bonds 
 inflicted upon him by his marriage vows. 
 
 "I'm going to Norway next week." It was 
 thus Sir Hugh communicated his intention to 
 his wife within five minutes of their first greet- 
 ing. 
 
 " To Norway, Hugh ?" 
 
 "Yes; why not to Norway? I and one or 
 two others have got some fishing there. Archie 
 is going too. It will keep him from spending 
 his money — or rather from spending money 
 which isn't his." 
 
 "And for how long will you be gone?" 
 
 It was part of Sir Hugh Clavering's theorj- 
 as to these matters that there should be no lying 
 in the conduct of them. He would not conde- 
 scend to screen any part of his doings by a false- 
 hood, so he answered this question with exact 
 truth. 
 
 "I don't suppose we shall be back before 
 October." ' 
 
 " Not before October." 
 
 "No. We are talking of putting in on the 
 coast of Normandy somewhere, and probably 
 may run down to Brittany. I shall be back, 
 at any rate, for the hunting. As for the par- 
 tridges, the game has gone so much to the devil 
 here that they are not worth coming for." 
 
 "You'll he away four months!" 
 
 "I suppose I shall, if I don't come back till 
 October." Then he left her, calculating that 
 she would have considered the matter before he 
 returned, and have decided that no good could 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 165 
 
 come to her from complaint. She knew his 
 purpose now, and would no doubt reconcile her- 
 self to it quickly — perhaps with a few tears, 
 which would not hurt him if he did not see 
 them. 
 
 But this blow was almost more than Lady 
 Clavering could bear — was more than she could 
 bear in silence. "Why she should have grudged 
 her husband his trip abroad, seeing that his 
 jiresence in England could hardly have been a 
 solace to her, it is hard to understand. Had he 
 remained in England he would rarely have been 
 rfit Clavering Park, and when he was at the Park 
 he would rarely have given her the benefit of 
 his society. When they were together he was 
 usually scolding her, or else sitting in gloomy 
 silence, as though that phase of his life was al- 
 most insupportable to him. He was so unusu- 
 ally disagreeable in his intercourse with her, 
 that his absence, one would think, must be pref- 
 erable to his presence. But women can bear 
 any thing better than desertion. Crnelty is bad, 
 but neglect is worse than cruelty, and desertion 
 worse even than neglect. To be treated as 
 though she were not in existence, or as though 
 her existence were a nuisance simply to be en- 
 dured, and, as far as possible, to be forgotten, 
 was more than even Lady Clavering could bear 
 without complaint. When her husband left 
 hei", she sat meditating how she might turn 
 against her oppressor. She was a woman not 
 apt for fighting — unlike her sister, who knew 
 well how to use the cudgels in her own behalf; 
 she was timid, not gifted with a full flow of 
 words, prone to sink and become dependent ; 
 but she — even she — with all these deficiencies — 
 felt that she must make some stand against the 
 outrage to which she was now to be subjected. 
 
 "Hugh," she said, when next she saw him, 
 " you can't really mean that you are going to 
 leave me from this time till the winter?" 
 
 "I said nothing about the winter." 
 
 " Well— till October." 
 
 " I said that I was going, and I usually mean 
 what I say." 
 
 "I can not believe it, Hugh ; I can not bring 
 myself to think that you will be so cruel." 
 
 " Look here, Hermy, if you take to calling 
 names I won't stand it." 
 
 "And I won't stand it either. What am I 
 to do ? Am I to be here in this dreadful bar- 
 rack of a house all alone ? How would you 
 like it ? Would you bear it for one month, let 
 alone four or five ? I won't remain here, I tell 
 you that fairly." 
 
 " Where do you want to go ?" 
 
 "I don't want to go any where, but I'll go 
 away somewhere and die — I will indeed. • I'll 
 destroy myself, or something." 
 
 "Psha!" 
 
 "Yes, of course it's a joke to you. What 
 have I done to deserve this ? Have I ever done 
 any thing that you told me not ? It's all be- 
 cause of Hughy — my darling — so it is ; and it's 
 cruel of you, and not like a husband ; and it's 
 not manly. It's very cruel. I didn't think 
 
 any body would have been so cruel as you are 
 to me." Then she broke down and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Have you done, Hermy?" said her husband. 
 
 "No, I've not done." 
 
 " Then go on again," said he. 
 
 But, in truth, she had done, and could only 
 repeat her last accusation. " You're very, very 
 cruel." 
 
 " You said that before." 
 
 "And I'll say it again. I'll tell every body, 
 so I will. I'll tell your uncle at the rectory, 
 and he shall speak to you." 
 
 ' ' Look here, Hermy, I can bear a deal of 
 nonsense from you, because some women ai'e 
 given to talk nonsense ; but if I find you telling 
 tales about me out of this house, and especially 
 to my uncle, or indeed to any body, I'll let you 
 know what it is to be cruel." 
 
 "You can't be worse than you are." 
 
 "Don't try me — that's all. And as I sup- 
 pose you have now said all that you've got to 
 say, if you please we will regard that subject as 
 finished." The poor woman had said all that 
 she could say, and had no farther means of 
 carrying on the war. In her thoughts she 
 could do so ; in her thoughts she could wander 
 forth out of the gloomy house in the night, and 
 perish in the damp and cold, leaving a paper 
 behind her to tell the world that her husband's 
 cruelty had brought her to that pass. Or she 
 would go to Julia and leave him forever. Ju- 
 lia, she thought, would still receive her. But 
 as to one thing she had certainly made up her 
 mind ; she would go with her complaint to Mrs. 
 Clavering at the rectory, let her lord and master 
 show his anger in whatever form he might 
 please. 
 
 The next day Sir Hugh himself made her a 
 proposition which somewhat softened the aspect 
 of affairs. This he did in his usual voice, with 
 something of a smile on his face, and speaking 
 as though . he were altogether oblivious of the 
 scenes of yesterday. ' ' I was thinking, Hermy, " 
 he said, "that you might have Julia down hero 
 while I am away." 
 
 " Have Julia here?" 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? She'll come, I'm sure, 
 when she knows that my back is turned." 
 
 "I've never thought about asking her — at 
 least not lately." 
 
 " No, of course. But you might as well do 
 so now. It seems that she never goes to On- 
 gar Park, and, as far as I can learn, never will. 
 I'm going to see her myself" 
 
 " You going to see her ?" 
 
 "Yes; Lord Ongar's people want to know 
 whether she can be induced to give up the place 
 — that is, to sell her interest in it. 1 have 
 promised to see her. Do you write her a letter 
 first, and tell her that I want to see her, and ask 
 her also to come here as soon as she can leave 
 London." 
 
 "But wouldn't the lawyers do it better than 
 you?" 
 
 " Well, one would think so ; but I am com- 
 
156 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 missioned to make her a liind of apology from 
 the whole Coui-ton family. They fancy they've 
 been hard upon her, and, by George ! I believe 
 they have. I may be able to say a word for 
 myself too. If she isn't a fool she'll put her 
 anger in her pocket, and come down to you." 
 
 Lady Clavering liked the idea of having her 
 sister with her, but she was not quite meek 
 enough to receive the permission now given her 
 as full compensation for the injury done. She 
 said that she would do as he had bidden her, j 
 and then went back to her own grievances. " I 
 don't suppose Julia, even if she would come for 
 a little time, would find it very pleasant to live 
 in such a place as this, all alone." 
 
 "She wouldn't be all alone when you are 
 with her," said Hugh, gruffly, and then again i 
 went out, leaving his wife to become used to 
 her misfortune by degrees. 
 
 It was not surprising that Lady Clavering 
 should dislike her solitude at Clavering Park 
 House, nor surprising that Sir Hugh should find 
 the place disagreeable. The house was a large, 
 square stone building, with none of the pretti- 
 nesses of modern country houses about it. The 
 gardens were away from the house, and the cold, 
 desolate fiat park came up close around the 
 windows. The rooms were large and lofty — 
 very excellent for the purpose of a large house- 
 hold, but with nothing of that snug, pretty com- 
 fort which solitude requires for its solace. The 
 furniture was old and heavy, and the hangings 
 were dark in color. Lady Clavering, when alone 
 there — and she generally was alone — never 
 entered the rooms on the ground floor. Nor 
 did she ever pass through the wilderness of a 
 hall by which the front door was to be reached. 
 Throughout more than half her'days she never 
 came down stairs at all ; but when she did so, 
 preparatory to being dragged about the parish 
 lanes in the old family carriage, she was let out 
 tit a small side door; and so it came to pass 
 that during the absences of the lord of the man- 
 sion, the shutters were not even moved from 
 any of the lower windows. Under such cir- 
 cumstances, there can be no wonder that Lady 
 Clavering regarded the place as a prison. " I 
 wish you could come upon it unawares, and see 
 how gloomy it is," she said to him. "I don't 
 think you'd stand it alone for two days, let alone 
 all your life." 
 
 ' ' I'll shut it up altogether if you like, " said he. 
 
 "And where am I to go?" she asked. 
 
 "You can go to Moor Hall if you please." 
 Now Moor Hall was a small house, standing on 
 a small property belonging to Sir Hugh, in that 
 part of Devonshire which lies north of Dartmoor, 
 somewhere near the Holsworthy region, and 
 which is perhaps as ugly, as desolate, and as 
 remote as any part of England. Lady Cla- 
 vering had heard much of Moor Hall, and 
 dreaded it as the heroine, made to live in the 
 big grim castle low down among the Apennines, 
 dreads the smaller and grimmer castle which is 
 known to exist somewhere higher up in the 
 mountains. 
 
 " Why couldn't I go to Brighton ?" said 
 Lady Clavering, boldly. 
 
 "Because I don't choose it," said Sir Hugh. 
 After that she did go to the rectory, and told 
 Mrs. Clavering all her troubles. She had writ- 
 ten to her sister, having, however, delayed the 
 doing of this for two or three days, and she had 
 not at this time received an answer from Lady 
 Ongar. Nor did she hear from her sister till 
 after Sir Hugh had left her. It was on the day 
 before his departure that she went to the rec- 
 tory, finding herself driven to this act of rebellion 
 by his threat of Moor Hail. " I will never ge 
 there unless I am dragged there by force," she 
 said to Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "I don't think he means that," said Mrs. 
 Clavering. "He only wants to make you 
 understand that you'd better remain at the 
 Park." 
 
 " But if you knew what a house it is to be all 
 alone in." 
 
 " Dear Hermione, I do know ! But you 
 must come to ns oftener, and let us endeavor to 
 make it better for you." 
 
 " But how can I do that? How can I come 
 to his uncle's house, just because my own hus- 
 band has made my own home so wretched that 
 I can not bear it. I'm ashamed to do that. I 
 ought not to be telling you all this, of course. 
 I don't know what he'd do if he knew it ; but it 
 is so hard to hear it all without telling some 
 one." 
 
 "My poor dear!" 
 
 "I sometimes think I'll ask Mr. Clavering 
 to speak to him, and to tell him at once that I 
 will not submit to it any longer. Of course he 
 would be mad with rage, but if he were to kill 
 me I should like it better than having to go on 
 in this way. I'm sure he is only waiting for 
 me to die." 
 
 Mrs. Clavering said all that she could to 
 comfort the poor woman, but there was not 
 much that she could say. She had strongly 
 advocated the plan of having Lady Ongar at 
 the Park, thinking perhaps that Hari-y would he 
 more safe while that lady was at Clavering than 
 he might perhaps he if she remained in London. 
 But Mrs. Clavering doubted much whether Lady 
 Ongar would consent to make such a visit. 
 She regarded Lady Ongar as a hard, worldly, 
 pleasure-seeking woman — sinned against per- 
 haps in much, bijt also sinning in much her- 
 self — to whom the desolation of the Park would 
 be even more unendurable than it was to the 
 elder sister. But of this of course she said 
 nothing. Lady Clavering left her somewhat 
 quieted, if not comforted, and went back to past, 
 her last evening with her husband. 
 
 "Upon second thought, I'll go by the first 
 train," he said, as he saw her for a moment be- 
 fore she went up to dress. "I shall have to be 
 off from here a little after six, but I don't mind 
 that in summer." Thus she was to be deprived 
 of such gratification as there might have been in 
 breakfasting with him on the last morning ! It 
 might be hard to say in what that gratification 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 357 
 
 would have consisted. She must by this time 
 have learned that his presence gave her none of 
 the pleasures usually expected from society. He 
 slighted her in every thing. He rarely vouch- 
 safed to lier those little attentions which all 
 women expect from all gentlemen. If he hand- 
 ed her a plate, or cut for her a morsel of bread 
 from the loaf, he showed by his manner and by 
 his brow that the doing so was a nuisance to 
 him. At their meals he rarely spoke to her, 
 having always at breakfast a paper or a book be- 
 fore him, and at dinner devoting his attention to 
 a dog at his feet. Why should she have felt 
 herself cruelly ill used in this matter of his last 
 breakfast — so cruelly ill used that she wept 
 afresh over it as she dressed herself — seeing that 
 she would lose so little ? Because she loved the 
 man — loved him, though she now thought that 
 iihe hated him. We very rarely, I fancy, love 
 those whose love we have not either possessed or 
 expected — or, at any rate, for whose love we 
 liave not hoped ; but when it has once existed, 
 ill usage will seldom destroy it. Angry as she 
 was with the man, ready as she was to complain 
 of him, to rebelagainst him — perhaps to separate 
 herself from him forever, nevertheless she found 
 it to bo a cruel grievance that she should not sit 
 at table with him on the morning of his going. 
 "Jackson shall bring me a cup of coffee as I'm 
 dressing," he said, " and I'll breakfast at the 
 club." She knew that there was no reason for 
 this, except that breakfasting at his club was 
 more agreable to him than breakfasting with his 
 wife. 
 
 She had got rid of her tears before she came 
 down to dinner, but still she was melancholy 
 and almost lachrymose. This was the last night, 
 and she felt that somethiiig special ought to be 
 said ; but she did not know What she expected, 
 or what it was that she herself wished to say. 
 I think that she was longing for an opportunity 
 to forgive him — only that he would not be for- 
 given. If he would have spoken one soft word 
 to her, she would have accepted that one woi'd 
 as an apology ; but no such word came. He 
 sat opposite to her at dinner, drinking his wine 
 and feeding his dog; but he was no more gra- 
 cious to her at this dinner than he had been on 
 any former day. She sat there pretending to 
 eat, speaking a dull word now and then, to 
 which his answer was a monosyllable, looking 
 out at him from under her eyes, through the 
 candlelight, to see whether any feeling was mov- 
 ing him ; and then, having pretended to eat a 
 couple of strawberries, she left him to himself. 
 Still, however, this was not the last. There 
 would come some moment for an embrace — for 
 some cold half-embrace, in which he would be 
 forced to utter something of a farewell. 
 
 He, when he was left alone, first turned his 
 mind to the subject of Jack Stuart and his yacht. 
 He had on that day received a letter from a 
 noble friend — a friend so noble that he was able 
 to take liberties even with Sir Hugh Clavering — 
 in which his noble friend had told him that he 
 was a fool to trust himself on so long an expe- 
 
 dition in Jack Stuart's little boat. Jack, the 
 noble friend said, knew nothing of the matter, 
 and as for the masters who were hired for the 
 sailing of such crafts, their only object was to 
 keep out as long as possible, with an eye to their 
 wages and perquisites. It might be all very 
 well for Jack Stuart, who had nothing in the 
 world to lose but his life and his yacht ; but his 
 noble friend thought that any such venture on 
 the part of Sir Hugh was simple tomfoolery. 
 But Sir Hugh was an obstinate man, and none 
 of the Claverings were easily made afraid by 
 personal danger. Jack Stuart might know 
 nothing about the management of a boat, but 
 Archie did. And as for the smallness of the 
 craft', he knew of a smaller craft which had 
 been out on the Norway coast dui"ing the whole 
 of the last season. So he drove that thought 
 away from his mind, with no strong feelings of 
 gratitude toward his noble friend. 
 
 And then, for a few moments, he thought of 
 his own home. .What had his wife done for 
 him, that he should put himself out of his way 
 to do much for her? She had brought him no 
 money. She had added nothing either by her 
 wit, beauty, or rank to his position in the world. 
 She had given him no heir. What had he re- 
 ceived from her that he should endure her com- 
 monplace conversation, and washed-out, dowdy 
 prettinesses ? Perhaps some momentary feel- 
 ing of compassion, some twang of conscience, 
 came across his heart, as he thought of it all ; 
 but, if so, he checked it instantly, in accordance 
 with the teachings of his whole life. He had 
 made his reflections on all these things, and had 
 tutored his .mind to certain resolutions, and 
 would not allow himself to be carried away by 
 any womanly softness. She had her house, her 
 carriage, her bed, her board, and her clothes; 
 and, seeing how very little she herself had con- 
 tributed to the common fund, her husband de- 
 termined that in having those things she had all 
 that she had a right to claim. Then he drank 
 a glass of sherry, and went into the drawing- 
 room with that hard smile upon his face which 
 he was accustomed to wear when he intended to 
 signify to his wife that she might as well make 
 the best of existing things, and not cause un- 
 necessary trouble by giving herself airs or as- 
 suming that she was unhappy. 
 
 He had his cup of coffee, and she had her cup 
 of tea, and she made one or two little attempts 
 at saying something special — something that 
 might lead to a word or two as to their parting ; 
 but he was careful and crafty, and she was 
 awkward and timid — and she failed. He had 
 hardly been there an hour, when, looking at his 
 watch, he declared that it was ten o'clock, and 
 that he would go to bed. Well, perhaps it might 
 be best to bring it to an end, and to go through 
 this embrace, and have done with it! Any 
 tender word that was to be spoken on either side, 
 it was now clear to her, must be spoken in that 
 last farewell. There was a tear in her •jye as 
 she rose to kiss him ; but the tear was not there 
 of her own good will, and she strove to get rid 
 
158 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 of it without his seeing it. As he spoke he also 
 rose, and, having lit for himself a bed-candle, 
 was ready to go. " Good-by, Hermy," he said, 
 submitting himself, with the candle in his hand, 
 to the inevitable embrace. 
 
 "Good-by, Hugh; and God bless you," she 
 said, putting her arms round his neck. "Pray 
 — pray take care of yourself. " 
 
 shoulders, so that he could not esc^e without 
 shaking her off, and her forehead was almost 
 resting on his bosom. "Hugh," she said, "you 
 must not be angry with me for what I said to 
 you." 
 
 " Very well," said he, " I won't." 
 "And Hugh," said she, "of course I can't 
 like your going." 
 
 Husband and Wife. 
 
 " All right," he said. His position with the 
 candle was awkward, and he wished that it might 
 be over. 
 
 But she had a word prepared which she was 
 determined to utter — poor weak creature that 
 she was. She still had her arm round his 
 
 " Oh yes, you will," said he. 
 
 "No, I can't like it ; but, Hugh, I will not 
 think ill of it any more. Only be here as much 
 as you can when you come home." 
 
 "All right," said he; then he kissed her 
 forehead and escaped from her, and went his 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 159 
 
 way, telling himself, as lie went, that she was a 
 fool. 
 
 That was the last he saw of her before his 
 yachting commenced; but she — poor fool! — 
 was up by times in the morning, and, peeping 
 out between her curtains as the early summer 
 sun glanced upon her eyelids, saw him come 
 forth from the porch, and descend the great 
 steps, and get into his dog-cart, and drive him- 
 self away. Then, when the sound of the gig 
 could be no longer heard, and when her eyes 
 could no longer catch the last expiring speck of 
 his hat, the poor fool took herself to bed again 
 and cried herself to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 CAPTAIN CLAVEEING MAKES HIS LAST ATTEMPT. 
 
 The yachting scheme was first proposed to 
 Archie by his brother Hugh. " Jack says that 
 he can make a berth for you, and you'd better 
 come," said the elder brother, understanding 
 that when his edict had thus gone forth, the 
 thing was as good as arranged. "Jack finds the 
 boat and men, and I find the -grub and wine — 
 and pay for the fishing, " said Hugh ; " so you 
 need not make any bones about it." Archie 
 was not disposed to make any bones about it as 
 regarded his acceptance either of the berth or 
 of tlie grub and wine, and as he would be ex- 
 pected to earn his passage by his work, there 
 was no necessity for any scruple ; butthere arose 
 the question whether he had not got more im- 
 portant fish to fry. He had not as yet made 
 his proposal to Lady Ongar; and although he 
 now knew that he had nothing to hope from the 
 Russian Spy, nevertheless he thought that he 
 might as well try his own hand at the venture. 
 His resolution on this head was always stronger 
 after dinner than before, and generally became 
 stronger and more strong as the evening ad- 
 vanced, so that he usually went to bed with a 
 firm determination "to pop," as he called it to 
 his friend Doodles, early on the next day ; but 
 distance affected him as well as the hour of the 
 day, and his purpose would become surprising- 
 ly cool in the neighborhood of Bolton Street. 
 When, however, his brother suggested that he 
 should be taken altogether away from the scene 
 of action, he thought of the fine income and of 
 Ongar Park with pangs of regret, and ventured 
 upon a mild remonstrance. "But there's this 
 affair of Julia, you know," said he. 
 
 "I thought that was all offj" said Hugh. 
 
 " Oh dear, ho, not off at all. I haven't asked 
 her yet." 
 
 "I know you've not, and I don't suppose 
 you ever will." , 
 
 "Yes, I shall— that is to say, I mean it. I 
 was advised not to be in too much of a hurry — 
 that is to say, I thought it best to let her settle 
 down a little after her first seeing rae." 
 
 "To recover from her confusion ?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly that. I don't suppose 
 she was confused." 
 
 " I should say not. ' My idea is that you 
 haven't a ghost of chance, and that, as you 
 haven't done any thing all this time, you need 
 not trouble "J'ourself now. " 
 
 "But I have done something," said Archie, 
 thinking of his seventy pounds. 
 
 "You may as well give it up, for she means 
 to marry Harry." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "But I tell you she does. While yoii've 
 been thinking he's been doing. Prom what 1 
 hear, he may have her to-morrow for the ask- 
 ing." 
 
 "But he's engaged to that girl whom they 
 had with them down at the rectory, " said Archie, 
 in a, tone which showed with what horror he 
 should regard any inconstancy toward Plorence 
 Burton on the part of Harry Clavering. 
 
 " What does that matter ? You don't suppose 
 he'll let seven thousand a year slip through his 
 fingers because he had promised to marry a little 
 girl like her? If her people choose to proceed 
 against him they'll make him pay swinging 
 damages, that is all." 
 
 Archie did not like this idea at all, and be- 
 came more than ever intent on his own matri- 
 monial prospects. He almost thought that he 
 had a right to Lady Ongar's money, and he 
 certainly did think that a monstrous injustice 
 was done to him by this idea of a marriage be- 
 tween her and his cousin. " I mean to ask her, 
 as I've gone so far, certainly," said he. 
 
 "You can do as you like about that." 
 
 ' ' Yes,, of course I can do as I like ; but when 
 a fellow has gone in for a thing, he likes to see 
 it through." He was still thinking of the 
 seventy pounds which he had invested, and 
 which he could now recover only out of Lady 
 Ongar'3 pocket. 
 
 "And you mean to say you won't come to 
 Norway ?" 
 
 "Well, if she accepts me — " 
 
 " If she accepts you," said Hugh, " of course 
 you can't come; but supposing she don't?" 
 
 "In that case, I might as well do that as any 
 thing else," said Archie. Whereupon Sir Hugh 
 signified to Jack Stuart that Archie would join 
 the party, and went down to Clavering with no 
 misgiving on that head. 
 
 Some few days after this there was another 
 little dinner at the military club, to which no 
 one was admitted but Archie and his friend 
 Doodles. Whenever these prandial consulta- 
 tions were held, Archie paid the bill. There 
 were no spoken terms to that effect, but the 
 regulation seemed to come naturally to both of 
 them. Why should Doodles be taken from his 
 billiards half an hour earlier than usual, and de- 
 vote a portion of the calculating powers of his 
 brain to Archie's service without compensation ? 
 And a richer vintage was needed when so much 
 thought was required, the burden of which 
 Archie would not of course allow to fall on his 
 friend's shoulders. Were not this explained, 
 the experienced reader would regard the devoted 
 friendship of Doodles as exaggerated. 
 
160 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 "I certainly shall ask her to-morrow," said 
 Archie, looking with a thoughtful cast of coun- 
 tenance through the club window into the street. 
 "It may be hurrying the matter & little, but I 
 can't help that." He spoke in a somewhat 
 boastful tone, as though he were proud of him- 
 self, and had forgotten that he had said the same 
 words once or twice before. 
 
 "Make her know that you're there — that's 
 every thing," said Doodles. " Since I fathomed 
 that woman in Mount Street, I've felt that you 
 must make the score off your own bat, if you're 
 to make it at all." 
 
 "You did that well," said Archie, who knew 
 that the amount of pleasing encouragement 
 which he might hope to get from his friend must 
 depend on the praise which he himself should 
 bestow. "Yes, you certainly did bowl her over 
 uncommon well." 
 
 "That kind of thing just comes within my 
 line," said Doodles, with conscious pride. "Now, 
 as to asking Lady Ongar downright to marry 
 rae, upon my word I believe I should be half 
 afraid of doing it myself." 
 
 "I've none of that kind of feeling," said 
 Archie. 
 
 "It comes more in your way, I dare say," 
 said Doodles. "But for me, what I like is a 
 little bit of management — what I call a touch 
 of the diplomatic. You'll be able to see her to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 " I hope so. I shall go early — that is, as 
 soon as I've looked through the papers and 
 written a few letters. Yes, I think she'll see 
 me. And as for what Hugh says about Harry 
 Clavering, why, d — it, you know, a fellow can't 
 go on in that way — can he ?" 
 
 " Because of the other girl, you mean ?" 
 
 " He has had her down among all ouv people, 
 just as though they were going to be married 
 to-morrow. If a man is going to do that kind 
 of thing, what woman can be safe ?" 
 
 " I wonder whether she likes him,'' asked the 
 crafty Doodles. 
 
 " She did like him, I fancy, in her calf days ; 
 but that means nothing. She knows what she's 
 at now, bless you, and she'll look to the future. 
 It's ray son who'll have the Clavering property 
 and be the baronet, not his. You see what a 
 string to my bow that is." 
 
 When this banquet was over, Doodles made 
 something of a resolution that it should be the 
 last to be eaten on that subject. The matter 
 had lost its novelty, and the price paid to him 
 was not sufficient to secure his attention any 
 longer. " I shall be here to-morrow at four," 
 he said, as he rose from his chair with the view 
 of retreating to the smoking-room, " and then 
 we shall know all about it. Whichever way it's 
 to be, it isn't worth your while keeping such a 
 thing as that in hand any longer. I should say 
 give her her chance to-morrow, and then have 
 done with it." Archie, in reply to this, declared 
 that those were exactly his sentiments, and then 
 went away to prepare himself in silence and 
 solitude for the next day's work. 
 
 On the following day at two o'clock Lady 
 Ongar was sitting alone in the front room on 
 the ground floor in Bolton Street. Of Harry 
 Clavering's illness she had as yet heard nothing, 
 nor of his absence from London. She had not 
 seen him since^he had parted from her on that 
 evening when he had asked her to be his wife, 
 and the last words she had heard from his lips 
 had made this request. She, indeed, had then 
 bade him be true to her rival — to Florence Bur- 
 ton. She had told him this in spite of her love 
 — of her love for him and of his for her. They 
 two, she had said, could not now become man 
 and wife; but he had not acknowledged the 
 truth of what she had said. She could not 
 write to him. She could make no overtures. 
 She could ask no questions. She had no friend 
 in whom she could place confidence. She could 
 only wait for him till he should come to her or 
 send to her, and let her know what was to be 
 her fate. 
 
 As she now sat she held a letter in her hand 
 which had just been brought to her from Sophie 
 — from her poor famished, but indefatigable 
 Sophie. Sophie she had not seen since they 
 had parted on the railway platform, and then 
 the parting was supposed to be made in lasting 
 enmity. Desolate as she was, she had con- 
 gratulated herself much on her escape from 
 Sophie's friendship, and was driven by no qualms 
 of her heart to long for a renewal of the old ties. 
 But it was not so vfiih the more affectionate 
 Sophie ; and Sophie therefore had written — as 
 follows : 
 
 ' " Mount Street — Friday morning. 
 
 "Dearest deakest Julie, — My heart is so 
 sad that I can not keep my silence longer. What ! 
 can such friendship as ours has been be made 
 to die all in a minute ? Oh no — not at least in 
 my bosom, which is filled with love for my Julie. 
 And my Julie will not turn from her friend, 
 who has been so true to her — ah ! at such mo- 
 ments too — oh yes, at such moments! — just for 
 an angry word or a little indiscretion. What 
 was it after all about my brother? Bah! He 
 is a fool ; that is all. If you shall wish it, I will 
 never speak to him again. What is my brother 
 to me compared to my Julie? My brother is 
 nothing to me. I tell him we go to that accursed 
 island — accursed island because my Julio has 
 quarreled with me there — and he arranges him- 
 self to follow us. What could I do ? I could 
 not tie him up by the leg in his London club; 
 He is a man whom no one can tie up by the leg. 
 Mon Dieu, no. He is very hard to tie up. 
 
 " Do I wish him for your husband ? Never ! 
 Why should I wish him for your husband ? If 
 I was a man, my Julie, I should wish you for 
 myself. But I am not, and why should yon not 
 have him whom you like the best? If I was 
 you, with your beauty, and money, and youth, I 
 would have any man that I liked — every thing. 
 I know, of course — for did I not see ? It is that 
 young Clavering to whom your little heart 
 wishes to render itself — not the captain who is 
 a fool — such a fool 1 but the other who is not a 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 161 
 
 fool, but a fine fellow — and so handsome ! Yes, 
 there is no doubt as to that. He is beautiful as 
 a Phoebus." [This was good-natured ou the 
 part of Sophie, who, as the reader may remem- 
 ber, hated Harry Clavering herself.] 
 
 " Well, -why should he not be your own ? As 
 for your poor Sophie, she would do all in her 
 power to assist the friend whom she love. There 
 is that little girl — ^yes ; it is true as I told you. 
 But little girls can not have all they want al- 
 ways. He is a gay deceiver. These men who 
 are so beautiful as Phoebus are always deceivers. 
 But you need not be the one deceived — yoij, with 
 your money, and your beauty, and your — what 
 you call rank. No, I think not ; and I think 
 that little girl must put up with it, as othef .little 
 girls have done, since the men first learned how 
 to tell lies. That is my advice, and if you will 
 let me I can give you good assistance. 
 
 " Dearest Julie, think of all this, and do not 
 banish your Sophie. I am so true to you that I 
 can not live without you. Send me back one 
 word of permission, and I will come to you and 
 kneel at your feet. And, in the mean time, I 
 am your most devoted friend, Sophie." 
 
 Lady Ongar, on the receipt of this letter, was 
 not at all changed in her purpose with reference 
 to Madame Gordeloup. She knew well enough 
 where her Sophie's heart was placed, and would 
 yield to no farther pressure from that quarter ; 
 but Sophie's reasoning, nevertheless, had its ef- 
 fect. She, Lady Ongar, with her youth, her beau- 
 ty, her wealth, and her rank, why should she not 
 have that one thing which alone, could ijiake her 
 happy, seeing, as she did see, or as she thought 
 ■she saw, that in making herself happy she could 
 do so much, could confer such great blessings 
 on him she |{)yed? She had already found that 
 the money she had received as the price of her- 
 self had done very little toward making her 
 happy in her present state. What good was it 
 to her that she had a carriage and horses, and 
 two footmen six feet high ? One pleasant word 
 from lips that she could love — from the lips of 
 man or woman that she could esteem — would be 
 worth it all. She had gone down to her pleasant 
 place in the country — a place so pleasant that it 
 had a fame of its own among the luxuriantly 
 pleasant seats of the English country gentry ; 
 she had gone there, expecting to be happy in the 
 mere feeling that it was all her own ; and the 
 whole thing had been to her so unutterably sad, 
 so wretched in the severity of its desolation, that 
 she had been unable to endure her life amid the 
 shade of her own trees. All her apples hitherto 
 had turned to ashes between her teeth, because 
 her fate had forced her to attempt the eating of 
 them alone. But if she could give the fruit to 
 him — if she could make the apples over, so that 
 they should all be his and not hers, then would 
 there not come to. her some of the sweetness of 
 the juice of them ? 
 
 She declared to herself that she would not 
 tempt this man to be untrue to his troth, were it 
 not that in doing so she would so greatly benefit I 
 L 
 
 himself. Was it not manifest that Harry Cla- 
 vering was a gentleman, qualified to shine among 
 men of rank and fashion, but not qualified to 
 make his way by his own diligence ? In saying 
 this of him, she did not know how heavy was 
 the accusation that she brought against him ; 
 but what woman, within her own breast, accuses 
 the man she loves ? Were he to marry Florence 
 Burton, would he not ruin himself, and probably 
 ruin her also ? But she could give him all that 
 he wanted. Though Ongar Park to her alone 
 was, with its rich pastures, and spreading oaks, 
 and lowing cattle, desolate as the Dead Sea 
 shore for him — and for her with him — would it 
 not be the very paradise suited to them ? Would 
 it not be the heaven in wliich Such a Phoebus 
 should shine amid the gyrations of his satellites ? 
 A Phoebus going about his own field in knick- 
 erbockers, and with attendant satellites, would 
 possess a divinity which, as she thought, might 
 make her happy. As she thought of all this, 
 and asked herself these questions, there was aii 
 inner conscience which told her that she had no 
 right to Harry's love or Harry's hand; but still 
 she could not cease to long that good things 
 might come to her, though those good things 
 had not been deserved, Alas ! good things not 
 deserved too often lose their goodness when 
 they come. As she was sitting with Sophie's 
 letter in her hand, the door was opened, and 
 Captain Claveri#g was announced. 
 
 Captain Archibald Clavering was again dress- 
 ed in his very best, but he did not even yet show 
 by his demeanor that aptitude for the busines.s 
 now, in hand of which he had boasted on the 
 previous evening to his friend. Lady Ougar, I 
 think, partly guessed the object of his visit. 
 She had perceived, or perhaps had unconsciously 
 felt, on the occasion of his former coming, that 
 the visit had not been made simply from motives 
 of civility. She had known Archie in old days, 
 and was aware that the splendor of his vestments 
 had a significance. ' Well, if any thing of that 
 kind was to be done, the sooner it was done the 
 better. 
 
 "Julia," he said, as soon as he was seated, "I 
 hope 1 have thepleasureof seeingyou quite well ?" 
 
 "Pretty well, I thank you," said she. 
 
 "You have been out of town, I think ?" She 
 told him that she had been in the Isle of Wight 
 for a day or two, and then there was a short si- 
 lence. "When I heard that you were gone," 
 he said, "I feared that perhaps you were ill !" 
 
 "Oh dear, no, nothing of that sort." 
 
 "I am so glad," said ArchiSk; and then he 
 was silent again. He had, however, as he was 
 aware, thrown a great deal of expression into 
 his inquiries after her health, and he had now 
 to calculate how he could best use the standing- 
 ground that he had made for himself. 
 
 " Have you seen my sister lately ?" she asked. 
 
 "Your sister? no. She is always at Cla- 
 vering. I think it doosed wrong of Hugh, the 
 way he goes on, keeping her down there, while 
 he is up here in London. It isn't at all my 
 idea of what a husband ought to do." 
 
162 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 " I suppose she likes it," said Lady Ongar. 
 
 "Oh, if she likes it, that's a different thing, 
 of course," said Archie. Then there was an- 
 other pause. 
 
 "Don't you find yourself rather lonely here 
 sometimes?" he asked. 
 
 Lady Ongar felt that It would he better for 
 all parties that it should be over, and that it 
 would not be over soon unless she could help 
 him. "Very lonely indeed," she said; "but 
 then I suppose that it is the fate of widows to 
 be lonely." 
 
 " I don't see that at all," said Archie, bfiskly, 
 "unless they are old and ugly, and that kind of 
 thing. When a, widow has become a widow 
 after she has been married ever so many years, 
 why then I suppose she looks to be left alone ; 
 and I suppose they like it." 
 
 " Indeed, I can't say. I don't like it." 
 
 "Then you would wish to change ?" 
 
 "It is a very intricate subject, Captain Cla- 
 vering, and one which I do not think I am quite 
 disposed to discuss at present. After a year or 
 two, perhaps I shall go into society again. Most 
 widows do, I believe." 
 
 "But I was thinking of something else," said 
 Archie, working himself up to the point with 
 great energy, but still with many signs that he 
 was ill at ease at his work. ' 'I was, by Jove !" 
 
 " And of what were you Jhinking, Captain 
 Clavering ?" 
 
 "I was thinking — of course you know, Julia, 
 that since poor little Hughy's death, I am the 
 next in for the title ?" 
 
 "Poor Hughy ! I'm sure you are too gener- 
 ous to rejoice at that." 
 
 " Indeed I am. When two fellows offered 
 me a dinner at the club on the score of my 
 chances, I wouldn't have it. But there's the 
 fact— isn't it?" 
 
 "There is no doubt of that, I believe." 
 
 " None on earth ; and the most of it is en- 
 tailed, too ; not that Hugh would leave an acre 
 away from the title. I'm as safe as wax as far 
 as that is concerned. I don't suppose he ever 
 borrowed a shilling or mortgaged an acre in his 
 life." 
 
 "I should think he was a prudent man." 
 
 " We are both of us prudent. I will say that 
 of myself, though I oughtn't to say it. And 
 now, Julia — a few words are the best after all. 
 Look here — if you'll take me just as I am, I'm 
 blessed if I sha'n't be the happiest fellow in all 
 London. I shall, indeed. I've always been 
 uncommon fond of you, though I never said any 
 thing about it in the old days, because — because, 
 you see, what's the use of a man asking a girl 
 to marry him if they haven't got a fai'thing be- 
 tween them. I think It's wrong — I do, indeed ; 
 but it's different now, you know.'' It certainly 
 was very different now. 
 
 "Captain Clavering," she said, "I'm sorry 
 you should have troubled yourself with such an 
 idea as this." 
 
 " Don't say that, Julia. It's no trouble ; it's 
 a pleasure." 
 
 "But such a thing as you mean never can 
 take place." 
 
 "Yes it can. Why can't it? I ain't in a 
 hurry. I'll wait your own time, and do just 
 whatever you wish all the while. Don't say no 
 without thinking about it, Julia.'' 
 
 " It is one of those things. Captain Clavering, 
 which want 'no more thinking than what a 
 woman can give to it at the first moment." 
 
 " Ah, you think so now, because you're sur- 
 prised a little." 
 
 " Well, I am surprised a little, as our previ- 
 ous intercourse was never of a nature to make 
 such a proposition as this at all probable." 
 
 "That was merely because I didn't think 
 it right," said Archie, who, now that he had 
 worked himself into the vein, liked the sound 
 of his own voice. "It was, indeed." 
 
 "And I don't think it right now. You must 
 listen to me for a moment, Captain Clavering — 
 for fear of a mistake. Believe me, any such 
 plan as this is quite out of the question — quite." 
 In uttering that last word she managed to use a 
 tone of voice which did make an impression on 
 him. ' ' I never can, under any circumstances, 
 become your wife. You might as well look upon 
 that as altogether decided, because it will save 
 us both annoyance." 
 
 " You needn't be so sure yet, Julia." 
 
 " Yes, I must be sure. And, unless you will 
 promise me to drop the matter, I must — to pro- 
 tect myself — desire my seiTants not to admit you 
 into the house again. I shall be sorry to do 
 that, and I think you will save me from the 
 necessity." 
 
 He did save her from that necessity, and be- 
 fore tp went he gave her the required promise. 
 " That's, well," said she, tendering him her 
 hand; "and now we shall partfrrends." 
 
 " I shall like to be friends," said he, in a 
 crestfallen voice, and with that he took his leave. 
 It was a great comfort to him that he had the 
 scheme of Jack Stuart's yacht and the trip to 
 Norway for his immediate consolation. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 WHAT LADY ONGAK THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 
 
 Mrs. Burton, it may perhaps be remember- 
 ed, had formed in her heart a scheme of her own 
 — a scheme of which she thought with much 
 trepidation, and in which she could not request 
 her husband's assistance, knowing well that he 
 would not only not assist it, bat that he would 
 altogether disapprove of it. But yet she could 
 not put it aside from her thoughts, believing that 
 it might be the means of bringing Harry Claver- 
 ing and Florence together. Her husband had 
 now thoroughly condemned poor Harry, and 
 passed sentence against him ; not, indeed, open- 
 ly to Florence herself, but very often in the 
 hearing of his wife. Cecilia, womanlike, was 
 more angry with circumstances than with the 
 offending man — with circumstances and with 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 163 
 
 the woman who stood in Florence's way. She 
 was perfectly willing to forgive Harry, if Harry 
 could only be made to go right at last. He was 
 good-looking and pleasant, and had nice ways 
 in a house, and was altogether too valuable as a 
 lover to be lost without many straggles. So she 
 kept to her scheme, and at last she carried it 
 into execution. 
 
 She started alone from her house one morn- 
 ing, and, getting into an omnibus at Brompton, 
 had herself put down on the rising ground in 
 Piccadilly, opposite to the Green Park. Why 
 she had hesitated to tell the omnibus-man to 
 stop at Bolton Street can hardly be explained ; 
 but she had felt that there would be almost a 
 declaration of gnilt in naming that locality. So 
 she got out on the little hill, and walked up in 
 front of the prime minister's house — as it was 
 then — and of the yellow palace built by one of 
 our mex'chant princes, and turned into the street 
 that was all but interdicted to her by her own 
 conscience. She turned up Bolton Street, and 
 with a trembling hand l^nocked at Lady Ongar's 
 door. 
 
 Florence in the mean while was sitting alone 
 in Onslow Terrace. She knew now that Harry 
 was ill at Clavering — that he was indeed very 
 ill, though Mrs. Clavering had assured her that 
 his illness was not dangerous ; for Mrs. Claver- 
 ing had written to herself — addressing hei; with 
 all the old familiarity and affection — with a 
 warmth of affection that was almost more than 
 natural. It was clear that Mrs. Clavering knew 
 nothing of Harry's sins. Or, might it not be 
 possible, Cecilia had suggested that Mrs. Claver- 
 ing might have known, and have resolved po- 
 tentially that those sins should be banished, and 
 become ground for some beautifully sincere re- 
 pentance ? Ah ! how sweet it would be to re- 
 ceive that wicked sheep back again into the 
 sheepfold, and then to dock him a little of his 
 wandering powers, to fix him with some pleasant 
 clog, to tie him down as a, prudent domestic 
 ^heep should be tied, and make him the pride 
 of the flock ! But all this had been part of 
 Cecilia's scheme, and of that scheme poor Flor- 
 ence knew nothing. According to Florence's 
 view, Mrs. Clavering's letter was written under 
 a mistake. Harry had kept his secret at home, 
 and intended to keep it for the present. But 
 there was the letter, and Florence felt that it 
 was impossible for her to answer it without tell- 
 ing the whole truth. It was very painful to her 
 to leave unanswered so kind a letter as that, and 
 it was quite impossible that she should write of 
 Harry in the old strain. " It will be best that 
 I should tell her the whole," Florence had said, 
 "and then I shall be saved the pain' of any di- 
 rect communication with him." Her brother, 
 to whom Cecilia had repeated this, applauded 
 his sister's resolution. "Let her face it and 
 bear it, atad live it down," he had said. "Let 
 her do it at once, so that all this maudlin sen- 
 timentality may be at an end." But Cecilia 
 would not accede to this, and as Florence was 
 in truth resolved, and had declared her purpose 
 
 plainly, Cecilia was driven to the execution of 
 her scheme more quickly than she had intended. 
 In the mean time, Florence took out her little 
 desk and wrote her letter. In tears, and an 
 agony of spirit which none can understand but 
 women who have been driven to do the eame, 
 was it written. Could she have allowed herself 
 to express her thoughts with passion, it would 
 ' have been comparatively easy ; but it behooved 
 her to be calm, to be very quiet in her words — 
 almost reticent even in the language which she 
 chose, and to abandon her claim not only with- 
 out a reproach, but almost without an allusion 
 to her love. While Cecilia was away, the letter 
 was written, and re-written and copied ; but Mrs. 
 Burton was safe in this, that her sister-in-law 
 had promised that the letter should not be sent 
 till she had seen it. 
 
 Mrs. Burton, when she knocked at Lady On- 
 gar's door, had a little note ready for the servant 
 between her fingers. Her compliments to Lady 
 Ongar, and would Lady Ongar oblige her by an 
 interview. The note contained simply that, and 
 nothing more ; and when the servant took it 
 from her, she declared her intention of waiting 
 in the hall till she had received an answer. But 
 she was shown into the dining-room, and there 
 she remained for a, quarter of an hour, during 
 which time she was by no means comfortable. 
 Probably Lady Ongar might refuse to receive 
 her ; but should that not be the case — should 
 she succeed in making her way into that lady's 
 presence, how should she find the eloquence 
 wherewith to plead her cause ? At the end of 
 the fifteen minutes. Lady Ongar herself opened 
 the door and entered the room. " Mrs. Burton," 
 she said, smiling, ' ' I am really ashamed to have 
 kept you so long ; but open confession, they say, 
 is good for the soul, and the truth is that I was 
 not dressed. Then she led the way up stairs, 
 and placed Mrs. Burton on a sofa, and placed 
 herself in her own chair — from whence she could 
 see well, but in which she could not be well seen' 
 — and stretched out the folds of her morning- 
 dress gracefully, and made her visitor thorough- 
 ly understand that she was at home and at her 
 ease. 
 
 We may, I think, surmise that Lady Ongar's 
 open confession would do her soul but little good, 
 as it lacked truth, which is the first requisite for 
 all confessions. Lady Ongar had been suffi- 
 ciently dressed to receive any visitor, but had 
 felt that some special preparation was necessaiy 
 for the reception of the one who had now come 
 to her. She knew well who 'was Mrs. Burton, 
 and surmised 'accurately the purpose for which 
 Mrs. Burton had come. Upon the manner in 
 which she now carried herself might hang the 
 decision of the question which was so important 
 to her — whether that Phoebus in knickerbockers 
 should or should not become lord of Ongar Park. 
 To effect success now, she must maintain an 
 ascendency during this coming inter-new, and in 
 the maintenance of all ascendency, much de- 
 pends on the outward man or woman ; and she 
 must think » little of the words she must use, 
 
164 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 and a little, too, of her own purpose. She was 
 fully minded to get the better of Mrs. Burton if 
 that might be possible, but -she was not alto- 
 gether decided on the other point. She wished 
 that Harry Clavering might be her own. She 
 would have wished to pension off that Florence 
 Burton with half her wealth, had such pension- 
 ing been possible. But not the less did she en- 
 tertain some half doubts whether it would not 
 be well that she could abandon her own wishes, 
 and give up her own hope of happiness. Of Mrs. 
 Burton personally she had known nothing, and 
 having expected to see a somewhat strong-feat- 
 ured and perhaps rather vulgar woman, and to 
 hear a voice painfully indicative of a strong 
 mind, she was agreeably surprised to find a 
 pretty, mild lady, who from the first showed 
 that she was half afraid of what she herself was 
 doing. " I have heard your name, Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, "said Lady Ongar, ' ' from our mutual friend, 
 Mr. Clavering, and I have no doubt yon have 
 heard mine from him also." This she said in 
 accordance with the little plan which during 
 those fifteen minutes she had laid down for her 
 own guidance. 
 
 Mrs. Burton was surprised, and at first almost 
 silenced, by this open mentioning of a name 
 which she had felt that she would have the 
 greatest difiBculty in approaching. She said, 
 however, that it was so. She had heard Lady 
 Ongar's name from Mr. Clavering. ' ' We are 
 connected, you know," said Lady Ongar. "My 
 sister is married to his first cousin, Sir Hugh ; 
 and when I was living with my sister at Claver- 
 ing, he was at the rectory there. That was be- 
 fore my own marriage." She was perfectly easy 
 in her manner, and flattered herself that the as- 
 cendency was complete. 
 
 " I have heard as much from Mr. Clavering, " 
 said Cecilia. 
 
 "And he was very civil to me immediately 
 on my return home. Perhaps you may have 
 heard that also. He took this house for me, 
 and made himself generally useful, as young 
 men ought to do. I believe he is in the same 
 office with your husband; is he not? I hope I 
 may not have been the means of making him 
 idle?" 
 
 This was all very well and very pretty, but 
 Mrs. Burton was already beginning to feel that 
 she was doing nothing toward fhe achievement 
 of her purpose. " I suppose he has been idle," 
 she said, ' ' but I did not mean to trouble you 
 about that." Upon hearing this. Lady Ongar 
 smiled. This supposition that she had really 
 intended to animadvert upon Harry Clavering's 
 idleness was amusing to her as she remembered 
 how little such idleness would signify if she could 
 only have her way. 
 
 " Poor Harry 1" she said. " I supposed his 
 sins would be laid at my door. But my idea is, 
 you know, that he never will do any good at 
 such work as that." 
 
 " Perhaps not— that is, I really can't say. I 
 don't think Mr. Burton has ever expressed any 
 such opinion ; and if he had — " " 
 
 " If he had, you wouldn't mention it." 
 
 "I don't suppose I should, Lady Ongar — not 
 to a stranger." 
 
 "Harry Clavering and I are not strangers," 
 said Lady Ongar, changing the tone of her voice 
 altogether as she spoke. , 
 
 " No, I know that. Tou have known him 
 longer than we have. I am aware of that." 
 
 " Yes ; before he ever dreamed of going into 
 your husband's business, Mrs. Burton ; long be- 
 fore he had ever been to — Stratton. " 
 
 The name of Stratton was an assistance to 
 Cecilia, and seemed to have been spoken with 
 the view of enabling her to commence her 
 work. "Yes," she said, "but nevertheless he 
 did go to Stratton. He- went to Stratton, and 
 there he became acquainted with my sister-in- 
 law, Florence Burton." 
 
 " I am aware of it, Mrs. Burton." 
 
 "And he also became engaged to her.'' ' 
 
 " I am aware of that too. He has told me as 
 much himself." 
 
 ' ' And has he told ypu whether he means to 
 keep or to break that engagement?" 
 
 "Ah! Mrs. Burton, is that question fair? 
 Is it fair either to him or to me ? If he has 
 taken me into his confidence and has not taken 
 you, should I be doing well to betray him ? Or 
 if there can be any thing in such a secret spe- 
 cially interesting to myself, why should I be 
 made to tell it to you?" 
 
 " I think the truth is always the best. Lady 
 Ongar." 
 
 " Truth is always better than a lie — so at least 
 people say, though they sometimes act different- 
 ly ; but silence may be better than either." 
 
 " This is a matter. Lady Ongar, in which I 
 can not be silent. I hope you will not be vexed 
 with me for coming to you, or for asking you 
 these questions — " 
 
 "Oh dear, no." 
 
 "But I can not be silent. My sister-in- 
 law must at any rate know what is to be her 
 fate." 
 
 " Then why do you not ask him ?" 
 
 "He is ill at present." 
 
 "111! Where is he ill ? Who says he is ill?" 
 And Lady Ongar, though she did not quite leave 
 her chair, raised herself up and forgot all her 
 preparations. ' ' Where is he, Mrs. Burton ? I 
 have not heard of his illness." 
 
 " He is at Clavering — at the parsonage.'' 
 
 " I have heard nothing of this. What ails 
 him ? If he be really ill, dangerously ill, I con- 
 jure you to tell me. But pray tell me the truth. 
 Let there be no tricks in such a matter as 
 this." 
 
 "Tricks, Lady Ongar!" 
 
 "If Harry Clavering be ill, tell me what ails 
 him. Is ho in danger ?" 
 
 "His mother, in writing to Florence, says 
 that he is not in danger, but that he is confined 
 to the house. He has been taken by some fe- 
 ver." On that very morning Lady Ongar had 
 received a letter from her sister, begging her to 
 come to Clavering Park during the absence of 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 165 
 
 Sir Hugh, but in the letter no word had been 
 said as to Harry's illness. Had he been seri- 
 ously, or at least dangerously ill, Hermione 
 would certainly have mentioned it. All this 
 flashed across Julia's mind as these tidings about 
 Harry reached her. If he were not really in 
 danger, or even ii*he were, why should she be- 
 tray her feeling before this woman ? "If there 
 had been much in it," she said, resuming her 
 former position and manners, "I should no 
 doubt have heard of it from my sister." 
 
 "We hear that it is not dangerous," contin- 
 ued Mrs. Burton ; " but he is away, and we can 
 not see him. And, in truth. Lady Ongar, we 
 can not see him any more until we know that 
 he means to deal honestly by us."_ 
 
 " Am I the keeper of his honesty ?" 
 
 "From what I have heard, I think you are. 
 If you will tell me that I have heard falsely, I 
 will go away and beg your pardon for my intru- 
 sion. But if what I have heard be true, you 
 must not be surprised that I show this anxie- 
 ty for the happiness of my sister. If you know 
 her. Lady Ongar, you would know that she is 
 too good to be thrown aside with indifference." 
 
 " Harry Clavering tells me that she is an an- 
 gel — that she is perfect." 
 
 " And if he loves her, will it not be a shame 
 that they should be parted ?" 
 
 " I said nothing about his loving her. Men 
 are not always fond of perfection. The angels 
 may be too angelic fbr this world." 
 
 " He did love her." 
 
 " So I suppose — or, at any rate, he thought 
 that he did." 
 
 " He did love her, and I believe he loves her 
 still." 
 
 " He has my leave to do so, Mrs. Burton." 
 
 Cecilia, though she was somewhat afraid of 
 the task which she had undertaken, and was 
 partly awed by Lady Ongar's style of beauty and 
 demeanor, nevertheless felt that if she still lioped 
 to do any good, she must speak the truth out at 
 once. She must ask Lady Ongar whether she 
 held herself to be engaged to Harry Clavering. 
 If she did not do this, nothing coirtd come of 
 the present interview. 
 
 " You say that, Lady Ongar, but do you mean 
 it?" she asked. " We have been told that yon 
 also are engaged to marry Mr. Clavering." 
 
 " Who has told you so ?" 
 
 "We have heard it. I have heard it, and 
 have been obliged to tell my sister that I had 
 done so." 
 
 "And who told yon ? Did you hear it from 
 Harry Clavering himself?" 
 
 " I did. I heard it in part from him." 
 
 "Then why have you come beyond him to 
 me ? He must know. If he has told you that 
 he is engaged to marry me, he must also have 
 told you that he does not intend to marry Miss 
 Florence Burton. It is not for me to defend 
 him or to accuse him. Why do you come to 
 me?" 
 
 " For mercy and forbearance," said Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, rising from her seat and coming over to the 
 
 side of the room in which Lady Ongar was 
 seated. 
 
 "And Miss Bui;ton has sent you ?" 
 
 "No; she does not k^jow that I am here ; 
 nor does my husband kno'w it. No one knows 
 it. I have come to tell you that before God this 
 man is engaged to becom^ the husband of Flor- 
 ence Burton. She has leairned to love him, and 
 has now no other chance of happiness." 
 
 " But what of his hanpiness ?" 
 
 " Yes, we are bound^ think of that. Flor- 
 ence is bound to think of that above all things." 
 
 ' ' And so am I. I love him too — as fondly, 
 perhaps, as she can do. I loved him first, be- 
 fore she had even heard his name." 
 
 " But, Lady Ongar—" 
 
 " Yes, you may ask the question if yon will, 
 and I will answer it truly." They were both 
 standing now and confronting each other. " Or 
 I will answer it without your asking it. I was 
 false to him. I would not marry him because 
 he was poor, and then I married another because 
 he was rich. All that' is true. But it does not 
 make me love him the less now. 1 have loved 
 Jiim through it all. Yes, you are shocked, but 
 it is true ; I have loved him through it all. 
 And what am I to do now, if he still loves me ? 
 I can give him wealth now." 
 
 " Wealth will not make him happy." 
 
 "It has not made me happy, but it may help 
 to do so with him. But with me, at any rate, 
 there can be no doubt. It is his happiness to 
 which I am bound to look. Mrs. Burton, if I 
 thought that I could make him happy, and if he 
 would come to me, I would marry him to-mor- 
 row, though I broke your sister's heart by doing 
 so. But if I felt that she could do so more 
 than I, I would leave him to her, though I broke 
 my own. I have spoken to you very openly. 
 Will she say as much as that ?" 
 
 "She would act in that way. I do not know 
 what she would say." ' 
 
 "Then let her do so, and leave him to be 
 the judge of his own happiijess. Let her pledge 
 herself that no reproaches shall come from her, 
 and I will pledge myself equally. It was I who 
 loved him first, and it is I who have brought 
 him into this trouble. I owe him every thing. 
 Had I been true to him, he would never have 
 thought of, never have seen Miss Florence Bur- 
 ton." 
 
 All that was no doubt true, but it did not 
 touch the question of Florence's right. The 
 fact on which Mrs. Burton wished to insist, if 
 only she knew how, was this, that Florence had 
 not sinned at all, and that Florence therefore 
 ought not to bear any part of the punishment. 
 It might be very true that Harry's fault was to 
 be excused in part because of Lady Ongar's 
 greater and primary fault, but why should Flor- 
 ence be the scapegoat ? 
 
 "You should think of his honor as well as 
 his happiness," said Mrs. Burton at last. 
 
 "That is rather severe, Mrs. Burton, consid- 
 ing that it is said to me in my own house. Am 
 I so low as that, that his. honor will be tarnished 
 
166 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 if I become his wife ?" But she, in saying this, 
 was thinking of things of which Mrs. Barton 
 knew nothing. , 
 
 " His honor will be'larnished," said she, "if 
 he do not marry heP'whom he has promised to 
 marry. He was welcomed by her father and 
 mother to their house, and then he made him- 
 self master of her heart. But it was not his till 
 he had asked for it, and had offered his own and 
 his hand in return for it. Is he not bound to 
 keep his promise? JM can not be bound to 
 you after any such fashion as that." If you are 
 solicitous for his welfare, you should know that 
 if he would live with the reputation of a gentle- 
 man, there is only one course open to him." 
 
 "It is the old story," said Lady Ongar; "the 
 old story 1 Has not somebody said that the 
 gods laugh at the perjuries of lovers ? I do not 
 know that men are Inclined to be much more 
 severe than the gods. These broken hearts are 
 what women are doomed to bear." 
 
 " And that is to be your answer to me, Lady 
 Ongar?" 
 
 " No, that is not my answer to you. That 
 is the excuse that I make for Harry Clavering. 
 My answer to you has been very explicit. Par- 
 don me if I say that it has been more Explicit 
 than you had any right to expect. I have told 
 you that I am prepared to take any step that 
 may be most conducive to the happiness of 
 the man whom I once injured, but whom I have 
 always loved. I will do this, let it cost myself 
 what it may ; and I will do this, let the cost to 
 any other woman be what it may. You can 
 not expect that I should love another woman 
 better than m3'self." She said this, still stand- 
 ing, not without something more than vehe- 
 mence in her tone. In her voice, in her man- 
 ner, and in her eye there was that which 
 amounted almost to ferocity. She was declar- 
 ing that some sacrifice must be made, and that 
 she recked little whether it should be of herself 
 or of another. As she would immolate herself 
 without hesitation if the necessity should exist, 
 so would she see Florence Burton destroyed 
 without a twinge of remorse if the destruction 
 of Florence would serve the purpose which she 
 had in view. You and I, oh reader, may feel 
 that the man for whom all this was to be done 
 was not worth the passion. He had proved 
 himself to be very far from such worth. But 
 the passion, nevertheless, was there, and the 
 woman was honest in what she was saying. 
 
 After this Mrs. Burton got herself out of the 
 room as soon as she found an opening which 
 allowed her to go. In making her farewell 
 speech, she muttered some indistinct apology 
 for the visit which she had been bold enough to 
 make. ' ' Not at all, " said Lady Ongar. ' ' You 
 have been quite right ; you are fighting your 
 battle for the friend you love bravely ; and were 
 it not that the cause of the battle must, I fear, 
 separate us hereafter, I should be proud to know 
 one who fights so well for her friends. And 
 when all this is over and has been settled, in 
 whatever way it may be settled, let Miss Burton 
 
 know from me that I have been taught to hold 
 her name and character in the highest possible 
 esteem." Mrs. Burton made no attempt at far- 
 ther speech, but left the room with a low court- 
 esy. 
 
 Till she found herself out in the street, she 
 was unable to think whether the had done most 
 harm or most good by her visit to Bolton Street; 
 whether she had in any way served Florence, or 
 whether she had simply confessed to Florence's 
 rival the extent of her sister's mise'ry. That 
 Florence herself would feel the latter to be the 
 case when she should know it all, Mrs. Burton 
 was well aware. Her own ears had tingled with 
 shame as Hany Clavering had been discussed 
 as a grand prize for which her' sister was con- 
 tending with another woman, and contending 
 with so small a chance of success. It was ter- 
 rible to her that any woman dear to her should 
 seem to seek for a man's love. And the audac- 
 ity with which Lady Ongar had proclaimed her 
 own feelings had been terrible also to Cecilia, 
 She was aware that she was meddling with 
 things which were foreign to her nature, and 
 which would be odious to her husband. But 
 yet, was not the battle worth fighting ? It was 
 not to be endured that Florence should seek aft- 
 er this thing; but, after all, the possession of 
 the thing in question was the only earthly good 
 that could give any comfort to poor Florence. 
 Even Cecilia, with all her partiality for Harry, 
 felt that he was not worth the struggle ; but it 
 was for her now to estimate him at the price 
 which Florence might put upon him — not at 
 her own price. 
 
 But she must tell Florence what had been 
 done, and tell her on that very day of her meet- 
 ing with Lady Ongar. In no other way could 
 she stop that letter which she knew that Flor- 
 ence wbuld have already written to Mrs. Cla- 
 vering. And could she now tell Florence that 
 there was ground for hope? Was it not the 
 fact that Lady Ongar had spoken the simple 
 and plain truth when she had said that Harry 
 must be allowed to choose the course which ap- 
 peared to Bim to be the best for him ? It was 
 hard, very hard, that it should be so. And 
 was it not true also that men, as well as gods, 
 excuse the perjuries of lovers ? She wanted to 
 have back Harry among them as one to be for- 
 given easily, to be petted much, and to be loved 
 always ; but, in spite of the softness of her wom- 
 an's nature, she wished that he might be pun- 
 ished sorely 'if he did not so return. It was 
 grievous to her that he should any longer have 
 a choice in the matter. Heavens and earth ! 
 was he to be allowed to treat a woman as he 
 had treated Florence, and was nothing to come 
 of it ? In spite both of gods and men, the thing 
 was so gi'ievous to Cecilia Burton that she could 
 not bring herself to acknovyledge that it was 
 possible. Such things had not been done in 
 the world which she had known. 
 
 She walked the whole way home to Bromp- 
 ton, and had hardly perfected any plan when 
 she reached her own door. If only Florence 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 167 
 
 would allow her to write the letter to Mrs. Cla- 
 vering, perhaps something might be done in 
 that way. So she entered the house prepared 
 to tell the story of her morning's work. 
 
 And she must tell it also to her husband in 
 the evening ! It had been hard to do the thing 
 without his knowing of it beforehand, but it 
 would he impossible to her to keep the thing a 
 secret from him now that it was done. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 HOW TO DISPOSE OF A "WIFE. 
 
 When Sir Hugh came up to town there did 
 not remain to him quite a week before the day 
 on which he was to leave the coast of Essex in 
 Jack Stuart's yacht for Norway, and he had a 
 good deal tdi do in the mean time in the way 
 of provisioning the boat. Fortnum and Ma- 
 son, no doubt, would have done it all for him 
 without any trouble on his part, but he was not 
 a man to ttust any Fortnum or any Mason as 
 to the excellence of the article to be supplied, 
 or as to the psice. He desired to have good 
 wirie — very good wine, but he did not desire to 
 pay a very high price. No one knew better 
 than Sir Hugh that good wine can not be 
 bought cheap ; but things may be costly and 
 yet not dear, or they may be both. To such 
 matters Sir Hugh was wont to pay very close 
 attention himself. He had done something in 
 that line before he left London, and immedi- 
 ately on his return he went to the work again, 
 summoning Archie to his assistance, but never 
 asking Archie's opinion — as though Archie had 
 been his head butler. 
 
 Immediately on his arrival in London he 
 cross-questioned his brother as to hi? marriage 
 prospects. "I suppose you are going with us?" 
 Hugh said to Archie, as he caught him in the 
 hall of the house in Berkeley Square on the 
 morning after his arrival. 
 
 " Oh dear, yes," said Archie. " I thought 
 that was quite understood. I have been getting 
 my traps together." The getting of his traps 
 together had consisted in the ordering of a sail- 
 or's jacket with brass buttons, and three pair of 
 white duck trowsers. 
 
 " All right," said Sir Hugh. "You had bet- 
 ter come with me into the city this morning. 
 I am going to Boxall's, in Great Thames 
 Street." 
 
 "Are you going to breakfast here?" asked 
 Archie. 
 
 ' ' No ; you can come to me at the Union in 
 about an hour. I suppose you have never 
 plucked up courage to ask Julia to marry you?" 
 
 "Yes I did," said Archie. 
 
 "And what answer did you get?" Archie 
 had found himself obliged to repudiate with 
 alacrity the attack upon his courage^ which his 
 brotfier had so plaiijly made ; but beyond that, 
 the subject was one which was not pleasing to 
 him. ' ' Well, what did she say to you ?" asked 
 
 his brother, who had no idea of sparing Archie's 
 feelings in such a matter. 
 
 " She said — ^indeed, I don't remember exact- 
 ly what it was that she did say." 
 
 "But she refused you." 
 
 "Yes, she refused me. I think she wanted 
 me to understand that I had come to her too 
 soon after Ongar's decease." 
 
 "Then she must be an infernal hypocrite, 
 that's all." But of any hypocrisy in this mat- 
 ter the reader will acquit Lady Ongar, and will 
 understand that Archie had merely lessened the 
 severity of his own fall by a, clever excuse. 
 After that the two brothers went to Boxall's in 
 the city, and Archie, having been kept fagging 
 all day,, was sent in the evening to dine by him- 
 self at his own club. 
 
 Sir Hugh also was desirous of seeing Lady 
 Ongar, and had caused his wife to say as much 
 in that letter which she wrote to her sister. 
 In this way an appointment had been made 
 without any direct intercourse between Sir 
 Hugh and his sister-in-law. They two had 
 never met since the day on which Sir Hugh 
 had given her away in Clavering Church. 'To 
 Hugh Clavering, who was by no means a man 
 of sentiment, this signified little or nothing. 
 When Lady Ongar had returned a widow, and 
 when evil stories against her had been rife, he 
 had thought it expedient to have nothing to do 
 with her. He did not himself care much about 
 his sister-in-law's morals ; but should his wife 
 become much complicated with a sister dam- 
 aged in character, there might come of it trou- 
 ble and annoyance. Therefore he had resolved 
 that Lady Ongar should be dropped. But dur- 
 ing the last few months things had in some re- 
 spects changed. The Courton people — that is 
 to say, Lord Ongar's family- — had given Hugh 
 Clavering to understand that, having made in- 
 quiry, tbey were disposed to acquit Lady On- 
 gar, and to declare their belief that she was 
 subject to no censure. They did not wisli 
 themselves to know her, as no intimacy be- 
 tween them could now be pleasant, but they 
 had. felt it to be incumbent on them to say as 
 much as that to Sir Hugh. Sjr Hugh had not 
 even told his wife, but he had twice suggested 
 that Lady Ongar should be asked to Clavering 
 Park. In answer to both these invitations, 
 Lady Ongar had declined to go to Clavering 
 Park. . 
 
 And now Sir Hugh had a commission on his 
 hands from the same Courton people, which 
 made it necessary that he should see his sister- 
 in-law, and Julia bad agreed to receive him. 
 To him, who was very hard in such matters, the 
 idea of his visit was not made disagreeable by any 
 remembrance of his own harshness to the wom- 
 an whom he was going to see. He cared nothing 
 about that, and it had not occurred to him that 
 she would care much. But, in truth, she did 
 care very much, and when the hour was coming 
 on which Sir Hugh was to appear, she thought 
 much of the manner in which it would become 
 her to receive him. He had condemned her 
 
168 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 in that matter as to which any condemnation is 
 an insult to a woman, and he had so condemned 
 her, being her brother-in-law and her only nat- 
 ural male friend. In her sorrow she should 
 have been able to lean upon him ; bat from the 
 lirst, without any inquiry, he liad believed the 
 worst of her, and had withdrawn from her alto- 
 gether his support, when the slightest support from 
 him would have been invaluable to her. Could 
 she forgive this ? Never ! never ! She was not 
 a woman to wish to forgive such an offense. It 
 was an offense which it would be despicable in 
 her to forgive. Many had offended her, some 
 had injured her, oiie or two had insulted her; 
 but, to her thinking, no one had so offended 
 her, had so injured her, had so grossly insulted 
 her as he had done. In what way, then, would 
 it become her to receive him ? Before his am- 
 val she had made up her mind on this subject, 
 and had resolved that she would, at least, say 
 no word of her own wrongs. 
 
 "How do you do, Julia?" said Sir Hugh, 
 walking into the room with a step which was 
 perhaps unnaturally quick, and with his hand 
 extended. Lady Ongar had thought of that 
 too. She would give much to escape the touch 
 of his hand, if it were possible; but she had 
 told herself that she would best consult her own 
 dignity by declaring no actual quarrel. So she 
 put out her fingers and just touched his palm. 
 " I hope Hermy is well ?" she said. 
 " Pretty well, thank you. She is rather lone- 
 ly since she lost her poor little boy, and would 
 be very glad if you would go to her." 
 
 "I can not do that, but if she would come to 
 me I should be delighted." 
 
 "You see it would not suit her to be in Lon- 
 don so soon after Hughy's death." 
 
 "I am not bound to London. I would go 
 any where- else — except to Clavering. " 
 
 " You never go to Ongar Park, I am told." 
 "I have been there." 
 
 "But they say you do not intend to go 
 again." 
 
 "Not at present, certainly. Indeed, I do not 
 suppose I shall ever go there. I do not like the 
 place." 
 
 "That's just what they have told me. It is 
 about that — partly — that I want to speak to 
 you. If you don't like the place, why shouldn't 
 you sell your interest in it- back to the family ? 
 They'd give you more than the value for it." 
 " I do not know that I should care to sell it." 
 "Why not, if you don't mean to use the 
 house ? I might as well explain at once what 
 it is that has been said to me. John Corn-ton, 
 you know, is acting as guardian for the young 
 carl, and they don't want to keep up so large a 
 place as the Castle. Ongar Park would just 
 suit Mrs. Courton" — Mrs. Courton was the wid- 
 owed mother of the young earl — "and they 
 would be very happy to buy your interest." 
 
 "Would not such a proposition come best 
 through a lawyer?" said Lady Ongar. 
 
 " The fact is this — they think they have been 
 a little hard on you. " 
 
 "I have never accused them." 
 " But they feel it themselves, and they think 
 that you might take it perhaps amiss if they 
 were to send you a. simple message through an 
 attorney. Courton told me that he would not 
 have allowed any such proposition to be made, 
 if you had seemed disposed to use the place. 
 They wish to be civil, and all that kind of 
 thing." 
 
 "Their civility or incivility is indifferent to 
 me," said Julia. 
 
 " But why shouldn't you take the money ?" 
 "The money is equally indifferent to me." 
 "You mean then to say that you won't lis- 
 ten to it ? Of course they can't make you part 
 with the place if you wish to keep it." 
 
 "Not more than they can make you sell 
 Clavering Park. I do not, however, wish to be 
 uncivil, and I will let you know through my 
 lawyer what I think about it. All such matters 
 are best managed by lawyers." 
 
 After that Sir Hugh said nothing farther 
 about Ongar Park. He was well aware, from 
 the tone in which Lady Ongar answered him, 
 that she was' averse to talk to him on that sub- 
 ject; but he was not conscious that his pres- 
 ence was otherwise disagreeable to her, or that 
 she would resent any interference from him on 
 any subject because he bad been cruel to her. 
 So, after a little while, he began again about 
 Hermione. As the world had determined upon 
 acquitting Lady Ongar, it would be convenient 
 to him that the two sisters should be again inti- 
 mate, especially as Julia was a rich woman. 
 His wife did not like Clavering Park, and he 
 certainly did not like Clavering Park hiftiself. 
 If he could once get the house shut up, he might 
 manage to keep it shut for some years to come. 
 His wife was now no more than a burden to 
 him, and it would suit him well to put off the 
 burden on to his sister-in-law's shoulders. It 
 was not that he intended to have his wife alto- 
 gether dependent on another person, but he 
 thought that if they two were established to- 
 gether, in the first instance merely as a summer 
 arrangement, such establishment might be made 
 to assume some permanence. This would be 
 very pleasant to him. Of course he would pay 
 a portion of the expense — as. small a portion as 
 might be possible — but such a portion as might 
 enable him to live with credit before the world. 
 
 "I wish I could think that you and Hermy 
 might be together while I am absent," he said. 
 
 "I shall be very happy to have her, if she 
 will come to me," Julia replied. 
 
 "What — here, in London? I am not quite 
 sure that she wishes to come up to London at 
 present." 
 
 "1 iTave never understood that she had any 
 objection to being in town," said Lady Ongar. 
 
 ' ' Not formerly, certainly ; but now, since 
 her boy's death — " 
 
 " Why should his death make more difference 
 to her than to you?" To this question Sir 
 Hugh made no reply. "If you are thinking 
 of society, she could be nowhere safer from any 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 169 
 
 such necessity than with me. I never go out 
 »ny where. I have never dined out, or even 
 spent an evening in company, since Lord On- 
 gar's death. And no one would come here to 
 disturb her. 
 
 "I didn't mean that." 
 
 "I don't quite know what you did mean. 
 From different causes, she and I are left pretty 
 nearly equally without friends." 
 
 " Hermione is not left without friends," said 
 Sir Hugh, with a tone of offense. 
 
 " Were she not, she would not want to come 
 to me. Your society is in Loudon, to which 
 she does not come, or in other country houses 
 than your own, to which she is not taken. She 
 lives altogether at Clavering, and there is no 
 one there except your uncle." 
 
 "Whatever neighborhood there is she has — 
 just like other women." 
 
 " Just like some other women, no' doubt. I 
 shall remain in town for another month, and 
 after that I shall go somewhere, I don't much 
 care where. If Hermy will come to me as my 
 guest, I shall be most happy to have her ; and 
 the longer she will stay with me the better. 
 Your coming home need make no difference, I 
 suppose." 
 
 There was a keenness of reproach in her tone 
 as she spoke which even he could not but feel 
 and acknowledge. He was very thick-skinned 
 to such reproaches, and would have left this un- 
 noticed had it been possible. Had she continued 
 speaking he would have done so. But she re- 
 mained silent, and sat looking at him, saying 
 with her eyes the same thing that she had al- 
 ready spoken with her words. Thus he was 
 driven to speak. "I don't know," said he, 
 "whether you intend that for a sneer." 
 
 She was perfectly indifferent whether or no 
 she offended him. Only that she had believed 
 that the maintenance of her own dignity forbade 
 it, she would have openly rebuked him, and 
 told him that he was not welcome in her house. 
 No treatment from her could, as she thought, be 
 worse than he had deserved from her. His first 
 enmity had injured her, but she could afford to 
 laugh at his present anger. " It is hard to talk 
 to you about Hermy without what you are 
 pleased to call a sneer. You simply wish to 
 rid yourself of her." 
 
 "I wish no such thing, and you have no 
 right to say so." 
 
 " At any rate, you are ridding yourself of her 
 society; and if, under thos^ circumstances, she 
 likes to come to me, I shall be glad to receive 
 her. Our life together will not be very cheer- 
 ful, but neither she nor I ought to expect a 
 cheerful life." 
 
 He rose from his chair now with a ctond of 
 anger upon his brow. ' ' I can see how it is, " 
 said he; "because every thing has not gone 
 smooth with yourself, you choose to resent it 
 upon me. I might have expected that you 
 would not have forgotten in whose house you 
 met Lord Ongar." 
 
 "No, Hugh, I forget nothing; neither when 
 
 I met him, nor how I married him, nor any of 
 the events that have happened since. My mem- 
 ory, unfortunately, is very good." 
 
 "I did all I could for you, and should have 
 been safe from your insolence." 
 
 "Yon should have continued to stay away 
 from me, and you would have been quite safe. 
 But our quarreling in this way is foolish. We 
 can never be friends — you and I, but we need 
 not be open enemies. Your wife is my sister, 
 and I say again that if she likes to come to 
 me, Iiehall be delighted to have her." 
 
 "My wife," said he, "will go to the house 
 of no person who is insolent to me." Then he 
 took his hat, and left the room without farther 
 word or sign of greeting. In spite of his calcu- 
 lations and caution as to money — in spite of 
 his well-considered arrangements and the com- 
 fortable provision for his future ease which he 
 had proposed to himself, he was a man who had 
 not his temper so much under control as to en- 
 able him to postpone his anger to his prudence. 
 That little scheme for getting rid of his wife 
 was now at an end. He would never permit 
 her to go to her sister's house after the manner 
 in which Julia had just treated him. 
 
 When he was gone Lady Ongar walked about 
 her own room smiling, and at first was well 
 pleased with herself. She had received Archie's 
 overture with decision, but at the same time 
 with courtesy, for Archie was weak, and poor, 
 and powerless. But she had treated Sir Hugh 
 with scorn, and had been enabled to do so with- 
 out the utterance of any actual reproach as to 
 the wrongs which she herself had endured from 
 him. He had put himself in her power, and 
 she had not thrown away the opportunity. She 
 had told him that she did not want his friend- 
 ship, and would not be his friend, but she had 
 done this without any loud abuse unbecoming 
 to her either as a countess, a widow, or a lady. 
 For Hermione she was sorry. Hermione now 
 could hardly come to her. But even as to that 
 she did not despair. As things were going on, 
 it would become almost necessary that her sis- 
 ter and Sir Hugh should be parted. Both must 
 wish it : and if this were arranged, then Her- 
 mione should come to her. 
 
 But from this she soon came to think again 
 about Harry Clavering. How was that matter 
 to be decided, and what steps would it become 
 her to take as to its decision ? Sir Hugh had 
 proposed to her that she should sell her interest 
 in Ongar Park, and she had promised that she 
 would make known her decision on that matter 
 through her lawyer. As she had been saying 
 this she was well aware that she would never sell 
 the property ; but she had already resolved that 
 she would at once give itljack, without purchase- 
 money, to the Ongar family, were it not kept 
 that she might hand it over to Harry Clavering 
 as a fitting residence for his lordship. If he 
 might be there, looking after his cattle, going 
 about with the steward subservient at his heels, 
 ministering justice to the Enoch Gubbys and 
 others, she would care nothing for the wants of 
 
170 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 any of the Courton people. But if such were 
 not to ba the destiny of Ongar Park — if there 
 were to be no such Adam in that Eden — then 
 the mother of the little lord might talte herself 
 thither, and revel among the rich blessings of 
 the place without delay, and with no difBcuIty as 
 to price. As to price — had she not already found 
 the money-bag that had come to her to be too 
 heavy for her hands ? 
 
 But she could do nothing till that question 
 was settled; and how was she to settle it? 
 Every word that had passed between h^ and 
 Cecilia Burton had been turned over and over 
 in her mind, and she could only declare to her- 
 self, as she had then declared to her visitor, that 
 it must be as Harry should please. She would 
 submit if he required her submission, but she 
 could not bring herself to take steps to secure 
 her own misery. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 FAREWELL TO DOODLES. 
 
 At last came the day on which the two Cla- 
 verings were to go down to Harwich, and put 
 themselves on board Jack Stuart's yacht. The 
 hall of the house in Berkeley Square was strew- 
 ed with portmanteaus, gun-cases, and fishing- 
 rods, whereas the wine and packets of preserved 
 meat, and the bottled beer and fish in tins, and 
 the large box of cigars, and the. prepared soups, 
 had been sent down by Boxall, and were by this 
 time on board the boat. Hugli.and Archie were 
 to leave London this day by train at 5 P.M., and 
 were to sleep on board. Jack Stuart was al- 
 ready there, having assisted in working the yacht 
 round from Brightlingsea. 
 
 On that morning Archie had a farewell break- 
 fast at his club with Doodles, and after that, 
 having spent the intervening hours in the billiard- 
 room, a farewell luncheon. There had been 
 something of melancholy in this last day between 
 the friends, originating partly in the failure of 
 Archie's hopes as to Lady Ongar, and partly, 
 perhaps, in the bad character which seemed to 
 cling to Jack Stuart and his craft. " He has 
 been at it for yeqrs, and always coming to grief, " 
 said Doodles. " He is just like a man I know, 
 who has been bunting for the last ten years, and 
 can't sit a horse at a fence yet. He has broken 
 every bone in his skin, and I don't suppose he 
 ever saw a good thing to a finish. He never 
 knows whether hounds are in covter, or where 
 they are. His only idea is to follow another 
 man's red coat till he comes to grief — and yet 
 he will go on hunting. There are some people 
 who never will understand what they can do and 
 what they can't." In answer to this, Archie re- 
 minded his friend that on this occasion Jack 
 Stuart would have the advantage of an excel- 
 lent dry nurse, acknowledged to be very great on 
 such occasions. , Would not he, Archie Claver- 
 ing, be there to pilot Jack Stuart and his boat ? 
 But, nevertheless, Doodles was melancholy, and 
 
 went on telling stories about that unfortunate 
 man who would continue to break his bones^ 
 though he had no aptitude for out-of-door sports. 
 " He'll be carried home on a stretcher some day, 
 you know," said Doodles. 
 
 " What does it matter if he is ?" said Archie, 
 boldly, thinking of himself and of the danger 
 predicted for him. " A man can only die once." 
 
 " I call it quite a tempting of Providence," 
 said Doodles. 
 
 But their conversation was chiefly about Lady 
 Ongar and the Spy. It was only on this day 
 that Dopdles had learned that Archie had in 
 truth offered his hand and been rejected, and 
 Captain Claveving was surprised by the extent 
 of his friend's sympathy. " It's a doosed dis- 
 agreeable thing — a very disagreeable thing in- 
 deed," said Doodles. Archie, who did not wish 
 to be regarded as specially unfortunate, declined 
 to look at the matter in this light ; but Doodles 
 insisted. "It would cut me up like the very 
 mischief," he said. "I know that; and the 
 worst of it is, tliat perhaps you wouldn't have 
 gone on, only for me. I meant it all for the 
 best, old fellow ! I did, indeed. There — that's 
 the game to you. I'm playing uncommon badly 
 this morning ; but the truth is, I'm thinking of 
 those women." Now, as Doodles was playing 
 for a little money, this was really civil on his 
 part. 
 
 And he would persevere in talking about the 
 Spy, as though there were something in his re- 
 membrance of the lady which attracted him ir- 
 resistibly to the subject. He bad always boasted 
 that in his interview with "her he had come off' 
 with the victory, nor did he now cease to make 
 such boasts ; but still he spoke of her and her 
 powers with an awe which would have complete-, 
 ly opened the eyes of any one a little more sharp 
 on such matters than Archie Clavering. He 
 was so intent on this subject that he sent the 
 marker out of the room so that he might discuss 
 it with more freedom, and might plainly express 
 his views as to her influence on his friend's fate. 
 
 " By George ! she's a wondeiful woman. Do 
 you know I can't help thinking of her at night ? 
 She keeps me awake-^she does, upon my honor/' 
 
 " I can't say she keeps me awake, but I wish 
 I had my seventy pounds back again." 
 
 "Do you know, if I were you, I shouldn't 
 grudge it? I should think it worth pretty near- 
 ly all the money to have had the dealing with 
 her." 
 
 " Then you ought to go halves." 
 
 " Well, yes — only that I ain't flush, I would. 
 When one thinks of it, her absolutely taking 
 the notes out of your waistcoat pocket-^upon 
 my word, it's beautiful ! She'd have had it out 
 of mine if I hadn't been doosed sharp." 
 
 "She understood what she was about, cer- 
 tainly." i, 
 
 " What I should like to know is this : did she 
 or did she not tell Lady Ongar what she was 
 to do— about you, I mean ? I dare say she did, 
 after all." 
 
 " And took my money for nothing." 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 171 
 
 "Because you didn't go high enongh, you 
 know." 
 
 " But that was your fault. I went as high 
 as you told me." 
 
 "No you didn't, Clavvy, not if you remem- 
 ber. But the fact is, I don't suppose you could 
 go high enough. I shouldn't be surprised if 
 such a woman as that wanted — thousands ! I 
 shouldn't indeed. I shall never forget the way 
 in which she swore at me, and how she abused 
 me about my family. I think she must have 
 had some special reason for disliking "Warwick- 
 shire, she said such awful hard things about it." 
 
 " How did she know that you came from 
 Warwickshire ?" 
 
 " She did know it. If I tell yon something, 
 don't you say any thing about it. I have an 
 idea about her." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I didn't mention it before, because I don't 
 talk much of those sort of things. I don't pre- 
 ^tend to understand them, and it is better to 
 leave them alone.'' 
 
 " But what do you mean ?" 
 
 Doodles looked very solemn as he answered. 
 " I think she's a medium — or a media, or what- 
 ever it ought to be called." 
 
 " What ! one of those spirit-rapping people ?" 
 And Archie's hair almost stood on end as he 
 asked the question. 
 
 " They don't rap now- — not the best of them, 
 that is. That was the old way, and seems to 
 have been given up. " 
 
 " But what do you suppose she did ?" 
 
 "How did she know that the money was in 
 your waistcoat pocket, now ? How did she know 
 that I came from Warwickshire ? And then she 
 had a way of going about the room as though 
 she could have raised herself off her feet in a 
 moment if she had chosen. And then her 
 swearing, and the rest of it — so unlike any other 
 woman, you know." 
 
 " But do you think she could have made Julia 
 hate me ?" 
 
 " Ah ! I can't tell that, there are such lots of 
 things going on nowadays that a fellow can un- 
 derstand nothing about ! But I've no doubt of 
 this — if you were to tie her up with ropes ever so, 
 I don't in the least doubt but what she'd get out." 
 
 Archie was awestruck, and made' two or three 
 strokes after this ; but then he plucked up his 
 courage and asked a questifm — 
 
 "Where do you suppose they get it from, 
 Doodles ?" 
 
 "That's just the question." 
 
 "Is it from — the devil, do you think?" said 
 Archie, whispering the name of the ^vil One in 
 a very low voice. 
 
 " Well, yes, I suppose that's most likely." 
 
 " Because they don't seem to do a great deal 
 of harm with it, after all. As for my money, 
 she would have had that any way, for I intended 
 to give it to her." 
 
 " There are people who think, " said Doodles, 
 " that the spirits don't come from any where, 
 but are always floating about." 
 
 " And then one person catches them, and an- 
 other doesn't ?" asked Archie. 
 
 " They teU me that it depends upon what the 
 mediums or medias eat and drink," said Doo- 
 dles, " and upon what sort of minds they have. 
 They must be cleverish people, I fancy, or the 
 spirits wouldn't come to them." 
 
 "But you never hear of any swell being a 
 medium. Why don't the spirits go to a prime 
 minister or some of those fellows ? Only think 
 what a help they'd be." 
 
 "If they come from the devil," suggested 
 Doodles, " he wouldn't let them do any real' 
 good." 
 
 "I've heard a deal about them," said Archie, 
 " and it seems to me that the mediums are al- 
 ways poor people, and that thqy come from no- 
 body knows where. The Spy is a clever woman 
 I dare say — " 
 
 "There isn't much doubt about that," said 
 the admiring Doodles. 
 
 "But you can't say she's respectable, you 
 know. If I was a spirit, I wouldn't go to a 
 woman who wore such dirty stockings as she 
 had on." 
 
 "That's nonsense, Clawy. What does a 
 spirit care about a woman's stockings ?" 
 
 "But why don't they ever go to the wise peo- 
 ple ? that's what I want to know." And as he 
 asked the question boldly he struck his ball 
 sharply, and, lo! the three balls rolled van- 
 quished into three different pockets. "I don't 
 believe about it," said Archie, as he readjusted 
 the score. ' ' The devil can't do such things as 
 that, or there'd be an end of every thing ; and 
 as to spirits in the air, why should there bo 
 more spirits now than there were four-and- 
 twenty years ago ?" 
 
 "That's all very well, old fellow," said Doo- 
 dles, "but you and I ain't clever enough to un- 
 derstand every thing." Then that subject was 
 dropped, and Doodles went back for a while to 
 the perils of 'Jack Stuart's yacht. 
 
 After the lunch, which was, in fact, Archie's 
 early dinner. Doodles was going to leave his 
 friend, but Archie insisted that his brother cap- 
 tain should walk with him up to Berkel.ey Square, 
 and see the last of him into his cab. Doodles 
 had suggested that Sir Hugh would be there, 
 and that Sir Hugh was not always disposed to 
 welcome his brother's friends to his own house 
 after the most comfortable modes of friendship ; 
 but Archie explained that on such an occasion 
 as this there need be no fear on that head ; he 
 and his brother were going away together, and 
 there was a certain feeling of jollity about the 
 trip which wquld divest Sir Hugh of his rough- 
 ness. " And besides, " said Archie, "asyouwill 
 be there to see me off, he'll know that you're 
 not going to stay yourself." Convinced by 
 this. Doodles consenteji to walk up to Berkeley 
 Square. 
 
 Sir Hugh had spent the greatest part of this 
 day at home, immersed among his guns and 
 rods, and their various appurtenances. He also 
 had breakfasted at his club, but had ordered his 
 
172 
 
 THE CLAVEEmGS. 
 
 luncheon to be prepared for him at home. He 
 had arranged to leave Berkeley Square at four, 
 and had directed that his lamb chops should be 
 brought to him exactly at three. He was him- 
 self a little late in coming down stairs, and it 
 was ten minutes past the hour when he desired 
 that the chops might be put on the table, saying 
 that he himself would be in the drawing-room 
 in time tb meet them. He was a man solicitous 
 about his Iamb chops, and careful that the as- 
 paragus should be hot — solicitous also as to that 
 bottle of Lafitte by which those comestables were 
 to be accompanied, and which was, of its own 
 nature, too good to be shared with his. brother 
 Archie. But as he was on the landing by the 
 drawing-room door, descending quickly, con- 
 scious that, in obedience to his orders, the chops 
 had been already served, he was met by a serv- 
 ant who, with* disturbed face and quick voice, 
 told him that there was a lady waiting for him 
 in the hall. 
 
 "D— it," said Sir Hugh. 
 
 " She has jnst come, Sir Hugh, and says that 
 she specially wants to see you." 
 
 " Why the devil did you let her in ?" 
 
 " She walked in when the door was opened, 
 Sir Hugh, and I couldn't help it. She seemed 
 to be a lady. Sir Hugh, and I didn't like not to 
 let her inside the door." 
 
 " What's the lady's name?" asked the master. 
 
 " It's a foreign name, Sir Hugh. She said 
 she wouldn't keep you five minutes." The lamb 
 chops, and the asparagus, and the Lafitte were 
 in the dining-room, and the only way to the din- 
 ing-room lay through the hall to which the for- 
 eign lady had obtained an entrance. Sir Hugh, 
 making such calculations as the moments allow- 
 ed, determined that he would face the enemy, 
 and pass on to his banquet over her prostrate 
 body. He went quickly down into the hall, and 
 there was encountered by Sophie Gordelonp, 
 who, skipping over the gun-cases, and rushing 
 through the portmanteaus, caught the baronet 
 by the arm before he had been able to approach 
 the dininggfoom door. " Sir 'Oo," she said, "I 
 am so glad to have caught you. You are going 
 away, and I have things to tell you which you 
 must hear — ^yes ; it is well for you I have caught 
 you, Sir 'Oo." Sir Hugh looked as though he 
 by no means participated in this feeling, and, 
 saying something about his great- hurry, begged 
 that he might be allowed to go to his food. 
 Then he added that, as far as his memory sei-ved 
 him, he had not the honor of knowing the lady 
 who was addressing him. 
 
 "You come in to your little dinner," said 
 Sophie, " and I will tell you every thing as you 
 are eating. Don't mind me. You shall eat 
 and drink, and I will talk. I am Madame Gor- 
 deloup — Sophie Gordeloup. Ah ! you know the 
 name now. Yes. That is me. Count Pater- 
 off is my brother. You know Count Pateroff? 
 He knowed Lord Ongar, and I knowed-Lord On- 
 gar. We know Lady Ongar. Ah! you under- 
 stand now that I can have much to tell. It is 
 well you was not gone without seeing me ! Eh ! 
 
 yes. You shall eat and drink ; but suppose you 
 send that man into the kitchen." 
 
 Sir Hugh was so taken by surprise that he 
 hardly knew how to act on the spur of the mo- 
 ment. He certainly had heard of Madame Gor- 
 deloup, though he had never before seen her. 
 For years past her name had been familiar to 
 him in London, and when Lady Ongar had re- 
 turned as a widow it had been, to his thinking, 
 one of her worst offenses that this woman had 
 been her friend. Under ordinary circumstances, 
 his judgment would have directed him to desire 
 the servant to put her out into the street as an 
 impostor, and to send for the police if there was 
 any difficulty. But it certainly might be pos- 
 sible that this woman had something to tell with 
 reference to Lady Ongar which it would suit his 
 purposes to hear. At the present moment he 
 was not very well inclined to his sister-in-law, 
 and was disposed to hear evil of her. So he 
 passed on into the dining-room and desired 
 Madame Gordeloup to follow him. Then he 
 closed the room door, and standing up with his 
 back to the fireplace, so that he might be saved 
 from the necessity of asking her to sit down, he 
 declared himself ready to hear any thing that 
 his visitor might have to say. 
 
 "But you will eat your dinner. Sir 'Oo. You 
 will not mind me. I shall not care." 
 
 "Thank you, no ; if you will just say what 
 you have got to say, I will be obliged to you." 
 
 "But the nice things will be so cold ! Why 
 should you mind me? Nobody minds me." 
 
 " I will wait, if you please, till you have done 
 me the honor of leaving me." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! well, you Englishmen are so cold and 
 ceremonious. But Lord Ongar was not with 
 me like that. I knew Lord Ongar so well." 
 
 " Lord Ongar was more fortunate than I am;" 
 
 "He was a poor man who did kill himself. 
 Yes. It was always that bottle of Cogfiac. And 
 there was other bottles that was worser still. 
 Never mind ; he has gone now, and his widow 
 has got the money. It is she has been a fortu- 
 nate woman ! Sir 'Oo, I will sit down here in 
 the arm-chair." Sir Hugh made a motion with 
 his hand, not daring to forbid her to do as she 
 was minded. " And you, Sir 'Oo — will not you 
 sit down also ?" 
 
 ' ' I will continue to stand if you will allow 
 me." 
 
 "Very well; you shall do as most pleases 
 you. As I did walk here, and shall walk back, 
 I will sit down." 
 
 " And now, if you have any thing to say, 
 Madame Gordeloup," said Sir Hugh, looking at 
 the silver covers which were hiding the chops 
 and the asparagus, and looking also at his watch, 
 " perhaps you will be good enough to say it." 
 
 "Any thing to say! Yes, Sir 'Oo, I have 
 something to say. It is a pity you will not sit 
 at your dinner. " 
 
 "I will not sit at my diifner till you have left 
 me. So now, if you will be pleased to pro- 
 ceed — " 
 
 "I will proceed. Perhaps you don't know 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 173 
 
 that Lord Ongar died in these aiins." And 
 Sophie, as she spoke, stretched out her skinny 
 hands, and put herself as far as possible into the 
 attitude in which it would be most convenient 
 to nurse the head of a dying man upon her bo- 
 som. Sir Hugh, thinking to himself that Lord 
 Ongar could hardly have received much con- 
 solation in his fate from this incident, declared 
 that he had not heard the fact before. "^No, 
 you have not heard it. She have tell nothing 
 to her friends here. He die abroad, and she 
 has come back with all the money ; hut she tell 
 nothing to any body here, so I must tell." 
 
 "But I don't care how he died, Madame Gor- 
 deloup. It is nothing to me." 
 
 " But yes. Sir 'Oo. The lady, your wife, is 
 the sister to Lady Ongar. Is not that so ? Lady 
 Ongar did live with you before she was married, 
 Is not that so ? Your brother and your cousin 
 both wishes to marry her and have all the money. 
 Is not that so ? Your brother has come to me 
 to help him, and has sSnt the little man out of 
 Warwickshire. Is not that so ?" 
 
 "What the d— is all that to me?" said Sir 
 Hugh, who did not quite understand the story 
 as the lady was telling it. 
 
 " I will explain. Sir 'Oo, what the d — it is to 
 you, only I wish you were eating the nice things 
 on the table. This Lady Ongar is treating me 
 very bad. She treat my brother very bad too. 
 My brother is Count PateroiF. We have been 
 put to, oh, such expenses for her ! It have near- 
 ly ruined me. I make a journey to your Lon- 
 don here altogether for her. ■ Then, for her, I 
 go down to that accursed little island — what 
 you call it ? where she insult me. Oh ! all my 
 time is gone. Your brother and your cousin, 
 and the little man out of Warwickshire, all com- 
 ing to my house, just as it please them." 
 
 " But what is this to me ?" shouted Sir Hugh. 
 
 " A great deal to you," screamed back Madame 
 Gordelonp. " You see I know every thing — 
 every thing. I have got papers." 
 
 " What do I care for your papers ? Look 
 here, Madame Gordeloup, you had better go 
 away. " 
 
 "Not yet, Sir 'Oo, not yet. You are going 
 , away to Norway^ — I know ; and I am ruined be- 
 fore you come back." 
 
 "Look here, madam, do you mean that you 
 want money from me ?" 
 
 "I want my rights. Sir 'Oo. Remember, I 
 know everything — everything — oh, such things ! 
 If they were all known — in the newspapers, you 
 understand, or that kind of thing, that lady in 
 Bolton Street would lose all her money to-mor- 
 row. Yes. There is uncles to the little lord ; 
 yes ! Ah ! how much would they give me, I 
 wonder ? They would not tell me to go away." 
 
 Sophie was perhaps justified in the estimate 
 she had made of Sir Hugh's probable character 
 from the knowledge which she had acquired of 
 his brother Archie ; 6ut, nevertheless, she had 
 fallen into a great mistake. There could hard- 
 ly have been a man then in London less likely 
 to fall into her present views than Sir Hugh 
 
 Clavering. Not only was he too fond of his 
 money to give it away without knowing why he 
 did so, but he was subject to none of that weak- 
 ness by which some men are prompted to submit 
 to such extortions. Had he believed her story, 
 and had Lady Ongar been really dear to him, 
 he would never have dealt with such a one as 
 Madame Gordeloup otherwise than through the 
 police. 
 
 " Madame Gordeloup," said he, " if you don't 
 immediately take yourself off, I shall have you 
 put out of the house. " 
 
 He would have sent for a constable at once, 
 had he not feared that by doing so, he would 
 retard his journey. 
 
 " What !" said Sophie, whose courage was as 
 good as his own. " Me put out of the house ! 
 Who shall touch me ?" 
 
 ' ' My servant shall ; or if that will not do, the 
 police. Come, walk." And he stepped over 
 toward her as though he himself intended to as- 
 sist in her expulsion by violence. 
 
 "Well, you are there ; I see you; and what 
 next?" said Sophie. "You, and your valk! I 
 can tell you things fit for you to know, and you 
 say, valk. If I valk, I will valk to some pur- 
 pose. I do not often valk for nothing when I 
 am told— T-valk !" Upon this Sir Hugh rang the 
 bell with some violence. " I care nothing for 
 your bells, or for your servants, or for your 
 policemen. I have told you that your sister 
 owe me a great deal of money, and you say — 
 valk. I will valk." Thereupon the servant 
 came into the room, and Sir Hugh, in an angry 
 voice, desired him to open the front door. "Yes 
 — open vide," said Sophie, who, when anger 
 came upon her, was apt to drop into a mode of 
 speaking English which she was able to avoid 
 in her cooler moments. " Sir 'Oo, I am going 
 to valk, and you shall hear of my valking." 
 
 " Am I to take that as a threat?" said he. 
 
 " Not a tret at all," said she ; " only a prom- 
 ise. Ah ! I am good to keep my promises. Yes, 
 I make a promise. Your poor wife — down with 
 the daises ; I know all, and she shall hear too. 
 That is another promise. And your brother, 
 the captain. Oh ! here he is, and the little man 
 out of Warwickshire." She had got up from 
 her chair, and had moved toward the door with 
 the intention of going, but just as she was pass- 
 ing out into the hall she encountered Archie 
 and Doodles. Sir Hugh, who had been alto- 
 gether at a loss to understand what she had 
 meant by the man out of Warwickshire, followed 
 hei- into the hall, and became more angry than 
 before at finding that his brother had brought a 
 friend to his house at so very inopportune a mo- 
 ment. The wrath in his face was so plainly 
 expressed that Doodles could perceive it, and 
 wished himself away. The presence also of the 
 Spy was not pleasant to the gallant captain. 
 Was the wonderful woman ubiquitous, that he 
 should thus encounter her again, and that so 
 soon after all the things that he had spoken of 
 her on this morning ? " How do you do, gentle-- 
 men?" said Sophie. " There is a great many 
 
174 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 boxes here, and I with my crinoline have not 
 got room." Then she shook hands, first with 
 Archie, and then with Doodles ; and asked the 
 latter why he was not as yet gone to Warwick- 
 shire. Archie, in almost mortal fear, looked up 
 into his brother's face. Had his brother learned 
 the story of that seventy pounds ? Sir Hugh 
 was puzzled beyond measure at finding that the 
 woman knew the two men ; but, having still an 
 eye to his lamb chops, was chiefly anxious to 
 get rid of Sophie and Doodles together. 
 
 "This is my friend Boodle — Captain Boo- 
 dle," said Archie, trying to put a bold face upon 
 the crisis. " He has come to see me oflf." 
 
 "Very kind of him, "said Sir Hugh. "Just 
 make way for this lady, will yon ? I want to 
 get her out of the house if I can. Your fiiend 
 seems to knew her ; perhaps he'll be good 
 enough to give her his arm ?" 
 
 "Who — I?" said Doodles. "No, I don't 
 know her particularly. I did meet her once be- 
 fore, just once — -in a casual way." 
 
 "Captain Booddle and me is very good 
 friends," said Sophie. " He come to my house 
 and behave himself very well ; only he is not so 
 handy a man as your brother. Sir 'Oo." 
 
 Archie trembled, and he trembled still more 
 when his brother, turning to him, asked him if 
 he knew the woman. 
 
 "Yes, he know the woman very well," said 
 Sophie. " Why do you not come any more to 
 see me ? You send your, little friend, but I like 
 you better yourself. You come again when you 
 return, and all that shall be made right." 
 
 But still she did not go. She had now seat- 
 ed herself on a gun-case which was resting on a 
 portmanteau, and seemed to be at her ease. The 
 time was going fast, and Sir Hugh', if he meant 
 to eat his chops, must eat them at once. 
 
 " See her out' of the hall, into the street," he 
 said to Archie ; " and if she gives trouble, send 
 for the police. She has come here to get money 
 from me by threats, and only that we have no 
 time, I would have her taken to the lock-up 
 house at once." Then Sir Hugh retreated into 
 the dining-room and shut the door. 
 
 "Lock-up-ouse !" said Sophie, scornfully. 
 "Whatisdat?" 
 
 " He means a prison," said Doodles. 
 
 ' ' Prison ! I know who is most likely be in 
 a prison . Tell me of a prison ! Is he a min- 
 ister of state that he can send out order for me 
 to be made prisoner ? Is there lettres de cachet 
 now in England? I think not. Prison, in- 
 deed !" 
 
 "But really, Madame Gordeloup, you had 
 better go — you had, indeed," said Archie. 
 
 " You too — you bid me go ? Did I bid you 
 go when you came to me ? Did I not tell you 
 sit down ? Was I not polite ? Did I send for 
 a police, or talk of lock-up-ouse to you ? No. 
 It is English that do these things — only En- 
 glish." 
 
 Archie felt that it was incumbent on him to 
 explain that his visit to her house had been 
 made under other circumstances — that he had 
 
 brought money instead of seeking it ; and had, 
 in fact, gone to her simply in the way of her own 
 trade. He did begin some preliminaries to this 
 explanation ; but as the servant was there, and 
 as his brother might come out from the dining- 
 room, and as also he was aware that he could 
 hardly tell the story much to his own advantage, 
 he stopped abruptly, and, looking piteously at 
 Doodles, implored him to take the lady away. 
 
 " I'erhaps you wouldn't mind just seeing her 
 into Mount Street," said Archie. 
 
 "Who — I ?" said Doodles, electrified. 
 
 " It is only just round the corner," said Ar- 
 chie. 
 
 "Yes, Captain Booddle, we will go," said So- 
 phie. ' ' This is a bad house ; and your Sir 'Oo . 
 — I do not like him at all. Lock-up, indeed ! 
 I tell you he shall very soon be locked up him- 
 self. There is what you call Davy's locker. I 
 know — yes." 
 
 Doodles also trembled when he heard this 
 anathema, and thought' once more of the char- 
 acter of Jack Stuart and his yacht. 
 
 " Pray go with her, " said Archie. 
 
 "But I had come to see you oif." 
 
 " Never mind," said Archie. " He is in such 
 a taking, you know. God bless you, old fellow 
 ■ — good-by! I'll write and tell you what fish 
 we get, and mind you tell me what Turriper 
 does for the Bedfordshire. Good-by, Madame 
 Gordeloup; good-by." 
 
 There was no escape for him, so Doodles put 
 on his hat and prepared to walk away to Mount 
 Street with the Spy under his arm — the Spy as 
 to whose avocations, over and beyond those of 
 her diplomatic profession, he had such strong 
 suspicions ! He felt inclined to be angiy with, 
 his friend, but the circumstances of his parting 
 hardly admitted of any expression of anger. 
 
 "Good-by, Clavvy," he said. "Yes, I'll 
 write — that is, if I've got any thing to say. " 
 
 "Take care of yourself, captain," said So- 
 phie. 
 
 "All right," said Archie. 
 
 " Mind you come and see me when you come 
 back," said Sophie. 
 
 " Of course I will," said Archie. 
 
 "And we'll make that all right for you yet. 
 Gentlemen, when they have so much to gain, 
 shouldn't take a no too easy. You come with 
 your handy glove, and we'll see about it again." 
 Then Sophie walked off leaning upon the arm 
 of Captain Boodle, and Archie stood at the door 
 watching them till they turned out of sight 
 round the corner of the Square. At last he 
 saw them no more, and then he returned to his 
 brother. 
 
 And as we shall see Doodles no more — or al- 
 most no more — we will now bid him adieu civ- 
 illy. The pair were not ill-matched, though the 
 lady perhaps had some advantage in acuteness, 
 given to her no doubt hy the experience of a 
 longer life. Doodles, as he walked along two 
 sides of the square with the fair burden on his 
 arm, felt himself to be in soine sort proud of his 
 position, though it was one from which he would 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 175 
 
 not have been sorry to escape, had escape been 
 possible A remarkable phenomenon was the 
 Spy, and to have walked round Berkeley Square 
 • with such a woman leaning on his arm might in 
 coming years be an event to remember with sat- 
 isfaction. In the mean time he did not say 
 much to her, and did not quite understand all 
 that she said to him. At last he came to the 
 door which he well remembered, and then he 
 paused. He did not escape even then. After 
 a while the door was opened, and those who 
 were passing might have seen Captain Boodle, 
 slowly and with hesitating steps, enter the nar- 
 row passage before the lady. Then Sophie fol- 
 lowed, and closed the door behind her. As far 
 as this story goes, what took place at that inter- 
 view can not be known. Let us bid farewell to 
 Doodles, and wish him a happy escape. 
 
 " How did you come to know that woman ?" 
 said Hugh to his brother, as soon as Archie was 
 in the dining-room. * 
 
 " She was a friend of Julia's," said Archie. 
 
 " You haven't given her money ?" Hugh ask- 
 ed. 
 ' " Oh dear, no," said Archie. 
 
 Immediately after that they got into their 
 cab, the things were pitched on the top, and, for 
 a while, we may bid adieu to them also. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 SHOWING HOW MRS. BUKTON FOUGHT HEK 
 BATTLE. 
 
 " Flokence, I have been to Bolton Street, 
 and I have seen Lady Ongar." Those were 
 the first words which Cecilia Burton spoke to 
 her sister-in-law, when she found Florence in 
 the drawing-room on her return from the visit 
 which she had made to the countess. Flor- 
 ence had still before her the desk on which she 
 had been writing; and the letter in its enve- 
 lope, addressed to Mrs. Clavering, but as yet un- 
 closed, was lying beneath her blotting-paper. 
 Florence, who had never dreamed of such an 
 undertaking on Cecilia's part, was astounded 
 at the tidings which she heard. Of course her 
 first effort was made to learn from her sister's 
 tone and countenance what had been the result 
 of this interview ; but she could learn nothing 
 from either. There was no radiance as of joy 
 in Mrs. Burton's face, nor was there written 
 there any thing of despair. Her voice was se- 
 rious and almost solemn, and her manner was 
 very grave, but that was all. "You have seen 
 her?" said Florence, rising up from her chair. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I may have done wi-ong. The- 
 odore, I know, will say so. But I thought it 
 best to try to learn the truth, before you wrote 
 to Mrs. Clavering." 
 
 "And what is thp truth? But perhaps you 
 have not learned it." 
 
 "I think I have learned all that she could 
 tell me. She has been very frank." 
 
 " Well, what is the truth ? Do not suppose, 
 
 dearest, that I can not bear it. I hope for 
 nothing uow. I only want to have this settled, 
 that I may be at rest." 
 
 Upon this Mrs. Burton took the suffering girl 
 in her arms and caressed her tenderly. -"My 
 love," said she, "it is not easy for us to be at 
 rest. You can not be at rest as yet." 
 
 "I can. I will be so, when I know that this 
 is settled.' ■! do not wish to interfere with his 
 fortune. There is my letter to his mother, and 
 now I will go back to Stratton." 
 
 "Not yet, dearest, not yet," said Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, taking the letter in her hand, but refraining 
 from withdrawing it at once from the envelope. 
 " You must hear what I have heard to-day." 
 
 " Does she say that she loves him ?" 
 
 "Ah! yes— she loves him. We must not 
 doubt that." ; 
 
 " And he — what does she say of him ?" 
 
 " She says what you also must say, Florence, 
 though it is hard that it should be so. It must 
 be as he shall decide." 
 
 "No," said Florence, withdrawing herself 
 from the arm that was still around her, "no, it 
 shall not be as he may choose to decide. I will 
 not so submit myself to him. It is enough as 
 it is. I will never see him more — never. To 
 say that I do not love him would be untrue, but 
 I will never see him again." 
 
 " Stop, dear, stop. What if it be no fault 
 of his?"' 
 
 "No fault of his that he went to her when 
 we — we — we — he and I — were, as we were, to- 
 gether !" 
 
 " Of coarse there has been some fault ; but 
 Flo, dearest, listen to me. You know that I 
 would ask you to do nothing from which a 
 woman should shrink." 
 
 "I know that you would give your Heart's 
 blood for me ; but nothing will be of avail now. 
 Do not look at me with melancholy eyes like 
 that. Cissy, it will not kill me. It is only the 
 doubt that kills one." • 
 
 "I will not look at you with melancholy 
 eyes, but you must listen to me. She does not 
 herself know what his intention is." 
 
 "But I know it, and I know my own. Read 
 my letter. Cissy. There is not one word of 
 anger in it, nor will I ever utter a reproach. 
 He knew her first. If he loved her through it 
 all, it was a pity he could not be constant to his 
 love, even though she was false to him." 
 
 "But you won't hear me, Flo. As far as I 
 can learn tlie truth — as I myself most firmly be- 
 lieve — when he went to her on her return to , 
 England, he had no other intention than that 
 of visiting an old friend." 
 
 "But what sort of friend, Cissy?" 
 
 "He had no idea then of being untrue to 
 yon. But when he saw her the old intimacy 
 came back. That was natural. Then he was 
 dazzled by her beauty." 
 
 " Is she then so beautiful?" 
 
 "She is very beautiful." 
 
 "Let him go to her," said Florence, tearing 
 herself away from her sister's arm, and walking 
 
176 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 across the room with a quick and almost angry 
 step. "Let her have him. Cissy, there shall 
 be an end of it. I will not condescend to solic- 
 it his love. If she is such as you say, and if 
 beauty with him goes for every thing, what 
 chance could there be for such as me?" 
 
 "I did not say that beauty with him went for 
 every thing." 
 
 " Of course it does. I ought to have known 
 that it would be so with such a one as him. 
 And then she is rich also — wonderfully rich ! 
 What right can I have to think of him ?" 
 
 " Florence, you are unjust. You do not even 
 suspect that it is her money." 
 
 "To me it is the same, thing. I suppose 
 that a woman who is so beautiful has a right to 
 every thing. I know that I am plain, and I will 
 be — content — in future — to think no more — " 
 Poor Florence, when she had got as far as that, 
 broke down, and could go on no farther with 
 the declaration which she had been about to 
 make as to her future prospects. Mrs. Burton, 
 taking advantage of this,' went on with her story, 
 struggling, not altogether unsuccessfully, to as- 
 sume a calm tone of unimpassioned reason. 
 
 " As I said before, he was dazzled — " 
 
 "Dazzled! oh!" 
 
 " But even then he had no idea of being un- 
 true to you." 
 
 " No ; he was untrue without an idea. That 
 is worse." 
 
 "Florence, you are perverse, and are determ- 
 ined to be unfair. I must beg that you will 
 hear me to the end, so that then you may be 
 able to judge what course you ought to follow." 
 This Mrs. Burton said with an air of great au- 
 thority ; after which she continued in a voice 
 something less stern — " He thought of doing no 
 injury to you when he went to see her; but 
 something of the feeling of his old loVe grew 
 upon him when he was in her company, and he 
 became embarrassed by his position before he 
 was .aware of his own danger. He might, of 
 course, have been stronger." Here Florence 
 exhibited a gesture of strong impatience, though 
 she did not speak. " I am not going to defend 
 Iiim altogether, but I thinlv you must admit that 
 he was hardly tried. Of course I can not say 
 what passed between them, but I can under- 
 stand how easily they might recur to the old 
 scenes — how naturally she would wish for a re- 
 newal of the love which she had been base enough 
 to betray ! She does not, however, consider her- 
 self as at present engaged to him. That you 
 may know for certain. It may be that she has 
 asked him for such a promise, and that he has 
 hesitated. If so, his staying away from us, and 
 his not writing to you, can be easily understood." 
 
 "And what is it you would have me do ?" 
 
 "He is ill now. Wait till he is well. He 
 would have been here before this had not illness 
 prevented him. Wait till he comes." 
 
 "I can not do that. Cissy. Wait I must, 
 hut I can not wait without offering him, through 
 his mother, the freedom which I have so much 
 reason to know that he desires." 
 
 "We do not know that he desires it. We 
 do not know that his mother even suspects him 
 of any fault toward you. Now that he is there 
 — at home — away from Bolton Streefr^-" 
 
 " I do not care to trust to such influences as 
 that, Cissy. If he could not spend this morn- 
 ing with her in her own house, and then, as he 
 left her, feel that he preferred me to her, and to 
 all the world, I would rather be as I am than 
 take his hand. He shall not marry me from 
 pity, nor yet from a sense of duty. We know 
 the old story — how the Devil would be a monk 
 when he was sick. I will not accept his sick- 
 bed allegiance, or have to think that I owe my 
 husband to a mother's influence over him while 
 he is ill." 
 
 " You will make me think, Flo, that you are 
 less true to him than she is." 
 
 " Perhaps it is so. Let him have what good 
 such truth as hers can do him. For me, I feel 
 thafit is my duty to be true to myself. I will 
 not condescend to indulge my heart; at the cost 
 of my pride as a woman." 
 
 " Oh, Florence, I hate that word pride." 
 
 "You would not hate it for yourself, in my 
 place." 
 
 "You need take no shame to love him." 
 
 "Have I taken shame to love him?" said 
 Florence, rising again from her chair. " Have 
 I been missisli or coy about my love ? From 
 the moment in which I knew that it was a 
 pleasure to myself to regard him as my future 
 husband, I have spoken of my love as being 
 always proud of it. I have acknowledged it as 
 openly as you can do yours for Theodore. I 
 acknowledge it still, and will never deny it. ' 
 Take shame that I have loved him ! No. But I 
 should take to myself great shame should I ever 
 be brought so low as to ask him for his love, 
 when once I had learned to think that he had 
 transferred it from myself to another woman." 
 Then she walked the length of the room, back- 
 ward and forward, with hasty steps, not looking 
 at her sister-in-law, whose eyes were now filled 
 with tears. "Come, Cissy," she then said, 
 "we will make an end of this. Bead my let- 
 ter if you choose to read it — though indeed it is 
 not worth the reading — and then let me send it 
 to the post." 
 
 Mrs. Burton now opened the letter and read 
 it very slowly. It was stern and almost unfeel- 
 ing in the calmness of the words chosen ; but in 
 those words her proposed marriage with Har- 
 ry Clavering was absolutely abandoned. "I 
 know," she said, " that your son is more warm- 
 ly attached to another lady than he is to me, 
 and under those circumstances, for his sake as 
 well as for mine, it is necessary that we should 
 part. Dear Mrs. Clavering, may I ask yon to 
 make him understand that he and I are never 
 to recur to the past ? If he will send me hack 
 any letters of mine — should any have been kept 
 — and the little present which I once gave him, 
 all will have been done which need be done, and 
 all have been said which need be said. He 
 will receive in a small parcel his own letters and 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 177 
 
 the gifts which he has made me." There was 
 in this a tone of completeness — as of a business 
 absolutely finished — of p. judgment admitting 
 no appeal, which did not at all suit Mrs. Bur- 
 ton's Yiews. A letter, quite as becoming on the 
 part of Florence, might, she thought, be writ- 
 ten, which would still leave open a door for rec- 
 onciliation. But Florence was resolved, and 
 the letter was sent. 
 
 The part which Mrs. Burton had taken in this 
 conversation had surprised even herself. She 
 had been full of anger with Harry Clavering — 
 as wrathful with him as her nature permitted 
 her to be, and yet she bad pleaded his cause 
 with all her eloquence, going almost so far in 
 her defense of him as to declare that he was 
 blameless. And, in truth, she was prepared to 
 acquit him of blame — to give him full absolution 
 without penance — if only he could be brought 
 back again into the fold. Her wrath against 
 him would be very hot should he not so return ; 
 but all should be more than forgiven if he would 
 only come back, and do his duty with affection- 
 ate and patient fidelity. Her desire was, not 
 so much that justice should be done, as that 
 Florence should have the thing coveted, and 
 that Florence's rival should not have it. Ac- 
 cording to the arguments as arranged by her 
 feminine logic, Harry Clavering would be all 
 right or all wrong according as he might at last 
 bear himself. She desired success, and, if she 
 could only be successful, was prepared to for- 
 give every thing. And even yet she would not 
 give up the battle, though she admitted to her- 
 self that Florence's letter to Mrs. Clavering made 
 the contest inore difficult than ever. It might, 
 however, be that Mrs. Clavering would he good 
 enough, just enough, true enough, clever enough, 
 to know that such a letter as this, coming from 
 such a girl, and written under such circum- 
 stances, should be taken as meaning nothing. 
 Most mothers would wish to see their sons mar- 
 ried to wealth, should wealth throw itself in their 
 way ; but Mrs. Clavering, possibly, might not be 
 such a mother as that. ♦ 
 
 In the mean time, there was before her the 
 terrible necessity of explaining to her husband 
 the step which she had taken without his knowl- 
 edge, and of which she knew that she must tell 
 him the history before she could sit down to 
 dinner with him in comfort. " Theodore, " she 
 said, creeping in out of her own chamber to his 
 dressing-room, while he was washing his hands, 
 "you mustn't be angry with me, but I have 
 done something to-day." 
 
 "And why must I not be angry with 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Tou know what I mean. You mustn't be 
 angry— especially about this— because I don't 
 want you to be." 
 
 " 'That's conclusive," said he. It was mani- 
 fest to her that he was in a good humor, which 
 was a great blessing. He had not been tried 
 with his work as he was often wont to be, and 
 was therefore willing to be playful. 
 
 "What do you think I've done?" said she. 
 M 
 
 " I have been to Bolton Street, and have seen 
 Lady Ongar." 
 "No!" 
 
 "I have, Theodore, indeed." 
 Mr. Burton had been rubbing his face ve- 
 hemently with a rough towel at the moment in 
 which the communication had been made to 
 him, and so strongly was he afiected by it that 
 he was stopped in his operation and brought to 
 a stand in his movement, looking at his wife 
 over the towel as he held it in both his hands. 
 " What on earth has made you do such a thing 
 as that?" he said. - 
 
 " I thought it best. I thought that I might 
 hear the truth — and so I have. I could not 
 bear that Florence should be sacrificed while 
 any thing remained undone that was possible." 
 "Why didn't you tell me that you were go- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Well, my dear, I thought it better not. 
 Of com'se I ought to have told you, but in this 
 instance I thought it best just to go without the 
 fuss of mentioning it." 
 
 " What you really mean is, that if you had 
 told me I should have asked you not to go. " 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "And you were determined to have your' 
 own way. " 
 
 " I don't think, Theodore, I care so much 
 about my own way as some women do. I am 
 sure I always think your opinion is better than 
 my own-;— that is, in most things." 
 
 "And what did Lady Ongar say to you?" 
 He had now put down the towel, and was seated 
 in his arm-chair, looking up into his wife's 
 face. 
 
 " It would be a long story to tell yon all that 
 she said." 
 
 "Was she civil to you?" 
 " She was not uncivil. She is a handsome, 
 proud woman, prone to speak out what she 
 thinks, and determined to have her own way 
 when it is possible ; but I think that she intend- 
 ed to be civil to me personally." 
 "What is her purpose now?" 
 "Her purpose is clear enough. She means 
 to marry Harry Clavering if she can get him. 
 She said so. She made no secret of what her 
 wishes are." 
 
 " Then, Cissy, let her mari-y him, and do not 
 let us trouble ourselves farther in the matter." 
 
 " But Florence, Theodore ! Think of Flor- 
 ence!" 
 
 "lam thinking of her, and I think that 
 Harry Clavering is not worth her acceptance.' 
 She is as the traveler that fell among thieves. 
 She is hurt and wounded, but not dead. It is 
 for you to be the good Samaritan, but the oil 
 which you should pour into her wounds is not 
 a renewed hope as to that worthless man. Let 
 Lady Ongar have him. As far as I can see, 
 they are fit for each other." 
 
 ■Then she went through with him, diligently, 
 all the arguments which she had used with 
 Florence, palliating Harry's conduct, and ex- 
 plaining the circumstances of his disloyalty, al- 
 
178 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 most as those circtimstances had in truth oc- 
 curred. "I think you are too liard on him," 
 she said. "You can't be too hard on false- 
 liood,"he replied. "No, not while it exists. 
 But you would not be angry with a man forever 
 because he should once have been false ? But 
 we do not know that he is false." "Do we 
 not?" said he. "But never mind; we must 
 go to dinner now. Does Florence know of 
 your visit?" Then, before she would allow him 
 to leave his room, she explained to him what 
 had taken place between herself and Florence, 
 and told him of the letter that had been written 
 to Mrs. Clavering. "She is right," said he. 
 " That way out of her difficulty is the best that 
 is left to her." But, nevertheless, Mrs. Burton 
 was resolved that she would not as yet surrender. 
 
 Theodore Burton, when he reached the draw- 
 ing-room, went up to his sister and kissed her. 
 Such a sign of the tenderness of love was not 
 common with him, for he was one of those 
 who are not usually demonstrative in their 
 aifection. At the present moment he said 
 nothing of what was passing in his mind, nor 
 did she. She simply raised her face to meet 
 his lips, and pressed his hand as she held it. 
 What need was there of any farther sign be- 
 tween them' than this? Then they went to 
 dinner, and their meal was eaten almost in 
 silence. Almost every moment Cecilia's eye 
 was on her sister-in-law. A careful observer, 
 had there been one there, might have seen this ; 
 but, while they remained together down stairs, 
 there occurred among them nothing else to 
 mark that all was not well with them. 
 
 Nor would the brother have spoken a word 
 during the evening on the subject that was so 
 hear to all their hearts had not Florence led the 
 way. When they were at tea, and when Ce- 
 cilia had already made up her mind that there 
 was to be no farther discussion that night, Flor- 
 ence suddenly broke forth. 
 
 "Theodore," she said, "I have been think- 
 ing much about it, and I believe I had jjetter 
 go home,, to Stratton, to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh no," said Cecilia, eagerly. 
 
 "I believe it will be better that I should," 
 continued Florence. "I suppose it is very 
 weak in me to own it ; but I am unhappy, and, 
 like the wounded bird, I feel that it will be well 
 that I should hide myself." 
 
 Cecilia was at her feet in a moment. "Dear- 
 est Flo," she said, "is not this your home as 
 well as Stratton ?" 
 
 "When I am able to be happy, it is. Those 
 who have light hearts may have more homes 
 than one, but it is not so with those whose hearts 
 are heavy. I think it will be best for me to 
 
 go-" 
 
 "You shall do exactly as you please,'' said 
 her brother. "In such a matter I will not try 
 to persuade you. I only wish that we could 
 tend to comfort you." 
 
 "You do comfort me. If I know that you 
 think I am doing right, that will comfort me 
 more than any thing. Absolute and imme- 
 
 diate comfort is not to be had when one is 
 sorrowful." 
 
 "No, indeed," said her brother. "Sorrow 
 should not be killed too quickly. I always think 
 that those who are impervious to grief must be 
 impervious also to happiness. If you have 
 feelings capable of the one, you must have them^ 
 capable also of the other." 
 
 "You should wait, at any rate, till you get 
 an answer from Mrs. Clavering,'' said Cecilia. 
 
 " I do not know that she has any answer to 
 send to me." 
 
 " Oh yes, she must answer you, if you will 
 think of it. - If she accepts what you have 
 said — " 
 
 " She can not but accept it." 
 
 ' ' Then she must reply to you. There is 
 something which you have asked her to send to 
 you ; and I think you should wait, at any rale, 
 till it reaches you here. Mind, I do not think 
 her answer will be of that nature, but it is clear 
 that you should wait for it, whatever it may be." 
 Then Florence, with the concurrence of her 
 brother's opinion, consented to remain in Lon- 
 don for a few days, expecting the answer which 
 would be sent By Mrs. Clavering; and after 
 that no farther discussion took place as to her 
 trouble. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE SnEEP EETtnjNS TO THE TOLD. 
 
 Haeet Clateeing had spoken solemn words 
 to his mother, during his illness, which both he 
 and she regarded as a promise that Florence 
 should not be deserted by him. After that 
 promise nothing more was said between them 
 on the subject for a few days. Mrs. Clavering 
 was contented that the promise had been made, 
 and Harry himself, in the weakness consequent 
 upon his illness, was willing enough to accept 
 the excuse which his illness gave him for post- 
 poning any acti»n in the matter. But the fever 
 had left him, and he was sitting up in his 
 mother's room, when Florence's letter reached 
 the parsonage, and with the letter, the little 
 parcel which she herself had packed up so care- 
 fully. On the day before that a few words had 
 passed between the rector and his wife, which 
 will explain the feelings of both of them in the 
 matter. 
 
 "Have you heard," said he, speaking in a 
 voice hardly above a whisper, although no third 
 person was in the room, "that Harry is again 
 thinking of making Julia his wife ?" 
 
 "He is not thinking of doing so," said Mrs. 
 Clavering. " They who say so do him wrong." 
 
 ' ' It would be a great thing for him as re- 
 gards money." 
 
 "But he is engaged — and Florence Burton 
 has been received here as his future wife. I 
 could not endure to think that it should be so. 
 At any rate, it is not true." ' 
 
 " I only tell you what I heard," said the rec- 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 179 
 
 tor, gently sighing, partly in obedience to his 
 wife's implied rebuke, and partly at the thought 
 that so grand a marriage should not be within 
 his son's reach. The rector was beginning to 
 be aware that Harry would hardly make a for- 
 tune at the profession which he had chosen, 
 and that a rich marriage would be an easy way 
 out of all the difficulties which such a failure 
 promised. The rector was a man who dearly 
 loved easy ways out of difficulties. But in such 
 matters as these his wife he knew was impera- 
 tive and powerful, and he lacked the courage to 
 plead for a cause that was prudent, but un- 
 generous. 
 
 When Mrs. Clavering received the letter and 
 parcel on the next morning, Harry Clavering 
 was still in bed. With the delightful privi- 
 lege of a convalescent invalid, he was allowed 
 in these days to get up just when getting up be- 
 came more comfortable than lying in bed, and 
 that time did not usually come till eleven o'clock 
 was past ; but the postman reached the Claver- 
 ing parsonage by nine. The letter, as we know, 
 was addressed to Mrs. Clavering herself, as was 
 also the outer envelope which contained the 
 packet ; but the packet itself was addressed in 
 Florence's clear handwriting to Harry Claver- 
 ing, Esq. "That is a large parcel to come by 
 post, mamma," said Fanny. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; but it is something particu- 
 lar." 
 
 " It's from some tradesman, I suppose," said 
 the rector. 
 
 "No, it's not from a tradesman," said Mrs. 
 Clavering. But she said nothing farther, and 
 both husband and daughter perceived that it was 
 not intended that they should ask farther ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Fanny, as usual, had taken her brother his 
 breakfast, and Mrs. Clavering did not go up to 
 him till that ceremony had been completed and 
 removed. Indeed, it was necessary that she 
 should study, Florence's letter in her own room 
 before she could speak to him aboiit it. What 
 the parcel contained she well knew, even before 
 the letter had been thoroughly read ; and I need 
 hardly say that the treasure was sacred in her 
 hands. When she had finished the perusal of 
 the letter there was a tear — a gentle tear — in 
 each eye. She understood it all, and could 
 fathom the strength and weakness of every word 
 which Florence had written. But she was such 
 a woman — exactly such a woman — as Cecilia 
 Burton had pictured to herself. Mrs. Clavering 
 was good enough, great enough, true enough, 
 clever enough to know that Harry's love for 
 Florence should be sustained, and his fancy for 
 Lady Ongar overcome. At no time would she 
 have been proud to see her son prosperous only 
 in the prosperity of a wife's fortune ; but she 
 would have been thoroughly ashamed of him 
 had he resolved to pursue siich prosperity under 
 his present circumstances. 
 
 But her tears — though they were there in the 
 corners of her eyes^-were not painful tears. 
 Dear Florence ! She was sufiering bitterly now. 
 
 This very day would be a day of agony to her. 
 There had been for her, doubtless, many days 
 of agony during the past month. That the letter 
 was true in all its words Mrs. Clavering did not 
 doubt. That Florence believed that all was over 
 between her and Harry, Mrs. Clavering was as 
 sure as Florence had intended that she should 
 be. But all should not be over, and the days 
 of agony should soon be at an end. Her boy 
 had promised her, and to her he had always 
 been true. And she understood, too, the way 
 in which these dangers had come upon him, and 
 her judgment was not heavy upon her son — her 
 gracious boy, who had ever been so good to her ! 
 It might be that he had been less diligent at his 
 work than he should have been — that on that 
 account farther delay would still be necessary; 
 but Florence would forgive that, and he had 
 promised that Florence should not be deserted. 
 
 Then she took the parcel in her hands, and 
 considered all its circumstances — how precious 
 had once been its contents, and how precious 
 doubtless they still were, though they had been 
 thus repudiated ! And she thought of the mo- 
 ments — hay, rather the hours — which had been 
 passed in the packing of that little packet. She 
 well understood how a girl would linger over 
 such dear pain, touching the things over and 
 over again, allowing herself to read morsels of 
 the letters at which she had already forbidden 
 herself even to look, till every word had been 
 again seen and weighed, again caressed and 
 again abjured. She knew how those little trink- 
 ets would have been fondled ! How salt had 
 been the tears that had fallen on them, and how 
 carefully the drops would have been removed. 
 Every fold in the paper of the two envelopes, 
 with the little morsels of wax just adequate for 
 their purpose, told of the lingering painful care 
 with which the work had been done. Ah ! the 
 parcel should go back at once with words of love 
 that should put an end to all that pain. She, 
 who had sent these loved things away, should 
 have her letters again, and should touch her 
 little treasures with fingers that should take 
 pleasure in the touching. She should again read 
 her lover's words with an enduring delight. Mrs. 
 Clavering understood it all, as though she were 
 still a girl with a lover of her own. 
 
 Harry was beginning to think that the time 
 had come in which getting up would be more 
 comfortable than lying in bed, when his mother 
 knocked at his door and entered his room. " I 
 was just going to make a move, mother, "he said, 
 having reached that stage of convalescence in 
 which some shame comes upon the idler. 
 
 " But I want to speak to you lirst, my dear," 
 said Mrs. Clavering. " I have got a letter for 
 you, or rather a parcel." Harry held out his 
 hand, and, taking the packet, at once recognized 
 the writing of the address. 
 
 "You know from whom it comes, Harry?" 
 
 " Oh yes, mother." 
 
 "And do you know what it contains?" Har- 
 ry, still holding the packet, looked at it, but said 
 nothing. "I know," said his mother, " for she 
 
180 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 has written and told rae. Will you see her let- 
 ter to me ?" Again Harry held out his hand, 
 but his mother did not at once give him the let- 
 ter. " First of all, my dear, let us know that 
 we understand each other. This dear girl — to 
 me she is inexpressibly dear — is to be your wife." 
 
 " Yes, mother, it shall be so." 
 
 "That is my own boy ! Harry, I have never 
 doubted you — have never doubted that you would 
 be right at last. Now you shall see her letter. 
 But you must remember that she has had cause 
 to make her unhappy." 
 
 "I will remember." 
 
 " Had you not been ill, every thing would of 
 course have been all right before now." As to 
 the correctness of this assertion the reader prob- 
 ably will have doubts of his own. Then she 
 handed him the letter, and sat on his bedside 
 while he read it. At first he was startled, and 
 made almost indignant at the firmness of the 
 girl's words. She gave him up as though it 
 were a thing quite decided, and uttered no ex- 
 pression of her own regret in doing so. There 
 was no soft woman's wail in her words. But 
 there was in them something which made him 
 unconsciously long to get back the thing which 
 he had so nearly thrown away from him. They 
 inspired him with a doubt whether he might yet 
 succeed, which very doubt greatly increased his 
 desire. As he read the letter for the second 
 time, Julia became less beautiful in his imagina- 
 tion, and the charm of Florence's character be- 
 came stronger. 
 
 " Well, dear," said his mother, when she saw 
 that he had finished the second reading of the 
 epistle. 
 
 He hardly knew how to express, even to his 
 mother, all his feelings — the shame that he felt, 
 and with the shame something of indignation 
 that he should have been so repulsed. And of 
 his love, too, he was afraid to speak. He was 
 willing enough to give the required assurance, 
 but after that he would have preferred to have 
 been left alone. But his mother could not leave 
 him without some farther word of agreement 
 between them as to the course which they would 
 pursue. 
 
 " Will you write to her, mother, or shall I ?" 
 
 ' ' I shall write, certainly — ^by to-day's post. 
 I would not leave her an hour, if I could help 
 it, without an assurance of your unaltered affec- 
 tion." 
 
 "I could go to town to-morrow, mother — 
 could I not ?" 
 
 " Not to-morrow, Harry. It would be fool- 
 ish. Say on Monday." 
 
 " And yon will write to-day." 
 
 "Certainly." ' 
 
 " I will send a line also — -just a line." 
 
 " And the parcel ?" 
 
 " I have not opened it yet." 
 
 " You know what it contains. Send it back 
 at once, Harry — at once. If I understand her 
 feelings, she will not be happy till she gets it 
 into her hands again. We will send Jem over 
 to the post-ofiice, and have it registered." 
 
 When so much was settled, Mrs. Clavering 
 went away about the affairs of her house, think- 
 ing as she did so of the loving words with which 
 she would strive to give back happiness to Flor- 
 ence Burton. 
 
 Hai'ry, when he was alone, slpwly opened the 
 parcel. He could not resist the temptation of 
 doing this, and of looking again at the things 
 which she had sent back to him. And he was 
 not without an idea — perhaps a hope — that there 
 might be with them some short note — some 
 scrap containing a few words for himself. If 
 he had any such hope he was disappointed. 
 There were his own letters, all scented with 
 lavender from the casket in which they had been 
 preserved ; there was the rich bracelet which 
 had been given with some little ceremony, and 
 the cheap brooch which he had thrown to her as 
 a joke, and which she had sworn that she would 
 value the most of all because she could wear it 
 every day"; and there was the pencil-case which 
 he had fixed on to her watch-chain, while her 
 fingers were touching his fingers, caressing him 
 for his love while her words were rebuking him 
 for his awkwardness. He remembered it all as 
 the things lay strewed upon his bed. And he 
 re-read every word of his own words. " What 
 a fool a man makes of himself !" he said to him- 
 self at last, with something of the cheeriness of 
 laughter about his heart. But as he said so he 
 was quite ready to make himself a fool after the 
 same fashion again, if only there were not in 
 his way that difficulty of recommencing. Had 
 it been possible for him to write again at once 
 in the old strain, without any reference to his 
 own conduct during the last month, he would 
 have begun his fooling without waiting to finish 
 his dressing. 
 
 " Did you open the parcel ?" his mother ask- 
 ed him, some hour or so before it was necessary 
 that Jem should he started on his mission. 
 
 " Yes, I thought it best to open it." 
 
 " And have you made it up again ?" 
 
 " Not yet, mother." 
 
 "Put this with it, dear." And his mother 
 gave him a little jewel, a cupid in mosaic sm-- 
 rounded by tiny diamonds, which he remember- 
 ed her to wear ever since he had first noticed 
 the things she had worn. " Not from me, mind. 
 I give it to you. Come — will you trust me to 
 pack them ?" Then Mrs. Clavering again made 
 up the parcel, and added the trinket which she 
 had brought with her. 
 
 Harry at last brought himself to write a few 
 words. "Dearest, deakest Florence, — They 
 will not let me out, or I would go to you at once. 
 My mother has written, and though I have not 
 seen her letter, I know what it contains. In- 
 deed, indeed you may believe it all. May I not 
 venture to return the parcel ? I do send it 
 back, and implore you to keep it. I shall be 
 in town, I think, on Monday, and will go to 
 Onslow Crescent — instantly.. Your own, H. C." 
 Then there was scrawled a postscript which was 
 worth all the rest put together — was better than 
 his own note, better than his mother's letter. 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 181 
 
 tetter than tfte returned packet. "I love no 
 one better than you — no one half so well — nei- 
 ther now, nor ever did." These words, whether 
 wholly true or only partially so, were at least to 
 the point, and were taken by Cecilia Burton, 
 when she heard of them, as a confession of faith 
 that demanded instant and plenary absolution. 
 
 The trouble which had called Harry down to 
 Clavering remained, I regret to say, almost in 
 full force now that his prolonged visit had been 
 brought so near its close. Mr. Saul, indeed, 
 had agreed to resign his curacy, and was already 
 on the look-out for similar employment in some 
 other parish. And, since his interview with 
 S'anny's father, he had never entered the rectory 
 or spoken to Fanny. Fanny had promised that 
 there should be no such speaking, and, indeed, 
 no danger of that kind was feared. Whatever 
 Mr. Saul might do he would do openly — nay, 
 audaciously. But, though there existed this se- 
 curity, nevertheless things as regarded Fanny 
 were very unpleasant. When Mr. Saul had 
 commenced his courtship, she had agreed with 
 her family in almost ridiculing the idea of such 
 a lover. There had been a feeling with her as 
 with the others that poor Mr. Sanl was to be 
 pitied. Then she had come to regard his over- 
 tures as matters of grave import — not indeed 
 avowing to her mother any thing so strong as a 
 return of his affection, but speaking of his pro- 
 posal as one to which there was no other objec- 
 tion than that of a want of money. Now, how- 
 ever, she went moping about the house as though 
 she were a victim of true love, condemned to 
 run unsmoothly forever — as though her passion 
 for Mr. Saul were too much for her, and she 
 were waiting in patience till death should re- 
 lieve her from the cruelty of her parents. She 
 never complained. Such victims never do com- 
 plain. But she moped and was wretched, and 
 when her mother questioned her, struggling to 
 find out how strong this feeling might in truth 
 be, Fanny would simply make her. dutiful prom- 
 ises — promises which were wickedly dutiful — 
 that she would never mention the name of Mr. 
 Saul any more. Mr. Saul, in the mean time, 
 went about his parish duties with grim energy, 
 supplying the rector's shortcomings without a 
 word. He would have been glad to preach all 
 the sermons and read all the services during 
 these six months, had he been allowed to do so. 
 He was constant in the schools — more constant 
 than ever in his visitings. He was very courte- 
 ous to Mr. Clavering when the necessities of 
 their position brought them together. For all 
 this, Mr. Clavering hated him— unjustly. For 
 a man placed as Mr. Saul was placed, a line of 
 conduct exactly level with that previously fol- 
 lowed is impossible, and it was better that he 
 should becojne more energetic in his duties than 
 less so. It will be easily understood that all 
 these things interfered much with the general 
 happiness of the family at the rectory at this 
 time. 
 
 The Monday came, and HaiTy Clavering, now 
 convalescent, and simply interesting from the 
 
 remaining effects of his illness, started on his 
 journey for London. There had come no far- 
 ther letters from Onslow Terrace to the parson- 
 age, and, indeed, owing to the intervention of 
 Sunday, none could have come unless Florence 
 had written by return of post. Harry made his 
 journey, beginning with some promise of happi- 
 ness to himself, but becoming somewhat uneasy 
 as his train drew near to London. He had be- 
 haved badly, and he knew that in the first place 
 he must own that he had done so. To men such 
 a necessity is always grievous. Women not un- 
 frequently like the task. To confess, submit,, 
 and be accepted as confessing and submitting, 
 comes naturally to the feminine mind. The 
 cry of peccavi sounds soft and pretty when made 
 by sweet lips in a loving voice. But a man who 
 can own that he has done amiss without a pang 
 — who can so own it to another man, or even to 
 a woman — is usually but a poor creature. Harry 
 must now make such confession, and therefore 
 he became uneasy. And then, for him, there 
 was another task behind the one which he would 
 be called upon to perform this evening — a task 
 which would have nothing of pleasantness in it 
 to redeem its pain. He must confess not only 
 to Florence — where his confession might proba- 
 bly have its reward — but he must confess also to 
 Julia. This second confession would, indeed, 
 be a hard task to him. That, however, was to 
 be postponed till the morrow. On this evening 
 he had pledged himself that he would go direct 
 to Onslow Terrace, and this he did as soon after 
 he had reached his lodgings as was possible. It 
 was past six when he reached London, and it 
 was not yet eight when, with palpitating heart, 
 he knocked at Mr. Burton's door. 
 
 I must take the reader back with me for a few 
 rriinutes, in order that we may see after what 
 fashion the letters from Clavering were received 
 by the ladies in Onslow Terrace. On that day 
 Mr. Burton had been required to go out of Lon- 
 don by one of the early trains, and had not been 
 in the house when the postman came. Nothing 
 had been said between Cecilia and Florence as 
 to their hopes or fears in regard to an answer 
 from Clavering — nothing, *at least, since that 
 conversation in which Florence had agreed to re- 
 main in London for yet a few days ; but each of 
 them was very nervous on the matter. Any an- 
 swer, if sent at once from Clavering, would ar- 
 rive on this morning, and therefore, when the 
 well-known knock was heard, neither of them 
 was able to maintain her calmness perfectly. 
 But yet nothing was said, nor did either of them 
 rise from her seat at the breakfast-table. Pres- 
 ently the girl came in with apparently a bundle 
 of letters, which she was still sorting when she 
 entered the room. There were two or three for 
 Mr. Burton, two for Cecilia, and then two be- 
 sides the registered packet for Florence. For 
 that a receipt was needed, and as Florence had 
 seen the address and recognized the writing, she 
 was hardly able to give her signature. As soon 
 as the maid was gone, Cecilia could keep her 
 seat no longei', "I know those are from Cla- 
 
182 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 vering," she said, risingfrom her chair, and com- 
 ing round to the side of the table. Florence in- 
 stinctively swept the packet into her lap, and, 
 loaning forward, covered the letters with her 
 hands. " Oh, Florence, let us see them — let 
 us see them at once. If we are to be happy, let 
 us know it." But Florence paused, still leaning 
 over her treasures, and hardly daring to show 
 her burning face. Even yet it might be that 
 sh,e was rejected. Then Cecilia went back to 
 her seat, and simply looked at her sister with 
 beseeching eyes. "I think I'll go up stairs," 
 said Florence. "Are you afraid of me, Flo?" 
 'Cecilia answered reproachfully. " Let me see 
 the outside of them." Then Florence brought 
 them round the table, and put them into her sis- 
 ter's hands. " May I open this one from Mrs. 
 Clavering ?" Florence nodded her head. Then 
 the seal was broken, and in one miniite the two 
 women were crying in each other's arms. ' ' I 
 was quite sure of it, " said Cecilia, through her 
 tears — " perfectly sure. I never doubted it for 
 a moment. How could you have talked of go- 
 ing to Stratton ?" At last Florence got herself 
 away up to the window, and gradually mustered 
 courage to break the envelope of her lover's let- 
 ter. It was not at once that she showed the 
 postscript to Cecilia, nor at once that the packet 
 was opened. That last ceremony she did per- 
 form in the solitude of her own room. But be- 
 fore the day was over the postscript had been 
 shown, and the added trinket had been exhib- 
 ited. "I remember it well," said Florence. 
 ' ' Mrs. Clavering wore it on her forehead when 
 we dined at Lady Clavering's. " Mrs. Burton in 
 all this saw something of the gentle persuasion 
 which the mother had used, but of that she said 
 nothing. That he should be back again, and 
 should have repented, was enough for her. 
 
 Mr. Burton was again absent when Harry 
 Clavering knocked in' person at the door, but on 
 this occasion his absence had been specially ar- 
 ranged by him with a view to Harry's comfort. 
 "He won't want to see me this evening," he 
 had said. "Indeed, you'll all get on a great 
 deal better without me." He therefore had re- 
 mained away from home, and, not being a club 
 man, had dined most uncomfortably at an eat- 
 ing-house. "Are the ladies at home ?" Harry 
 asked, when the door was opened. Oh yes, they 
 were at home. There was no danger that they 
 should be found out on such an occasion as this. 
 The girl looked at him pleasantly, calling him 
 by his name as she answered him, as though she 
 too desired to show him that he had again been 
 taken into favor — into her favor as well as that 
 of her mistress. 
 
 He hardly knew what he was doing as he ran 
 up the steps to the drawing-room. He was 
 afraid of what was to come, but nevertheless he 
 rushed at his fate as some young soldier rushes 
 at the trench in which he feels that he may prob- 
 ably fall. So Harry Clavering hurried on, and 
 before he had looked round upon the room which 
 he had entered, found his fate with Florence on 
 his bosom. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! I fear that justice»was outraged 
 in the welcome that Harry received on that even- 
 ing. I have said that he would be called upon 
 to own his sins, and so much, at least, should 
 have been required of him. But he owned no 
 sin. I have said that a certain degradation 
 must attend him in that first interview after his 
 reconciliation. Instead of this, the hours that 
 he spent that evening in Onslow Terrace were 
 hours of one long ovation. He was, as it were, 
 put upon a throne as a king who had returned 
 from his conquest, and those two women did him 
 honor, almost kneeling at his feet. Cecilia was 
 almost as tender with him as Florence, pleading 
 to her own false heart the fact of his illness as 
 his excuse. There was something of the pallor 
 of the sick-room left with him^ — a slight tenuity 
 in his hands and brightness in his eye which did 
 him yeoman's service. Had he been quite ro- 
 bust, Cecilia might have felt that she could not 
 justify to herself the peculiar softness of her 
 words. After the first quarter of an hour he was 
 supremely happy. His awkwardness had gone, 
 and as he sat with his arm round Florence's 
 waist, he found that the little pencil-case had 
 again been attached to her chain, and as he look- 
 ed down upon her he saw that the cheap brooch 
 was again on her breast. It would have been 
 pretty, could an observer have been there, to see 
 the skill with which they both steered clear of 
 any word or phrase which could be disagreeable 
 to him. One Inight have thought that it would 
 have been impossible to avoid aiU touch of a re- 
 buke. The very fact that he was forgiven would 
 seem to imply some fault that required pardon. 
 But there was no hint at any fault. The tact 
 of women excels the skill of men ; and so per- 
 fect was the tact of these women, that not a 
 word was said which wounded Harry's ear. He 
 had come again into their fold, and they were 
 rejoiced and showed their joy. He who had 
 gone astray had repented, and they were beau- 
 tifully tender to the repentant sheep. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 KESTITUTION. 
 
 Hakkt staid a little too long with his love — 
 a little longer, at least, than had been computed, 
 and, in consequence, met Theodore Burton in 
 the Crescent as he was leaving it. This meet- 
 ing could hardly be made without something of 
 pain, and perhaps it was well for Harry that he 
 should have such an opportunity as this for get- 
 ting over it quickly. But when he saw Mr. 
 Burton under the bright gas-lamp, he would 
 very willingly have avoided him, had it been 
 possible. 
 
 "Well, Harry," said Burton, giving his hand 
 to the repentant sheep. 
 
 "How are you. Burton ?" said Harry, trying 
 to speak with an unconcerned voice. Then, in 
 answer to an inquiry as to his health, he told 
 of his own illness, speaking of that confounded 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 fever having made him very low. He intended 
 no deceit, but he made more of the fever than 
 was necessary. 
 
 "When, will you come back to the shop?" 
 Burton asked. It must be remembered that, 
 though the brother could not refuse to welcome 
 back to his home his sister's lover, still he thought 
 that the engagement was a misfortune. He did 
 not believe in Harry as a man of business, and 
 had almost rejoiced wjjen Tlorence had been so 
 nearly quit of him. And now there was a taint 
 of sarcasm in his voice as he asked as to Harry's 
 return to the chambers in the Adelphi. 
 
 "J can hardly quite say as yet," said Harry, 
 still pleading his illnegs. "They were very 
 much against my coming up to London so soon. 
 Indeed, I should not have done it had I not felt 
 so very— very anxious to see Florence. I don't 
 know, Burton, whether I ought to say any thing 
 to you about that." 
 
 "I suppose you have said what you had to 
 say to the women." 
 
 " Oh yes. I think they understand me com- 
 pletely, and I hope that I understand them." 
 
 "In that case, I don't know that you need 
 say any thing to me. Come to the Adelphi as 
 soon as you can — that's all. I never think my- 
 self that a man becomes a bit stronger after an 
 illness by remaining idle^" Then Harry passed 
 on, and felt that he had escaped easily in that 
 interview. 
 
 But as he walked home he was compelled to 
 think of the step which he must next take. 
 When he had last seen Lady Ongar he had left 
 her with a promise that Florence was to be de- 
 serted for her sake. As yet that promise would 
 by her be supposed to be binding. Indeed, he 
 had thought it to be binding on himself till he 
 had found himself under his mother's influence 
 at the parsonage. During his last few weeks in 
 London he had endured an agony of doubt, but 
 in his vacillations the pendulum had always 
 veered more strongly toward Bolton Street than 
 to Onslow Crescent. Now the swinging of the 
 pendulum had ceased altogether. From hence- 
 forth Bolton Street must be forbidden ground to 
 him, and the sheepfold in Onslow Crescent must 
 be his home till he should have established a 
 small peculiar fold for himself. But, as yet, he 
 had still before him the task of communicating 
 his final decision to the lady in Bolton Street. 
 As he walked home he determined that he had 
 better do so in the first place by letter, and so 
 eager was he as to the propriety of doing this at 
 once, that on his, return to his lodgings he sat 
 down and wrote the letter before he went to his 
 bed. It was not very easily written. Here, at 
 any rate, he had to make those confessions of 
 which I have before spoken — confessions which 
 it may be less difficult to make with pen and 
 ink than with spoken Vords, but which, when so 
 made, are more degrading. The word that is 
 written is a thing capable of permanent life, and 
 lives frequently to the confusion of its parent. 
 A man should make his confessions always by 
 word of mouth, if it be possible. Whether such 
 
 183 
 
 a course would have been possible to Harrv 
 Clavering may be doubtful. It might have been 
 that in a personal meeting the necessary confes- 
 sion would not have got itself adequately spoken. 
 Thiriking, perhaps, of this, he wrote his letter as 
 follows on that night. 
 
 " Bloomsbury Square, July, 186-." 
 The date was easily written, but how was he to 
 go on after that ? In what form of affection or in- 
 difference was he to address her whom he had at 
 that last meeting called his own, his dearest Ju- 
 lia ? He got out of his difiiculty in the way com- 
 mon to ladies and gentlemen under such stress, 
 and did not address her by any name or any epi- 
 thet. The date he allowed to remain, and then 
 he went away at once to the matter ofhis subject. 
 
 " I feel that I owe it you at once to tell you 
 what has been my history during the last few 
 weeks. I came up from Clavering to-day, and 
 have since that been with Mrs. and Miss Bur- 
 ton. Immediately on my return from them I 
 sit down to write you." 
 
 After having said so much, Harry probably 
 felt that the rest of his letter would be surplus- 
 age. Those few words would tell her all that 
 it was required that she should know. But 
 courtesy demanded that he should say more, 
 and he went on with his confession. 
 
 " You know that I became engaged to Miss 
 Burton soon after your own marriage. I feel 
 now .that I should have told you this when we 
 first met ; but yet, had I done so, it would have 
 seemed as though I told it with a special object. 
 I don't know whether I make myself understood 
 in this. I can only hope that I do so." 
 
 Understood ! Of course she understood it all. 
 She required no blundering explanation from 
 him to assist her intelligence. 
 
 "I wish now that I had mentioned it. It 
 would have been better for both of us. I should 
 have been saved much pain, and you, perhaps, 
 some uneasiness. 
 
 "I was called down to Clavering a few weeks 
 ago about some business in the family, and then 
 became ill, so that I was confined to my bed in- 
 stead of returning to town. Had it not been 
 for this I should not have left you so long in 
 suspense — that is, if there has been suspense. 
 For myself, I have to own that I have been very 
 weak — worse than weak, I fear you will think. 
 I do not know whether your old regard for me 
 will prompt you to make any excuse for me, but 
 I am well sure that I can make none for my- 
 self which will not have suggested itself to you 
 without my urging it. If you choose to think 
 that I have been heartless — or, rather, if j^u 
 are able so to think of me, no words of mine, 
 written or spoken now, will remove that im- 
 pression from your mind. 
 
 "I believe that I need write nothing farther. 
 You will understand from what I have said all 
 that I should have to say were I to refer at 
 length to that which has passed between us. 
 AH that is over now, and it only remains for 
 
184 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 me to express a hope that you may he happy. 
 Whether we shall ever see each other again, 
 who shall say f hut if we do, I trust that we 
 may not meet as enemies. May God bles^ you 
 here and hereafter. Hakky Claveking." 
 
 When the letter was finished Harry sat for 
 a while by his open window looking at the 
 moon, oyer the chimney-pots of his square, and 
 thinking of his career in life as it had hitherto 
 been fulfilled. The great promise of his earlier 
 days had not been kept. His plight in the 
 world was now poor enough, though his hopes 
 had been so high. He was engaged to be mar- 
 ried, but had no income on which to marry He 
 had narrowly escaped great wealth. Ah ! it was 
 ' hard for him to think of that without a regret ; 
 but he did strive so to think of it. Though he 
 told himself that it would have been evil for him 
 to have depended on money which had been 
 procured by the very act which had been to him 
 an injury — to have dressed himself in the feath- 
 ers which had been plucked from Lord Ongar's 
 wings — it was hard for him to think of all that 
 he had missed, and rejoice thoroughly that he 
 had missed it. But he told himself that he so 
 rejoiced, and endeavored to be glad that he had 
 not soiled his hands with riches which never 
 would have belonged to the woman he had 
 loved had she not earned them by being false to 
 him. Early on the following morning he sent 
 off his letter, and then, putting himself into a 
 cab, bowled down to Onslow Crescent. The 
 sheepfold now was very pleasant to him when 
 •the head shepherd was away, and so' much grat- 
 ification it was natural that he should allow 
 himself. 
 
 That evening, when he came from his club, 
 he found a note from Lady Ongar. It was very 
 short, and the blood rushed to his face as he felt 
 ashamed at seeing with how much apparent 
 ease she had answered him. He had written 
 with difficulty, and had written awkwardly. 
 But there was nothing awkward in her words. 
 
 "Deab Harkt, — We are quits now. I do 
 not know why we should ever meet as enemies. 
 I shall never feel myself to be an enemy of 
 yours. I think it would be well that we should 
 see each other, and, if you have no objection 
 to seeing me, I will be at home any evening that 
 you may call. Indeed, I am at home always 
 in the evening. Surely, Harry, there can be 
 no reason why we should not meet. You need 
 not fear that there will be danger in it. 
 
 "Will you give my compliments to Miss Flor- 
 ence Burton, with my best wishes for her hap- 
 piness? Your Mrs. Burton I have seen — as 
 yeu may have heard, and I congratulate you on 
 your friend. Yours always, J. O." 
 
 The writing of this letter seemed to have been 
 easy enough, and certainly there was nothing in 
 it that was awkward ; but I think that the writer 
 had suffered more in the writing than Harry 
 had done in producing his lon|;er epistle. But 
 she had known how to hide her suffering, and 
 had used a tone which told no tale of her 
 
 wounds. We are quits now, she had said, and 
 she had repeated the words over and over again 
 to herself as she walked up and down her room. 
 Yes, they were quits now, if the raflection of 
 that fact could do her any good. She had ill 
 treated him in her early days ; but, as she had 
 told herself so often, she had served him rather 
 than injured him by that ill treatment. She 
 had been false to him ; but her falsehood had 
 preserved him from a lot which could not have 
 been fortunate. With such a clog as she would 
 have been round his neck — ^with such a wife, 
 without a shilling of fortune, how could he have 
 risen in. the world? No! Though she had 
 deceived him, she had served him. Then, aft- 
 er that, had come the tragedy of her life, the 
 terrible days in thinking of which she still shud- 
 dered, the days of her husband and Sophie Gor- 
 deloup — that terrible death-bed, those attacks 
 upon her honor, misery upon misery, as to which 
 she never now spoke a word to any one, and as 
 to which she was resolved that she never would 
 speak again. She had sold herself for money, 
 and had got the price, but the punishment of 
 her offense had been very heavy. And now, in 
 these latter days, she had thought to compensate 
 the man she had loved for the treachery with 
 which she had used him. That treachery had 
 been serviceable to him, but not the less should 
 the compensation be very rich. And she would 
 love him too. Ah ! yes, she had always loved 
 him. He should have it all now — every thing, 
 if only he would consent to forget that terrible 
 episode in her life, as she would strive to forget 
 it. All that should remain to remind them of 
 Lord Ongar would be the wealth that should 
 henceforth belong to Harry Clavering. Such 
 had been her dream, and Harry had come to 
 her with words of love which made it seem to 
 be a reality. He had spoken to her words of 
 love which he was now forced to withdraw, and 
 the dream was dissipated. It was not to be al- 
 lowed to her to escape her penalty so easily as 
 that ! As for him, they were now quits. That 
 being the case, there could be reason why they 
 should quarrel. 
 
 But what now should she do with her wealth, 
 and especially how should she act in respect to 
 that place down in the country ? Though she 
 had learned to hate Ongar Park during her soli- 
 tary visit there, she had still looked forward to 
 the pleasure the property might give her when 
 she should be able to bestow it upon Harry Cla- 
 vering. But that had been part of her dream, 
 and the dream was now over. Through it all 
 she had been conscious that she might hardly 
 dare to hope that the end of her punishment 
 should come so soon — and now she knew that 
 it was not to come. As far as she could see 
 that, there was no end to her punishment in 
 prospect for her. From her first meeting with 
 H.irry Clavering on the platform of the railway 
 station, his presence, or her thoughts of him, had 
 sufficed to give some brightness to her life — had 
 enabled her to support the friendship of Sophie 
 Gordeloup, and also to support her solitude when 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 185 
 
 poor Sophie had been banished. But now she 
 was left without any resource. As she sat alone, 
 meditating on all this, she endeavored to console 
 herself with the reflection that, after all, she was 
 the one whom Harry loved — whom Harry would 
 have chosen had he been free to choose. But 
 the comfort to be derived from that was very 
 poor. Yes, he had loved her once — nay, per- 
 haps he loved her still. But when that love 
 was her own she had rejected it. She had re- 
 jected it, simply declaring to him, to her friends, 
 and to the world at large, that she preferred to 
 be rich. She bad her reward, and, bowing her 
 head upon her hands, she acknowledged that the 
 punishment was deserved. 
 
 Her first step after writing. her note to Harry 
 was to send for Mr. TurnbuU, her lawyer. She 
 had expected to see Harry on the evening of the 
 day on which she had written, but instead of 
 that she received a note from liim in which he 
 said that he would come to her before long. 
 Mr. Turnbull was more instant in obeying her 
 commands, and was with her on the morning 
 after he received her injunction. He was almost 
 a perfect stranger to her, having only seen her 
 once, and that for a few moments after her re- 
 turn to England. Her marriage settlements had 
 been prepared for her by Sir Hugh's attorney ; 
 but during her sojourn in Florence it ha'd be- 
 come necessary that she should have some one 
 in London to look after her own affairs, and Mr. 
 Turnbull had been recommended to her by law- 
 yers employed by her husband. He was a pru- 
 dent, sensible man, who recognized it to be his 
 imperative interest to look after his client's in- 
 terest. And he had done his duty by Lady 
 Ongar in that trying time immediately after her 
 return. An offer had then been made by the 
 Courtou family to give Julia her income without 
 opposition if she would surrender Ongar Park. 
 To this she had made objections with indigna- 
 , tion, and Mr. Turnbull, though he had at first 
 thought that she would be wise to comply with 
 the terms proposed, had done her work for her 
 with satisfactory expedition. Since those days 
 she had not seen him, but now she had sum- 
 moned him, and he was with her in Bolton 
 Street. 
 
 "I want to speak to you, Mr. Turnbull," she 
 said, " about that place down in Surrey. I don't 
 like it." 
 
 "Not like Ongar Park?" he said, "I have 
 always heard that it is so charming." 
 
 "It is not charming to me. It is a sort of 
 property that I don't want, and I mean to give 
 it up." 
 
 "Lord Ongar's uncles would buy yoijr in- 
 terest in it, I have no doubt." 
 
 "Exactly. They have sent to me, offering 
 to do so. My brother-in-law, Sir Hugh Claver- 
 ing, called on me with a message from them 
 saying so. I thought that he was very foolish 
 to come, and so I told him. Such things should 
 be done by one's lawyers. Don't you think so, 
 Mr. Turnbull ?" Mr. Turnbull smiled as he de- 
 clared that, of course, he, being a lawyer, was 
 
 of that opinion. "I am afraid they will have 
 thought me uncivil," continued Julia, "as I 
 spoke rather brusquely to Sir Hugh Clavering. 
 I am not inclined to take any steps through Sir 
 Hugh Clavering, but I do not know that I have 
 any reason to be angry with the little lord's 
 family." 
 
 "Really, Lady Ongar, I think not. When 
 your ladyship returned there was some opposi- 
 tion thought of for a while, but I really do not 
 think it was their fault." 
 
 " No, it was not their fault." 
 
 " That was my feeling at the time ; it was, 
 indeed." 
 
 "It was the fault of Lord Ongar — of my hus- 
 band. As regards all the Conrtons, I have no 
 word of complaint to make. It is not to be ex- 
 pected — it is not desirable that they and I should 
 be friends. It is impossible, after what has pass- 
 ed, that there should be -such friendship. But 
 they have never injured me, and I wish to oblige 
 them. Had Ongar Park suited me, I should 
 doubtless have kept it ; but it does not suit me, 
 and they are welcome to- have it back again." 
 
 " Has a price been named. Lady Ongar?" 
 
 "No price need be named. There is to be 
 no question of a price. Lord Ongar's mother 
 is welcome to the place' — or rather to such in- 
 terest as I have in it. " 
 
 " And to pay a rent ?" suggested Mr. Turn- 
 bull. 
 
 " To pay no rent. Nothing would induce me 
 to let the place, or to sell my right in it. I will 
 have no bargain about it. But as nothing also 
 will induce me to live there, I am not such a dog 
 in the manger as to wish to keep it. If you will 
 have the kindness to see Mr. Courton's lawyer, 
 and to make arrangements about it." 
 
 " But, Lady Ongar, what you call your right 
 in the estate is worth over twenty thousand 
 pounds — it is, indeed. You could borrow twenty 
 thousand pounds on the security of it to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 ' ' !But I don't want to borrow twenty thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 ' ' No, no, exactly — of course you don't. But 
 I point out that fact to show the value. Yon 
 would be making a present of that sum of money 
 to people who do not want it — who have no 
 claim upon you. I really don't see how they 
 could take it." 
 
 " Mrs. Courton wishes to have the place very 
 much." 
 
 "But, my lady, she has never thought of 
 getting it without paying for it. Lady Ongar, 
 I really can not advise you to take any such step 
 as tlmt — indeed, I can not. I should be wrong, 
 as your lawyer, if I did not point out to you that 
 such a proceeding would he quite romantic — 
 quite so — Wjhat the world would call Quixotic. 
 People don't expect such things as that — they 
 don't, indeed." 
 
 "People don't often have such reasons as I 
 have," said Lady Ongar. Mr. Turnbull sat silent 
 for a while, looking as though he were unhappy. 
 The proposition made to him was one which, as 
 
186 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 a lawyei-, he felt to be very distasteful to him. 
 He knew that his client had no male friends in 
 whom she confided, and he felt that the world 
 would blame him if he allowed this lady to part 
 with her property in the way she had suggested. 
 "You will find that I am in earnest," she con- 
 tinued, smiling, " and you may as well give way 
 to my vagaries with a good grace." 
 
 ' ' They would not take it, Lady Ongar. " 
 
 " At any rate, we can try them. If you will 
 make them understand that I don't at all want 
 the place, and that it will go to rack and ruin 
 because there is no one to live there, I am sure 
 they will take it." 
 
 Then Mr. Turnbnll again sat silent and un- 
 happy, thinking with what words he might best 
 bring forward his last and strongest argument 
 against this rash proceeding. 
 
 "Lady Ongar," he said, "in your peculiar 
 position, there are double reasons why you should 
 not act in. this way." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. TurnbuU? What 
 is my peculiar position ?" 
 
 "The world will say that you have restored 
 Ongar Park because you were afraid to keep it. 
 Lideed, Lady Ongar, you had better let it re- 
 main as it is. " 
 
 "I care nothing for what the world says," 
 she exclaimed, rising quickly from her chair — 
 "nothing, nothing!" ■ 
 
 "You should really hold by your rig'hts — 
 you should, indeed. Who can possibly say what 
 other interests may be concerned? You may 
 marry, and live for the next fifty years, and "have 
 a family. It is my duty. Lady Ongar, to point 
 out these things to you." 
 
 "I am sure you are quite right, Mr. Turn- 
 bull," she said, struggling to maintain a quiet 
 demeanor. " You, of course, are only doing your 
 duty. But whether I marry or whether I remain 
 as I am, I shall give up this place. And as for 
 what the world, as you call it, may say, I will 
 not deny that I cared much for that on my im- 
 mediate return. What people said then made 
 me very unhappy. But I care nothing for it 
 now. I have established my rights, and that 
 has been sufiicient. To me it seems that the 
 world, as you call it, has been civil enough in 
 its usage of me lately. It is only of those who 
 should have been my friends that I have a right 
 to complain. If yon will please to do this thing 
 for me, I will be obliged to you." 
 
 " If you are quite determined about it — " 
 
 "I amquite determined. What is the use 
 of the place to me? I never shall go there. 
 ' What is the use even of the money that comes 
 to me ? I have no purpose for it. I have noth- 
 ing to do with it. " • 
 
 There was something in her tone as she said 
 this which well filled him with pity. 
 
 "You should remember," he said, "how short 
 a time it is since you became a widow. Things 
 will be different with you soon." 
 
 "My clothes will be different, if you mean 
 that," she answered, "but I do hot know that 
 there will be any other change in me. But I 
 
 am wrong to trouble you with all this. If you 
 will let Mr. Courton's lawyer know, with my 
 compliments to Mrs. Courton, that I have heard 
 that she would like to have the place, and that 
 I do not want it, I will be obliged to you." Mr. 
 TurnbuU having by this time perceived that 
 she was quite in earnest, took his leave, having 
 promised to do her bidding. 
 
 In this interview she had told her lawyer only 
 a part of the plan which was now running in 
 her head. As for giving up Ongar Park, she took 
 to herself no merit for that. The place had been 
 odious to her ever since she had endeavored to 
 establish herself there, and had found that the 
 clergyman's wife would not speak to her — that 
 even her own housekeeper would hardly con- 
 descend to hold converse with her. She felt 
 that she would be a dog in the manger to keep 
 the place in her own possession. But she had 
 thoughts beyond this — resolutions only as yet 
 half formed as to a wider surrender. She had 
 disgraced herself, ruined herself, robbed herself 
 of all happiness by the marriage she had made. 
 Her misery had not been simply the misery of 
 that lord's lifetime. As might have been ex- 
 pected, that was soon over. But an enduring 
 wretchedness had come after that from which 
 she saw no prospect of escape. What was to be 
 her future life, left as she was and would be, in 
 desolation ? If she were to give it all up — all 
 the wealth that had been so ill-gotten — might 
 there not then be some hope of comfort for her ? 
 
 She had been willing enough to keep Lord 
 Ongar's money, and use it for the purposes of 
 her own comfort, while she had still hoped that 
 comfort might come from it. The remem- 
 brance of all that she had to give had been very 
 pleasant to her, as long as she had hoped that 
 Harry Clavering would receive it at her hands. 
 She had not at once felt : that the fruit had all 
 turned to ashes. But now — now that Harry 
 was gone from her — now that she had no friend 
 left to her whom she could hope to make happy 
 by her munificence, the very knowledge of her 
 wealth was a burden to her. And as she 
 thought of her riches iii these first days of her 
 desertion, as she had indeed been thinking since 
 Cecilia Burton had been with her, she came to 
 understand that she was degraded by their ac- 
 quisition. She had done that which had been 
 unpardonably bad, and she felt like Judas when 
 he stood with the price of his treachery in his 
 hand. He had given up his money, and would 
 not she do as much ? There had been a mo- 
 ment in which she had nearly declared all her 
 purpose to the lawyer, but she was held back by 
 the feeling that she ought to make her plans 
 certain before she communicated them to him. 
 
 She must live. She could not go out and 
 hang herself as Judas had done. And then 
 there was her title and rank, of which she did 
 not know whether it was within her power to 
 divest herself. She sorely felt the want of 
 some one from whom in her present need she 
 might ask council ; of some friend to whom she 
 could trust to tell her in what way she might 
 
THE CLAVEELNGS. 
 
 ]87 
 
 now best atone for the evil she had done, 
 i'lans ran through her head which were thrown 
 aside almost as soon as made, because she saw 
 that they were impracticable. She even longed 
 in these days for her sister's aid, though of old 
 she had thought but little of Hermy as a coun- 
 selor. She had no friend whom she might ask 
 — unless she might still ask Harry Clavering. 
 
 If she did not keep it all, might she still keep 
 something — enough for decent life — and yet 
 comfort herself with the feeling that she had 
 expiated her sin ? And what would be said of 
 her when she had made this great Surrender ? 
 Would not the world laugh at her instead of 
 praising her — that world as to which she had 
 assured Mr. TurnbuU that she did not care what 
 its verdict about her might be ? She had many 
 doubts. Ah! why had not Harry Clavering 
 remained true to her? But her punishment 
 had come upon her with all its severity, and she 
 acknowledged to herself now that it was not to 
 he avoided. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 LADT ONGAK'S REVENGE. 
 
 At last came the night which Harry had fix- 
 ed for his visit to Bolton Street. He had look- 
 ed forward certainly with no pleasure to the in- 
 terview, and, now that the time for it had come, 
 was disposed to think that Lady Ongar had been 
 unwise in asking for it. But he had promised 
 that he would go, and there was no possible es. 
 cape. 
 
 He dined that evening in Onslow Cresent, 
 where he was now again established with all his 
 old comfort. He had again gone up to the 
 children's nursery with Cecilia, had kissed them 
 all in their cots, and made himself quite at 
 home in the establishment. It was with them 
 there as though there had been no dreadful 
 dream about Lady Ongar. It was so altogeth- 
 er with Cecilia and Florence, and even Mr. Bur- 
 ton was allowing himself to be brought round 
 to a charitable view of Harry's character. Har- 
 ry on this day had gone to the chambers in the 
 Adelphi for an hour, and, walking away with 
 Theodore Burton, had declared his intention of 
 working like a horse. " If you were to say like 
 a man, it would perhaps be better," said Burton. 
 "I must leave you to say that," answered Har- 
 ry; "for the present, I will content myself 
 with the horse." Burton was willing to hope, 
 and allowed himself once more to fall into his 
 old pleasant way of talking about the business 
 as though there were no other subject under the 
 sun: So full of manifold interest. He was very 
 keen at the present moment about Metropolitan 
 railways, and was ridiculing the folly of those 
 who feared that the railway projectors were go- 
 ing too fast. "But we shall never get any 
 thanks," he said. "When the thing has been 
 done, and thanks are o>ar due, people will look 
 upon all our work so much as a matter of course 
 
 that it will never occur to them to think that 
 they owe us any thing. They will have forgot- 
 ten all their cautions, and will take what they 
 get as though it were simply their due. Noth- 
 ing astonishes me so much as the fear people 
 feel before a thing is done when I join it witli 
 their want of surprise or admiration afterward." 
 In this way even Theodore Burton had re- 
 sumed his terms of intimacy with Harry Cla- 
 vering. 
 
 Harry had told both Cecilia and Florence of 
 hiS intended visit to Bolton Street, and they 
 had all become very confidential on the subject. 
 In most such cases we may suppose that a man 
 does not say much to one woman of the love 
 which another woman has acknowledged for him- 
 self. Nor was Harry Clavering at all disposed to 
 make any such boast. But in this case. Lady 
 Ongar herself had told every- thing to Mrs. Bur- 
 ton. She had declared her passion, and had 
 declared also her intention of making Harry her 
 husband if he would take her. Every thing was 
 known, and there was no possibility of sparing 
 Lady Ongar's name. 
 
 "If I had been her I would not have asked 
 for such a meeting," Cecilia said. The three 
 were at this time sitting together, for Mr. Bur- 
 ton rarely joined them in their conversation. 
 
 "I don't know," said Florence. "I do not 
 see why she and Harry should not remain as 
 friends." 
 
 "They might be friends without meeting 
 now," said Cecilia. 
 
 " Hardly. If the awkwardness were not got 
 over at once, it would never be got over. I al- 
 most think she is right, though if I was her I 
 should long to have it over." That was Flor- 
 ence's judgment in the matter. Harry sat be- 
 tween them, like a sheep as he was, very meek- 
 ly — not without some enjoyment of his sheep- 
 dom, but still feeling that he was a sheep. At 
 half past eight he started up, having already 
 been told that a cab was waiting for him at the 
 door. He pressed Cecilia's hand as he went, 
 indicating his feeling that he had before him 
 an affair of some magnitude, and then, of course, 
 had a word or two to say to Florence in private 
 on the landing. Oh, those delicious private 
 words, the need for which comes so often dur- 
 ing those short halcyon days of one's lifetime ! 
 They were so pleasant that Harry would fain 
 have returned to repeat them after he was seat- 
 ed in his cab ; but the inevitable wheels carried 
 him onward with cruel velocity, and he was in 
 Bolton Street before the minutes had sufiiced 
 for him to collect his thoughts. 
 
 Lady Ongar, when he entered the room, was 
 sitting in her accustomed chair, near a little 
 work-table which she always used, and did not 
 rise to meet him. It was a pretty chair, soft 
 and easy, made with a back for lounging, but 
 with no arms to impede the circles of a lady's, 
 hoop. Harry knew the chair well, and had 
 spoken of its graceful comfort in some of his 
 visits to Bolton Street. She was seated there 
 when he entered ; and though he was not suf- 
 
188 
 
 THE CLAVERINGa. 
 
 ficiently experienced in the secrets of feminine at- 
 tire to know at once that she had dressed herself 
 with care, he did perceive that she was very 
 charming, not only by force of her own beauty, 
 but by the aid also of her dress. And yet she was 
 in deep mourning — in the deepest mourning; 
 nor was there any thing about her of which com- 
 plaint might fairly be made by those who do 
 complain on such subjects. Her dress was high 
 round her neck, and the cap on her head was 
 indisputably a widow's cap ; but enough of her 
 brown hair was to be seen to tell of its rich love- 
 liness ; and the black dress was so made as to 
 show the full perfection of her form ; and with 
 it all there was that graceful feminine bright- 
 ness that care and money can always give, and 
 which will not come without care and money. 
 It might be well, she had thought, to surrender 
 her income, and become poor and dowdy here- 
 after, but there could be no reason why Harry 
 Clavering should not be made to know all that 
 he had lost. 
 
 ' ' Well, Harry, " she said, as he stepped up to 
 her and took her offered hand, " I am glad that 
 yon have come that I may congratulate you. 
 Better late than never, eh, Harry ?" 
 
 How was he to answer her when she spoke to 
 him in this strain ? "I hope it is not too late, " 
 he said, hardly knowing what the words were 
 which were coming from his mouth. 
 
 "Nay, that is for you to say. I can do it 
 heartily, Harry, if you mean that. And why 
 not ? Why should I not wish you happy ? I 
 have always liked you — have always wished for 
 your happiness. You believe that I am sincere 
 when I congratulate you, do you not ?" 
 
 ' ' Oh yes, you are always sincere." 
 
 " I have always been so to you. As to any 
 sincerity beyond that, we need say nothing now. 
 I have always been your good friend — to the 
 best of my ability. Ah! Harry, you do not 
 know how much I have thought of your welfare 
 — how much I do think of it. But never mind 
 that. Tell me something now of this Florence 
 Burton of yours. Is she tall?" I believe that 
 Lady Ongar, when she asked this question, knew 
 well that Florence was short of stature. 
 
 "No, she is not tall," said Harry. 
 
 "What — a little beauty? Upon the whole, 
 I think I agree with your taste. The most love- 
 ly women that I have ever seen have been small, 
 bright, and perfect in their proportions. It is 
 very rare that a tall woman has a perfect figure. " 
 Julia's own figure was quite perfect. "Do you 
 remember Constance' Vane. Nothing ever ex- 
 ceeded her beauty." Now Constance Vane — 
 she, at least, who had in those days been Con- 
 stance Vane, but who now was the stout mother 
 of two or three children — had been a waxen doll 
 of a girl, whom Harry had known, but had nei- 
 ther-liked nor admired. But she was highly 
 bred, and belonged to the cream of English fash- 
 ion ; she had possessed a complexion as pure in 
 its tints as are the interior leaves of a blush rose, 
 and she had never had a thought in her head, 
 and hardly ever a word on her lips. She and 
 
 Florence Burton were as poles asunder in their 
 differences. Harry felt this at once, and had 
 an indistinct notion that Lady Ongar was as 
 well aware of the fact as was he himself. " She 
 is not a bit like Constance Vane," he said. 
 
 "Then what is she like? If she is more 
 beautiful than what Miss Vane used to be, she 
 must be lovely indeed." 
 
 "She has no pretensions of that kind," said 
 Harry, almost sulkily. 
 
 ^'1 have heard that she was so very beauti- 
 ful!" Lady Ongar had never heard a word 
 about Florence's beauty — not a word. She 
 knew nothing personally of Florence beyond 
 what Mrs. Burton had told her. But who will 
 not forgive her the little deceit that was neces- 
 sary to her little revenge? 
 
 "I don't know how to describe her,'' said 
 Harry. " I hope the time may soon come when 
 you will see her, and be able to judge for yourself. " 
 
 " I hope so too. It fehaU not be my fault if 
 I do not like her. " 
 
 " I do not think you can fail to like her. She 
 is very clever, and that will go farther with you 
 than mere beauty. Not but what I think her 
 very— very pretty." 
 
 " Ah ! I understand. She reads a great deal, 
 and that sort of thing. Yes, that is very nice. 
 But I shouldn't have thought that that would 
 have taken you. You used not to care much 
 for talent and learning — not in women, I mean." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said Harry, look- 
 ing very foolish. 
 
 " But a contrast is what you men always like. 
 Of course I ought not to say that, but you will 
 know of what I am thinking. A clever, highly- 
 educated women like Miss Burton will be a 
 much better companion to you than I could 
 have been. You see I am very frank, Harry." 
 She wished to make him talk freely about him- 
 self, his future days, and his past days, while he 
 was simply anxious to say on these subjects as 
 little as possible. Poor woipan ! The excite- 
 ment of having a passion which she might in- 
 dulge was over with her — at any rate, for the 
 present. She had played her game and had lost 
 woefully ; but before she retired altogether from 
 the gaming-table she could not keep herself from 
 longing for a last throw of the dice. 
 
 "These things, I fear, go veiy much by 
 chance," said Harry. 
 
 "You do not mean me to suppose that you 
 are taking Miss Burton by chance. That would 
 be as uncomplimentary to her as to yourself." 
 
 " Chance, at any rate, has been very good to 
 me in this instance." 
 
 ' ' Of that I am sure. Do not suppose that I 
 am doubting that. It is not only the paradise 
 that you have gained, but the pandemonium 
 that you have escaped!" Then she laughed 
 slightly, but the laughter was uneasy, and made 
 her angry with herself. She had especially de- 
 termined to be at ease during this meeting, and 
 was conscious that anjj^alling off in that respect 
 on her part would put into his hands the power 
 which she was desirous of exercising. 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 189 
 
 "You are determined to rebuke me, I see," 
 said he. " If you choose to do so, I am pre- 
 pared to bear it. My defense, if I haye a de- 
 fense, is one that I can not use." 
 
 " And what would be your defense ?" 
 
 " I have said that I can not use it?" 
 
 "As if I did not understand it all! What 
 you mean to say is this — that when your good 
 stars sent you in the way of Plorence Burton, 
 you had been ill treated by her who would have 
 made your pandemonium for you, and that she 
 therefore — she who came first, and behaved so 
 badly, can have no right to find fault with you 
 in that you have obeyed your good stars and 
 done so well for yourself. That is what you 
 call your defense. It would be perfect, Harry, 
 perfect, if you had only whispered to me a word 
 of Miss Burton when I first saw you after my 
 return home. It is odd to me that you should 
 not have written to me and told me when I was 
 abroad with my husband. It would have com- 
 forted me to have known that the wound which 
 I had given had been cured — that is, if there 
 was a wound." 
 
 "You know that there was a wound." 
 
 "At any rate, it was not mortal. But when 
 are such wounds mortal ? When are they more 
 than skin-deep ?" 
 
 "I can say nothing as to that now." 
 
 " No, Hariy, of course you can say nothing. 
 Why should you be made to say any thing? 
 You are fortunate and happy, and have all that 
 you want. I have nothing that I want." 
 
 There was a reality in the tone of sorrow in 
 which this was spoken which melted him at 
 once, and the more so in that there was so much 
 in her grief which could not but be flattering to 
 his vanity. "Do not say that, Lady Ongar," 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "But I do say it. What have I got in the 
 world that is worth having? My possessions 
 are ever so many thousands a year — and a dam- 
 aged name. " 
 
 "I deny that. I deny it altogether. I do 
 not think that there is one who knows of your 
 story who believes ill of you. " 
 
 " I could tell you of one, Harry, who thinks 
 very ill of me — nay, of two ; and they are both 
 in this room. Do you remember how you used 
 to teach me that terribly conceited bit of Latin 
 — Nil conscire sibi ? Do you suppose that I can 
 boast that I never grow pale as I think of my 
 own fault ? I am thinking of it always, and my 
 heart is ever becoming paler and paler. And 
 as to the treatment of others — I wish I could 
 make you know what I sufiFered when. I was fool 
 enough to go to that place in Surrey. The 
 coachman who drives me no doubt thinks that I 
 poisoned my husband, and the servant who let 
 you in just now supposes me to be an abandon- 
 ed woman because you are here." 
 
 "You will be angry with me, perhaps, if I 
 say that these .feelings are morbid and will die 
 away. They show the wealiness Which has 
 come from 'the ill usage you have suffered." 
 
 "You are right in part, no donbt. I shaU 
 
 become hardened to it all, and shall fall into 
 some endurable mode of life in time. But I 
 can look forward to nothing. What future have 
 I ? Was there ever any one so utterly friend- 
 less as I am ? Your kind cousin has done that 
 for me ; and yet he came here to me the other 
 day, smiling and talking as though he were sure 
 that I should be delighted by his condescension. 
 I do not think that he will ever come again." 
 
 " I did not know you had seen him." 
 
 " Yes ; I saw him, but I did not find much 
 relief from his visit. We won't mind that, how- 
 ever. We can talk about something better than 
 Hugh Clavering during the few minutes that we 
 have together — can we not ? And so Miss Bur- 
 ton is very learned and very clever ?" 
 
 " I did not quite say that." 
 
 " But I know she is. What a comfort that 
 will be to you ! I am not clever, and I never 
 should have become learned. Oh dear ! I had 
 but one merit, Harry — I was fond of you." 
 
 "And how did you show it?" He did not 
 speak these W9rds, because he would not triumph 
 over her, nor was he willing to express that re- 
 gret on his own part which these words would 
 have implied ; but it was impossible for him to 
 avoid a thought of them. He remained silent, 
 therefore, taking up some toy from the table into 
 his hands, as though that would occupy his at- 
 tention. 
 
 "But what a fool I am to talk of it — am I 
 not? And I am wor^e than a fool. I wa§ 
 thinking of you when I stood up in church to be 
 married — thinking of that offer of your little 
 savings. I used to think of you at every harsh 
 word that I endured— of your modes of life when 
 I sat through those terrible nights by that poor 
 creature's bed — of you when I knew that the 
 last day was coming. I thought of you always, 
 Harry, when I counted up my gains. I never 
 count them up now. Ah ! how I thought of 
 you when I came to this house in the carriage 
 which you had provided for me, when I had left 
 you at the station almost without speaking a 
 word to you ! I should have been more gracious 
 had I not had you in my thoughts throughout 
 my whole jom-ney home from Florence. And 
 after that I had some comfort in believing that 
 the price of my shame might make you rich 
 without shame. Oh, Harry, I have been dis- 
 appointed ! You will never understand what I 
 felt when first that evil woman told me of Miss 
 Burton." 
 
 " Oh, Julia, what am I to Jay ?" 
 
 "You can say nothing; but I wonder that 
 you had not told me." 
 
 " How could I tell you ? Would it not have 
 seemed that I was vain enough to have thought 
 of putting you on your guard ?" 
 
 "And why not? But never mind. Do not 
 suppose that I am rebuking you. As I said in 
 my letter, we are quits now, and there is no place 
 for scolding on. either side. We are quits now ; 
 but I am punished and you are rewarded." 
 
 Of course he could not answer this. Of 
 course he was hard pressed for words. Of 
 
190 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 course he conld neither acknowledge that he had 
 been rewarded, nor assert that a share of the 
 punishment of which she spoke had fallen upon 
 him also. This was the revenge with which 
 she had intended to attack him. That she 
 should think that he had in truth been punish- 
 ed and not rewarded, was very natural. Had 
 he been less quick in forgetting her after her 
 marriage, he would have had his reward without 
 any punishment. If such were her thoughts, 
 who shall quarrel with her on that account ? 
 
 " I have been very frank with you," she con- 
 tinued. "Indeed, why should I not be so? 
 People talk of a lady's secret, but my secret has 
 been no secret from you ? That I was made 
 to tell it under — under — what I will call an er- 
 ror, was your fault, and it is that that has made 
 us quits." 
 
 "I know that I have behaved badly to 
 you." 
 
 " But then, unfortunately, you know also that 
 I had deserved bad treatment. Well, we will 
 say no more'ahout it. I have bean very candid 
 with you, but then I have injured no one by my 
 candor. You have not said a word to me in re- 
 ply ; but then your tongue is tied by your duty 
 to Miss Burton — your duty and your love to- 
 gether, of course. It is all as it should be, and 
 now I will have done. When are you to be 
 married, Harry ?" 
 
 ' ' No time has been fixed. I am a very poor 
 man, you know." 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! yes. When mischief is done, 
 how badly all the things turn out. You are 
 poor and I am rich, ana yet we can not help 
 each other." 
 
 " I fear not." 
 
 " Unless I could adopt Miss Burton, and be a 
 sort of mother to her. You would shrink, how- 
 ever, from any such guardianship on my part. 
 But you are clever, Harry, and can work when 
 you please, and will make your way ? If Miss 
 Burton keeps you waiting now by any prudent 
 fear on her part, I shall not think so well of her 
 as I am inclined to do." 
 
 "The Burtons are all prudent people." 
 
 "Tell her, from me, with my love, not to he 
 too prudent. I thought to be prudent, and see 
 what has come of it." 
 
 " I will tell her what you say." 
 
 "Do, please; and, Harry, look here. Will 
 she accept a little present from me ? You, at 
 any rate, for my sake, will ask her to do so. 
 Give her this — it is only a trifle," and she put 
 her hand on a small jewelers' box which was 
 close to hor arm upon the table, " and tell her — 
 of course she knows all our story, Harry ?" 
 
 "yes, she knows it all." 
 
 "Tell her that she whom you have rejected 
 sends it with her kindest wishes to her whom 
 you have taken." 
 
 "No, I will not tell her that." 
 
 " Why not ? It is all true. I have not poi- 
 soned the little ring, as the ladies would have 
 done some centuries since. They were grander 
 then than we are now, and perhaps hardly worse, 
 
 though more cruel. You will bid her take it, 
 will you not?" 
 
 " I am sure she will take it without bidding 
 on my part." ' 
 
 " And tell her not to write me any thanks. 
 She and I will both linderstand that that had bet- 
 ter be omitted. If, when I shall see her at some 
 future time as your wife, it shall he on her finger, 
 I shall know that I am thanked." Then Harry 
 rose to go. "I did not mean by that to turn 
 you out, but perhaps it may be as well. I have 
 no more to say ; and as for you, you can not but 
 wish that the penance should be over." Then 
 he pressed her hand, and vrith some muttered 
 farewell, bade her adieu. Again she did not 
 rise from her chair, hut, nodding at him with a 
 sweet smile, let him go without another word. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED OFF HELIGOLAND. 
 
 DcmiNG the six weeks after this, Harry Cla- 
 vering settled down to his work at the cham- 
 bers in the Adelphi with exemplary diligence. 
 Florence, having remained a fortnight in town 
 after Han-y's return to the sheepfold, and having 
 accepted Lady Ongar's present — not without a 
 long and anxious consultation with her sister- 
 in-law on the subject — ^had returned in fully re- 
 stored happiness to Stratton. Mrs. Burton was 
 at Ramsgate with the children, and Mr. Burton 
 was in Russia with reference to a line of rail- 
 way which was being projected from Moscow to 
 Astracan. It was now September, and Harry, 
 in his letters home, declared that he was the only 
 person' left in London. It was hard upon him 
 — much harder than it was upon the Wallikers 
 and other young men whom Fate retained in 
 town ; for Harry was a man given to shooting 
 — a man accustomed to pass the autumnal 
 months in a country house. And then, if things 
 had chanced to go one way instead of another, 
 he would have had his own shooting down at 
 Ongar Park with his own friends — admiring 
 him at his heels ; or, if not so this year, he 
 would have been shooting elsewhere with the 
 prospect of these rich joys for years to come. 
 As it was, he had promised to stick to the shop, 
 and was sticking to it manfully. Nor do I 
 think that he allowed his mind to revert to those 
 privileges which might have been his at all more 
 frequently than any of my readers would have 
 done in his place. He was sticking to the shop ; 
 and, though he greatly disliked the hot desola- 
 tion of London in those days, being absolutely 
 afraid to frequent his club at such a period of 
 the year, and though he hated Walliker mor- 
 tally, he was fully resolved to go on with his 
 work. Who could tell what might be his fate ? 
 Perhaps in another ten years he might he carry- 
 ing that Russian railway on through the deserts 
 of Siberia. Then there came to bin*. suddenly 
 tidings which disturbed all his resolutions, and 
 changed the whole current of his life. 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 191 
 
 At first there came a telegram to him from 
 the country, desiring him to go down at once to 
 Clavering, but not giving him any reason. Add- 
 ed to the message were these words : ' ' We are 
 all well at the parsonage" — words evidently add- 
 ed in thoughtfulness. But before he had left 
 the office there came to him there a young man 
 from the bank at which his cousin Hugh kept 
 his account, telling him the tidings to which the 
 telegram no doubt referred. Jack Stuart's boat 
 had been lost, and his two cousins had gone to 
 their graves beneath the sea! The master of 
 the boat, and Stuart himself, with a boy, had 
 been saved. The other sailors whom they 
 had with them, and the ship's steward, had per- 
 ished with the Claverings. Stuart, it seemed, 
 had -caused tidings of the accident to be sent 
 to the rector of Clavering and to Sir Hugh's 
 bankers. At the bank they had ascertained 
 that their late customer's cousin was in town, 
 and their messenger had thereupon been sent, 
 first to Bloomsbury Square, and from thence to 
 the Adelphi. 
 
 Harry had never loved his cousins. The 
 elder he had greatly disliked, and the younger 
 he would have disliked had he not despised him. 
 But not the less on that account was he inex- 
 pressibly shocked when he first heard what had 
 happened. The lad said that there could, as he 
 imagined, be no mistake. The message had 
 come, as he believed, from Holland, but of that 
 he was not certain. There could, however, be 
 no doubt about the fact. It distinctly stated 
 that both brothers had perished. Harry had 
 known, when he received the message from 
 home, that no train would take him till three in 
 the afternoon, and had therefore remained at 
 the office ; but he could not remain now. His 
 head was confused, and he could hardly bring 
 himself to think how this matter would affect 
 himself. When he attempted to explain his 
 absence to an old serious clerk there, he spoke 
 of his own return to the office as certain. He 
 should be back, he supposed, in a week at the 
 farthest. He was thinking then of his promises 
 to Theodore Burton, and had not begun to real- 
 ize the fact that his whole destiny in life would 
 be changed. He said something, with a long 
 face, of the terrible misfortune which had oc- 
 curred, but gave no hint that that misfortune 
 would be important in its consequences to him- 
 self. It was not till he had reached his lodgings 
 in Bloomsbury Square that he remembered that 
 his own father was now the baronet, and that 
 he was his father's heir. And then for a mo- 
 ment he thought about the property. He be- 
 lieved that it was entailed, but even of that he 
 was not certain. But if it were unentailed, to 
 whom could his cousin have left it? He en- 
 deavored, however, to expel such thoughts from 
 his mind, as though there was something ungen- 
 erous in entertaining them. He tried to think 
 of the widow, but even in doing that he could 
 not tell himself that there was much ground for 
 genuine sorrow. No wife had ever had less joy 
 from her husband's society than Lady Clavering 
 
 had had from that of Sir Hugh. There was no 
 child to mourn the loss — no brother, no unmar- 
 ried sister. Sir Hugh had had friends — as 
 friendship goes with such men ; but HaiTy 
 could not but doubt whether among them all 
 there would be one who would feel any thing 
 like true grief for his loss. And it was the same 
 with Archie. Who in the world would miss 
 Archie Clavering ? What man or woman would 
 find the world to be less bright because Archie 
 Clavering was sleeping beneath the waves? 
 Some score of men at his club would talk of 
 poor Clavvy for a few days — would do so without 
 any pretense at the tenderness of sorrow ; and 
 then even of Archie's memory there would be 
 an end. Thinking of all this as he was carried 
 down to Clavering, Harry could not but ac- 
 knowledge that the loss to the world had not 
 been great ; but, even while telling himself this, 
 he would not allow himself to take comfort in 
 the prospect of his heirship. Once, perhajis, 
 he did speculate how Florence should bear her 
 honors as Lady Clavering, but this idea he swept 
 away from his thoughts as quickly as he was 
 able. 
 
 The tidings had reached the parsonage very 
 late on the previous night— so late that the 
 rector had been disturbed in his bed to receive 
 them. It was his duty to make known to Lady 
 Clavering the fact that she was a widow, but this 
 he could not do till the next morning. But 
 there was little sleep that night for Mm or for 
 his wife ! He knew well enough that the 
 property was entailed. He felt with sufficient 
 strength what it was to become a baronet at a 
 sudden blow, and to become also the owner of 
 the whole Clavering property. He was not 
 slow to think of the removal to the great house, 
 of the altered prospects of his son, and of the 
 mode of life which would be fitting for himself 
 in future. Before the morning came he had 
 meditated who should be , the future rector of 
 Clavering, and had made some calculations as 
 to the expediency of resuming his hunting. 
 Not that he was a heartless man, or that he re- 
 joiced at what had happened. But a man's 
 ideas of generosity change as he advances in 
 age, and the rector was old enough to tell him- 
 self boldly that this thing that had happened 
 could not be to him a cause of much grief. He 
 had never loved his cousins, or pretended to love 
 them. His cousin's wife he did love, after a 
 fashion, but in speaking to his own wife of the 
 way in which this tragedy would affect Her- 
 mione, he did not scruple to speak of her widow- 
 hood as a period of coming happiness. 
 
 " She will be cut to pieces," said Mrs. Claver- 
 ing. " She was attached to him as earnestly as 
 though he had treated her always well." 
 
 "I believe it; but not the less will she fed 
 her release, unconsciously ; and her life, which 
 has been very wretched, will gradually become 
 easy to her." 
 
 Even Mrs. Clavering could not deny that this 
 would be so, and then they reverted to matters 
 which more closely concerned themselves. "I 
 
192 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 suppose Harry will marry at once now?" said 
 tiie mother. 
 
 "No doubt; it is almost a pity, is it not?" 
 The rector — as we will still call him — was thinls- 
 ing that Florence was hardly a fitting wife for 
 his son with his altered prospects. Ah ! what 
 a grand thing it would have been if the Clarer- 
 ing property and Lady Ongar's jointure could 
 have gone together ! 
 
 "Not a pity at all," said Mrs. Clavering. 
 "You will find that Florence will make him a 
 vei7 happy man." 
 
 "I dare say — ^I dare say. Only he would 
 hardly have taken her had this sad accident 
 happened before he saw her. But if she will 
 make him happy, that is every thing. I have 
 never thought much about money myself. If I 
 find any comfort in these tidings, it is for his 
 sake, not for my own. I would sooner remain 
 as I am." This was not altogether untrue, and 
 yet he was thinking of the big house and the 
 hunting. 
 
 "What will be done about the living?" It 
 was early in the morning when Mrs. Clavering 
 asked this question. She had thought much 
 about the living during the night, and so had 
 the rector, but his thoughts had not run in the 
 same direction as hers. He made no imme- 
 diate answer, and then she went on with her 
 question. " Do you think that you will keep it 
 in your own hands ?" 
 
 "Well — no; why should I? I am too idle 
 about it as it is. I should be more so under 
 these altered circumstances." 
 
 ' ' I am sure you would do your duty if you 
 resolved to keep it, but I don't see why you 
 should do so." 
 
 "Clavering is a great deal better than Hum- 
 bleton," said the rector. Humbleton was the 
 name of the parish held by Mr. Fielding, his 
 son-in-law. 
 
 But the idea here put forward did not suit 
 the idea which was running in Mrs. Clavering's 
 mind. " Edward and Mary are very well off, " 
 she said. "His own property is considerable, 
 and I don't think they want any thing. Be- 
 sides, he would hardly like to give up a family 
 living." 
 
 " I might ask him, at any rate." 
 
 "I was thinking of Mr. Saul," said Mrs. Cla- 
 vering, boldly. 
 
 " Of Mr. Saul ! " The image of Mr. Saul, as 
 rector of Clavering, perplexed the new baronet 
 egregiously. 
 
 " Well — yes. He is an excellent clergyman. 
 No one can deny that." Then there was silence 
 between them for a few moments. "In that 
 case, he and Fanny would of course marry. It 
 is no gobd concealing the fact that she is very 
 fond of him." 
 
 "Upon my word, I can't understand it," said 
 the rector. 
 
 "It is so; and as to the excellence of his 
 character, there can be no doubt." To this the 
 rector made no answer, but went away into his 
 dressing-room, that he might prepare himself 
 
 for his walk across the park to the great house. 
 While they were discussing who should be the 
 future incumbent of the living. Lady Clavering 
 was still sleeping in unconsciousness of her fate. 
 Mr. Clavering greatly dreaded the task which 
 was before him, and had made a little attempt 
 to induce his wife to take the office upon her- 
 self ; but she had explained to him that it would 
 be more seemly that he should be the bearer of 
 the tidings. "It would seem that you were 
 wanting in affection for her if you do not go 
 yourself, " his wife had said to him. That the 
 rector of Clavering was master of himself and 
 of his own actions, no one who knew the family 
 ever denied, but the instances in which he de- 
 clined to follow his wife's advice were not many. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock when he went across 
 the park. He had already sent a messenger 
 with a note to beg that Lady Clavering would 
 be up to receive him. As he would come very 
 early, he had said, perhaps she would see him' 
 in her own room. The poor lady had, of course, 
 been greatly frightened by this announcement ; 
 but this fear had been good for her, as they had 
 well understood at the rectory ; the blow, dread- 
 fully sudden as it must still be. Would be some- 
 what less sudden under this preparation. When 
 Mr. Clavering reached the house the servant 
 was in waiting to show him up stairs to the sit- 
 ting-room which Lady Clavering usually occu- 
 pied when alone. Slie had been there waiting 
 for him for the last half hour. ' ' Mr. Clavering, 
 what is it ?" she exclaimed, as he entered with 
 tidings of death written on his visage. ' ' In the 
 name of heaven, what is it ? You have some- 
 thing to tell me of Hugh." 
 
 " Dear Hermione," he said, taking ker by the 
 hand. 
 
 " What is it ? Tell me at once. Is he still 
 alive ?" 
 
 The rector still held her by the hand, but 
 spoke no word. He had been trying as he came 
 across the park to arrange the words in which 
 he should tell his tale, but now it was told with- 
 out any speech on his part. 
 
 " He is dead. Why do you not speak ? Why 
 are you so cruel ?" 
 
 "Dearest Hermiote, what am I to say to com- 
 fort you ?" 
 
 What he might say after this was of little mo- 
 ment, for she had fainted. He rang the bell, 
 and then, when the servants were there — the old 
 housekeeper and Lady Clavering's maid — he 
 told to them; rather than to her, what had been 
 their master's fate. 
 
 "And Captain Archie?" asked the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 The rector shook his head, and the house- 
 keeper knew that the rector was now the bar- 
 onet. Then they took the poor widow to her 
 own room — should I not rather call her, as I 
 may venture to speak the truth, the enfranchised 
 slave than the poor widow — and the rector, tak- 
 ing up his hat, promised that he would send his 
 wife across to their mistress. His morning's 
 task had been painful, but it had been easily 
 
THE CLAVEIilNGS. 
 
 193 
 
 accomplished. As he walked home among the 
 oaks of Claveiing Park, he told himself, no doubt, 
 that they were now all his own. 
 
 That day at the rectory was very sombre, if 
 it was not 'actually sad. The greater part of the 
 morning Mrs. Clavering passed with the widow, 
 and, sitting near her sofa, she wrote sundry let- 
 ters to those who were connected with the fam- 
 ily. The longest of these was to Lady Ongar, ' 
 who was now at Tenby, and in that there was a 
 pressing request from Hermione that her sister 
 would come to her at ClaveringPark. "Tellher," 
 said Lady Clavering, ' ' that all her anger must 
 be over now." But Mrs. Clavering said nothing 
 of Julia's anger. She merely urged the request 
 that Julia would come to her sister. " She will 
 be sure to come," said Mrs. Clavering. "You 
 need have no fear on that head." 
 
 "But how can I invite her here, when the 
 house is not my own ?" 
 
 "Pray do not talk in that way, Hermione. 
 The house will be your own for any time that 
 you may want it. Yoirr husband's relations are 
 your dear friends, are they not ?" But this allu- 
 sion to her husband brought her to another fit 
 of hysterical tears. "Both of .them gone," she 
 said, "both of them gone!" Mrs. Clavering 
 knew well that she was not alluding to the two 
 brothers, but to her husband and to her baby. 
 Of poor Archie no one had said a word — beyond 
 that one word spoken by the housekeeper. For 
 her, it had been necessary that she should know 
 who wasnow the master of Clavering Park. 
 
 Twice in the day Mrs. Clavering went over 
 to the big house, and on her second return, late 
 in the evening, she found her son. When she 
 arrived, there had already been some few words 
 on the subject between him and his father. 
 
 " You have heard of it, Harry ?" 
 
 " Yes; a clerk came to me from the bank- 
 er's." 
 
 " Dreadful, is it not? Quite terrible to think 
 of!" 
 
 "Indeed it is, sir. I was never so shocked 
 in my life." 
 
 " He would go in that cursed boat, though I 
 know that he was advised against it," said the 
 father, holding up his hands and shaking his 
 head. "And now both of them gone — both 
 gone at once !" 
 
 "How does she bear it?" 
 
 "Your mother is with her now. When I 
 went in the morning — I had written a line, and 
 she expected bad news — she fainted. Of 
 course, I could do nothing. I can hardly say 
 that I told her. She asked the question, and 
 then saw by my face that her fears were well 
 founded. Upon my word, I was glad when she 
 did faint ; it was the best thing for her." 
 
 "It must have been very painful for you." 
 
 "Terrible— terrible;" and the rector shook 
 his head. " It will make a great difference in 
 your prospects, Harry." 
 
 " And in your life, sir ! So to say, you are 
 as young a man as myself." 
 
 "Am I? I believe I was about as young 1 
 N 
 
 when you were born. But I don't think at all 
 about myself in this matter. I am too old to 
 care to change my manner of living. It won't 
 affect me very much. Indeed, I hardly know 
 yet how it may affect me. Your mother thinks 
 I ought to give up the living. If you were in 
 orders, Harry — " 
 
 " I'm very glad, sir, that I am not." 
 
 "I suppose so. And there is no need— cer- 
 tainly there is no need. You will be able to do 
 pretty nearly what you like about the property. 
 I shall not care to interfere." 
 
 " Yes you will, sir. It feels strange now, but 
 you will soon get used to it. I wonder wheth- 
 er he left a will." 
 
 "It can't make any difference to you, you 
 know. Every acre of the property is entailed. 
 She has her settlement. Eight hundred a year, 
 I think it is. She'll not be a rich woman like 
 heir sister. I wonder where she'll live. As far 
 as that goes, she might stay at the house, if she 
 likes it. I'm sure your mother wouldn't ob- 
 ject." 
 
 Harry on this occasion asked no questions 
 about the living, but he also had thought of that. 
 He knew well that his mother would befriend 
 Mr. Saul, and he knew also that his father 
 would ultimately take his mother's advice. As 
 regarded himself, he had no personal objection 
 to Mr. Saul, though he could not understand 
 how his sister should feel any strong regard for 
 sucli a man. 
 
 Edward Fielding would make a better neigh- 
 bor at the parsonage, and then he thought 
 whether an exchange might not be made. Aft- 
 er that, and before his mother's return from the 
 great house, he took a stroll through the park 
 with Eanny. Fanny altfagether declined to dis- 
 cuss any of the family prospects as they were 
 affected by the accident which had hnppened. 
 To her mind the tragedy was so terrible thai 
 she could only feel its tragic element. No 
 doubt she had her own thoughts about Mr. Saul 
 as connected with it. "What would he think 
 of this sudden death of the two brothers ? How 
 would he feel it? If she could be allowed to 
 talk to him on the matter, what would he say 
 of their fate here and hereafter ? Would he go 
 to the great house to offer the consolations of 
 religion to the widow ?" Of all this she thought 
 much ; but no picture of Mr. Saul as rector of 
 Clavering, or of herself as mistress in her moth- 
 er's house, presented itself to her mind. Harry 
 found her to be a dull companion, and he, per- 
 haps, consoled himself with some personal at- 
 tention to the oak trees, which loomed larger 
 upon him now than they had ever done before. 
 
 On the third day the rector went up to Lon- 
 don, leaving Harry at the parsonage. It was 
 necessary that lawyers should be visited, and 
 that such facts as to the loss should be proved nt. 
 were capable of proof. There was no doubt at 
 all as to the fate of Sir Hugh and his brother. 
 The escape of Mr. Stuart and of two of those 
 employed by him prevented the possibility of a 
 doubt. The vessel had been. caught in a gale 
 
194 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 off Heligoland, and had foundered. They had 
 all striven to get into the yacht's boat, but those 
 who had succeeded in doing so had gone down. 
 The master of the yacht had seen the two broth- 
 ers perish. Those who were saved had been 
 picked up off the spars to which they had at- 
 tached themselves. There was no doubt in the 
 way of the new baronet, and no difiBculty. 
 
 Nor was there any will made either by Sir 
 Hugh or his brother. Poor Archie had nothing 
 to leave, and that he should have left no will 
 was not remarkable. But neither had there been 
 much in the power of Sir Hugh to bequeath, nor 
 was there any great cause for a will on his part. 
 Had he left a son, his son would have inherited 
 every thing. He had, however, died childless, 
 and his vrife was provided for by her settlement. 
 On his marriage he had made the amount settled 
 as small as his wife's friends would accept, and no 
 one who knew the man expected that he would 
 increase the amount after his death. Having 
 been in town for three days, the rector returned, 
 being then in full possession of the title ; but 
 this he did not assume till after the second Sun- 
 day from the date of the telegram which brought 
 the news. 
 
 In the mean time Harry had written to Flor- 
 ence, to whom the tidings were as impoitant as 
 to any one concerned. She had left London 
 ,very triumphant, quite confident that she had 
 jiothing now to fear from Lady Ongar or from 
 any other living woman, having not only forgiv- 
 ■en Harry his sins, but having succeeded also in 
 .persuading herself that there had been no sins 
 to forgive — having quarreled with her brother 
 half a dozen times in that he would not accept 
 her arguments on this matter. He too would 
 forgive Harry — had forgiven him — was quite 
 ready to omit all farther remark on the matter — 
 but could not bring himself, when urged by Flor- 
 ence, to admit that her Apollo had been altogeth- 
 er godlike. Florence had thus left London in tri- 
 umph, but she had gone with a conviction that 
 she and Harry must remain apart for some in- 
 definite time, which probably must be meas- 
 ured by years. " Let us see at the end of two 
 years," she had said; and Harry had been 
 forced to be content. But how would it be 
 with her now ? 
 
 Harry of course began his letter by telling 
 her of the catastrophe, with the usual amount 
 of epithets. It was very terrible, awful, shock- 
 ing — the saddest thing that had ever happened ! 
 The poor widow was in a desperate state, and 
 all the Claverings were nearly beside them- 
 selves. But when this had been duly said, he 
 allowed himself to go into their own home 
 question. " I can not fail," he wrote, " to think 
 of this chiefly as it concerns you — or rather as 
 it concerns myself in reference to you. I sup- 
 pose I shall leave the business now. Indeed 
 my father seems to think that my remaining 
 there would be absurd, and my mother agrees 
 with him. As I am the only son, the property 
 will enable me to live easily without a profes- 
 sion. When I say 'me,' of course you will 
 
 understand what ' me' means. The better part 
 of ' me' is so prudent that I know she will not 
 accept this view of things without ever so much 
 consideration, and therefore she must come to 
 Clavering to hear it discussed by 'the elders. 
 For myself, I can not bear to think that I should 
 take delight in the results of this dreadful mis- 
 fortune ; but how am I to keep myself from 
 being made happy by the feeling that we may 
 now be married without farther delay ? After 
 all that has passed, nothing will make me hap2}y 
 or even permanently comfortable till I can call 
 you fairly my own. My mother has already 
 said that she hopes you will come here in about 
 a fortnight — that is, as soon as we shall have 
 fallen tolerably, into our places again; but she 
 will write herself before that time. I have 
 written a line to your brother, addressed to the 
 office, which I suppose will find him. I have 
 written also to Cecilia. Tour brother, no doubt, 
 will hear the news first through the French 
 newspapers." Then he said a little, but a very 
 little, as to their future modes of life, just inti- 
 mating to her, and no more, that her destiny 
 might probably call upon her to be the mother 
 of a future barpnet. 
 
 The news had reached Clavering on a Satur- 
 day. On the following Sunday every one in 
 the parish had no doubt heard of it, but nothing 
 on the subject was said in church on that day. 
 The rector remained at home during the morn- 
 ing, and the whole service was performed by 
 Mr. Saul. But on the second Sunday Mr. 
 Fielding had come over from Humbleton, and 
 he preached a sermon on the loss which the 
 parish had sust&ined in the sudden death of the 
 two brothers. It is perhaps well that such ser- 
 mons should be preached. The inhabitants of 
 Clavering would have felt that their late lords 
 had been treated like dogs had no word been 
 said of them in the house of God. The nature 
 of their fate had forbidden even the common 
 ceremony of a burial service. It is well that 
 some respect should be maintained from the 
 low in station toward those who are high, even 
 when no respect has been deserved; and, for 
 the widow's sake, it was well that some notice 
 should be taken in Clavering of this death of 
 the head of the Claverings ; but I should not 
 myself have liked the duty of preaching a eulo- 
 gistic sermon on the lives and death of Hugh 
 Clavering and bis brother Archie. What had 
 either of them ever done to merit a good word 
 from any man, or to earn the love of any wom- 
 an ? That Sir Hugh had been loved by his wife 
 had come from the nature of the woman, not at 
 all from the qualities of the man. Both of the 
 brothers had lived on the unexpressed theory of 
 consuming, for the benefit of their own backs 
 and their own bellies, the greatest possible 
 amount of those good things which fortune 
 might put in their way. I doubt whether 
 either of them had ever contributed- any thing 
 willingly to the comfort or happiness of any 
 human being. Hugh, being powerful by na- 
 ture, and having a strong will, had tyrannized 
 
THECLAVERINGS. 
 
 195 
 
 over all those who were subject to him. Archie, 
 not gifted as was his brother, had been milder, 
 softer, and less actively hateful ; but his princi- 
 ple of action had been the same. Every thing 
 for himself! Was it not well that two such 
 men should be consigned to the fishes, and that 
 the world— especially the Clavering world, and 
 that poor widow, who now felt herself to be so 
 inexpressibly wretched when her period of com- 
 fort was in truth only commencing — was it not 
 well that the world and Clavering should be 
 well quit of them ? That idea is the one which 
 one would naturally have felt inclined to put 
 into one's sermon on such an occasion ; and 
 then to sing some song of rejoicing — either to 
 do that, or to leave the matter alone. 
 
 But not so are such sermons preached, and 
 not after that fashion did the young clergyman 
 who had married the first cousin of these Cla- 
 verings buckle himself to the subject. He in- 
 deed had, I think, but little di£Bculty, either in- 
 wardly with his conscience, or outwardly with 
 his subject. He possessed the power of a pleas- 
 ant, easy flow of words, and of producing tears, 
 if not from other eyes, at any rate from his own. 
 He drew a picture of the little ship amid the 
 storm, and of God's hand as it moved in its an- 
 ger upon the waters ; but of the cause of that 
 divine wrath and its direction he said nothing. 
 Then, of the suddenness of death and its awful- 
 ■ness he said much, not insisting as he did so, 
 " on the necessity of repentance for salvation, as 
 far as those two poor sinners were concerned. 
 No, indeed ; how could any preacher have done 
 that ? But he improved the occasion by telling 
 those around him that they should so live as to 
 be ever ready for the hand of death. If that 
 were possible, where then indeed would be the 
 victory of the grave ? And at last he came to 
 the master and lord whom they had lost. Even 
 here there was no diiBculty for him. The heir had 
 gone first, and then the father and his brother. 
 Who among them would not pity the bereaved 
 mother and the widow? Who among them 
 would not remember with affection the babe 
 whom they had seen at that font, and with re- 
 spect the landlord under whose rule they had 
 lived ? How pleasant it must be to ask those 
 questions which no one can rise to answer! 
 Farmer Gubbins, as he sat by, listening with 
 what power of attention had been vouchsafed 
 to him, felt himself to be somewhat moved, but 
 soon released himself from the task, and allowed 
 his mind to run away into other ideas. The 
 rector was a kindly man and a generous. The 
 rector would allow him to inclose that little bit 
 of common land, that was to be taken in, with- 
 out adding any thing to his rent. The rector 
 would be there on audit days, and things would 
 be very pleasant. Farmer Gubbins, when the 
 slight murmuring gurgle of the preacher's tears 
 was heard, shook his own head by way of a re- 
 sponsive wail ; but at that moment he was con- 
 gi-atulating himself on the coming comfort of 
 the new reign. Mr. Fielding, however, got 
 great credit for his own sermon ; and it did. 
 
 probably, more good than harm — unless, indeed, 
 we should take into our caflculation, in giving 
 our award on this subject, the permanent utility 
 of all truth, and the permanent injury of all 
 falsehood. 
 
 Mr. Fielding remained at the parsonage dur- 
 ing the greater part of the following week, and 
 then there took place a great deal of family con- 
 versation respecting the future incumbent of the 
 living. At these family conclaves, however, 
 Fanny was not asked to be present. Mrs. Cla- 
 vering, who knew well how to do such work, was 
 gradually bringing her husband round to endure 
 the name of Mr. Saul. Twenty times had he 
 asserted that he could not understand it ; but, 
 whether or no such understanding might ever be 
 possible, he was beginning to recognize it as true 
 that the thing not understood was a fact. His 
 daughter Fanny was positively in love with Mr. 
 Saul, and that to such an extent that her mother 
 believed her happiness to be involved in it. "I 
 can't understand it — upon my word I can't, " said 
 the rector for the last time, and then he gave 
 way. There was now the means of giving an 
 ample provision for the lovers, and that provision 
 was to be given. 
 
 Mr. Fielding shook his head — not, in this in- 
 stance, as to Fanny's predilection for Mr. Saul, 
 though in discussing that matter with his own 
 wife he had shaken his head very often, JjBt he 
 shook it now with reference to the proposed 
 change. He was very well where he was. And 
 although Clavering was better than Humbleton, 
 it' was not so much better as to induce him to 
 throw his own family over by proposing to send 
 Mr. Saul among them. Mr. Saul was an excel- 
 lent clergyman, but perhaps his uncle, who had 
 given him his living, might not like Mr. Saul. 
 Thus it was decided in these conclaves that Mr. 
 Saul was to be the future rector of Clavering. 
 
 In the mean time poor Fanny moped — wretch- 
 ed in her solitude, anticipating no such glorious 
 joys as her mother was preparing for her ; and 
 Mr. Saul was preparing with energy for his de- 
 parture into foreign parts. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 IS SHE MAD ? 
 
 Ladt Ongak was at Tenby when she re- 
 ceived Mrs. Clavering's letter, and had not heard 
 of the fate of her brother-in-law till the news 
 reached her in that way. She had gone down 
 to a lodging at Tenby with no attendant but one 
 maid, and was preparing herself for the great 
 surrender of her property which she meditated. 
 Hitherto she had heard nothing from the Cour- 
 tons or their lawyer as to the offisr she had made 
 about Ongar Park ; but the time had been short, 
 and lawyer's work, as she knew, was never done 
 in a hnrry. She had gone to Tenby, flying, in 
 truth, from the loneliness of London to the loneli- 
 ness of the sea-shore, but expecting she knew not 
 what comfort from the change. She would take 
 
1!)6 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 with her no carriage, and there would, as she 
 thouglit, be exciteftient even in that. She would 
 take long walks by herself— she would read — 
 nay, if possible, she would study, and bring her- 
 self to some habits of industry.- Hitherto she 
 had failed in every thing, but now she would try 
 if some mode of success might not be open to 
 her. She would ascertain, too, on what smallest 
 sum she could live respectably and without pen- 
 ury, and would keep only so much out of Lord 
 On gar's' wealth. 
 
 But hitherto her life at Tenby had not been 
 successful. Solitary days were longer there even 
 than they had been in London. People stared 
 at her more ; and, though she did not own it to 
 herself, she missed greatly the comforts of her 
 London house. As for reading, I doubt whether 
 she did much better by the sea-side than she 
 had done in the town. Men and women say 
 that they will read, and think so — those, I mean, 
 who have acquired no habit of raiding — believ- 
 ing the work to be, of all works, the easiest. It 
 may be work, they think, b,ut of all works it 
 must be the easiest of achievement. Given the 
 absolute faculty of reading, the task of going 
 through the pages of a book must be, of all tasks, 
 the most certainly within the grasp of the man 
 or woman who attempts it. Alas ! no ; if the 
 habit be not there, of all tasks it is the most 
 difStult. If a man have not acquired the habit 
 of reading till he be old, he shall sooner in his 
 old age learn to make shoes than leafn the ade- 
 quate use of a book. And worse again — under 
 such circumstances the making of shoes shall 
 be more pleasant to him than the reading of a 
 book. Let those who are not old — who are still 
 young, ponder this well. Lady Ongar, indeed, 
 was not old, by no means too old to clothe her- 
 self in new habits ; but even she was old enough 
 to find that the doing so was a matter of much 
 difficulty. She had her books around her ; but, 
 in spite of her books, she was sadly in want of 
 some excitement when the letter from Clavering 
 came to her relief. 
 
 " ' It was indeed a relief. Her brother-in-law 
 dead, and he also who had so lately been her 
 suitor ! These two men whom she had so late- 
 ly seen in lusty health — proud with all the pride 
 of outward life — ^had both, by a stroke of the 
 winds, been turned into nothing. A terrible 
 retribution had fallen upon her enemy — for as 
 her enemy she had ever regaidfed Hugh Claver- 
 ing since her husband's death. She took no joy 
 in this retribution. There was no feeling of 
 triumph at her heart in that he had perished. 
 She did not tell herself that she was glad, either 
 for her own sake or for her sister's. But mingled 
 with the awe she felt there was a something of 
 unexpressed and inexpressible relief. Her pres- 
 ent life was very grievous to her, and now had 
 occurred that which would open to her new hopes 
 and a new mode of living. Her brotheHn-law 
 had oppressed her by his very existence, and 
 now he was gone. Had she had no brother-in- 
 law who ought to have welcomed her, her re- 
 turn to England would not have been terrible 
 
 to her as it had been. Her sister would be now 
 restored to her, and her solitude would probably 
 be at an end. And then the very excitement 
 occasioned by the news was salutary to her. She 
 was, in truth, shocked. As she said to her mal^, 
 she felt it to be very dreadful. But, neverthe- 
 less, the day on which she received those tidings 
 was less wearisome to her than any other of the 
 days that she 'had passed at Tenby. 
 
 Poor Archie ! Some feeling of a tear, some 
 half-formed drop that was almost a tear, came 
 to her eye as she thought of his fate. How 
 foolish he had always been, how unintelligent, 
 how deficient in all those qualities which recom- 
 mend men to women ! But the very memory 
 of his deficiencies created something like a ten- 
 derness in his favor. Hugh was disagreeable, 
 nay, hateful, by reason of the power which he 
 possessed ; whereas Archie was not hateful at 
 all, and was disagreeable simply because nature 
 had been a niggard to him. And then he had 
 professed himself to be her lover. There had 
 not been much in this; for he had come, of 
 course, for her money ; but even when that is 
 the case a woman will feel something for the 
 man who has offered to link his lot with hers. 
 Of all those to whom the fate of the two broth- 
 ers had hitherto been matter of moment, I think 
 that Lady Ongar felt more than any other for 
 the fate of poor Archie. 
 
 And how would it affect Harry Clavering? 
 She had desired to give Harry all the good things 
 of the world; thinking that they would become 
 him well — thinking that they would become him 
 very well as reaching him from her hand. Now 
 he would have them all, but would not have 
 them from her. Now he would have them all, 
 and would share them with Florence Burton. 
 Ah ! if she could have been true to him in those 
 early days — in those days when she had feared 
 his poverty — would it not have been well now 
 with her also ? The measure of her retribution 
 was come full home to her at last ! Sir Harry 
 Clavering ! She tried the name, and found that 
 it sounded very well. And she thought of the 
 figure of the man and of his nature, and she 
 knew that he would bear it with a becoming 
 manliness. Sir Harry Clavering would be some- 
 body in his county — would be a husband of 
 whom his wife would be proud as he went about 
 among his tenants and his gamekeepers, and 
 perhaps on wider and 'better journeys, looking 
 up the voters of his neighborhood. Yes, happy 
 would be the wife of Sir Harry Clavering. He 
 was a man who would delight in sharing his 
 house, his hopes, his schemes and councils with 
 his wife.. He would find a companion in his 
 wife. He would do honor to his wife, and 
 make much of her. He would like to see her 
 go bravely. And then, if children came, how 
 tender he would be to them ! Whether Harry 
 could ever have become a good head to a poor 
 household might be doubtful, but no man had 
 ever been born fitter for the position which he 
 was now called upon to fill. It was thus that 
 Lady Ongar thought of Harry Clnvering as she 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 197 
 
 owned to herself that the full measure of her 
 just retribution had come home to her. 
 
 Of course she would go at once to Clavering 
 Park. She wrote to her sister saying so, and 
 the next day she started. She started so quick- 
 ly on her journey that she reached the house 
 not very many hours after her own letter. She 
 was there when the rector started for London, 
 and there when Mr. Fielding preached his ser- 
 mon ; but she did not see Mr. Clayering before 
 he went, nor was she present to hear. the elo- 
 quence of the younger clergyman. Till after 
 that Sunday the only member of the family she 
 had seen was Mrs. Clavering, who spent some 
 period of every day up at the great house. Mrs. 
 Clavering had not hitherto seen Lady Ongar 
 since her return, and was greatly astonished at 
 the change which so short a time had made. 
 " She is handsomer than ever she was," Mrs. 
 Clavering saidto the rector; "but it is that beau- 
 ty which some women carry into middle life, and 
 not the loveliness of youth." Lady Ongar's 
 manner was cold and stately -when first she met 
 Mrs. Clavering. It was on the morning of her 
 marriage when they had last met — when Julia 
 Brabazon was resolving that she would look like 
 a countess, and that to be a countess should be 
 enough for her happiness. She could not but 
 remember this now, and was unwilling at first 
 to make confession of her failure by any meek- 
 ness of conduct. It behooved her to be proud, 
 at any rate till she should know how this new 
 Lady Clavering would receive her. And then 
 it was more than probable that this new Lady 
 Clavering knew all that had taken place between 
 'her and Hariy. It behooved her, therefore, to 
 hold her head on high. 
 
 But, before the week was over, Mrs. Claver- 
 ing— for we will stSl call her so— had broken 
 Lady Ongar's spirit by her kindness, and the poor 
 woman who had so much to bear had brought 
 ' herself to speak of the weight of her burden. 
 Julia had, on one occasion, called her Lady 
 Clavering, and for the moment this had been al- 
 lowed to pass without observation. The widow- 
 ed lady was then present, and no notice of the 
 name was possible. But soon afterward Mrs. 
 Clavering made her little request on the subject. 
 " I do not quite know what the custom may 
 be," she said, "but do not call me so just yet. 
 It will only be reminding Hermy of her bereave- 
 ment." 
 
 " She is thinking of it always," said Julia. 
 
 "No doubt she is; but still the new name 
 would wound her. And, indeed, it perplexes 
 me also. Let it come by-and-by, when we are 
 more settled." 
 
 Lady Ongar had truly said that her sister 
 was as yet always thinking of her bereavement. 
 To her now it was as though the husband she 
 had lost had been a paragon among men. She 
 could only remember of him his manliness, his 
 power— a dignity of presence which he possess- 
 ed—and the fact that to her he had been every 
 thing. She thought of that last and vain cau- 
 tion which she bad given him when with her 
 
 hardly-permitted last embrace she had besought 
 him to take care of himself. She did not re- 
 member now how coldly that embrace had been 
 received, how completely those words had been 
 taken as meaning nothing, how he had left her 
 not only without a sign of affection, but without 
 an attempt to repress the evidencSs of his indif- 
 ference. But she did remember that she had 
 had her arm upon his shoulder, and tried to 
 think of that embrace as though it had been 
 sweet to her. And she did remember how she 
 had stood at the window," listening to the sounds 
 of the wheels which took him off, and watching 
 his form as long as her eye could rest upon it. 
 Ah ! what falsehoods she told herself now of 
 her love to him, and of his goodness to her — 
 pious falsehoods which would surely tend to 
 bring some comfort to her wounded spirit. 
 
 But her sister could hardly bear to bear the 
 praises of Sir Hugh. When she found how it 
 was to be, she resolved that she would bear them 
 — bear them, and not contradict them ; but her 
 struggle in doing so was great, and was almost 
 too much for her. 
 
 " He had judged me and condemned me," she 
 said at last, "and therefore, as a matter of 
 course, we were not such friends when we last 
 met as we used to be before my marriage. " 
 
 "But, Julia, there was much for which you 
 owed him gratitude." 
 
 " We will say nothing about that now, Her« 
 my." 
 
 "I do not know why your mouth should be 
 closed on such a subject because he has gone. 
 I should have thought that you would be glad 
 to acknowledge his kindness to you. But you 
 were always hard." 
 " Perhaps I am hard." 
 " And twice he asked you to come here since 
 your return, but you would not come." 
 
 "I have come now, Hermy, when I have 
 thought that I might be of use." 
 
 ' ' He felt it when you would not come before. 
 I know he did." Lady Ongar could not but 
 think of the way in which he had manifested 
 his feelings on the occasion of his visit to Bol- 
 ton Street. "I never could understand why 
 you wei-e so hitter." 
 
 "I think, dear, we had better not discuss 
 that. I also have had much to bear — I as well 
 as you. What you have borne has come in no- 
 wise from your own fault." 
 
 "No, indeed ; I did not want him to go. I 
 would have given any thing to keep him at 
 home." 
 
 Her sister had not been thinking of the suf- 
 fering which had come to her from the loss of 
 her husband, but of her former miseries. This, 
 however, she did not explain. "No," Lady 
 Ongar continued to say, "you have nothing for 
 which to blame yourself, whereas I have much 
 — indeed every thing. If we are to remain to- 
 gether, as I hope we may, it will be better for us 
 both that by-gones should be by-gones." 
 
 " Do you mean that I am never to speak of 
 Hugh ?" 
 
198 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 " No, I by no means intend that ; but I 
 would rather that you should not refer to his 
 feelings toward me. I think he did not quite 
 understand the sort of life that I led while my 
 husband was alive, and that he judged me 
 amiss. Therefore I would have by-gones be 
 by-gones." 
 
 Three or four days after this, when the ques- 
 tion of leaving Clavering Park was being moot- 
 ed, the elder sister started a difficulty as to 
 money matters. An offer had been made to her 
 by Mrs. Clavering to remain at the great house, 
 but this she had declined, alleging that the place 
 would be distasteful to her after her husband's 
 death. She, poor soul ! did not allege that it 
 had been made distasteful to her forever by the 
 solitude which she had endured there during 
 her husband's lifetime ! She would go away 
 somewhere, and live as best she might upon her 
 jointure. It was not very much, but it would 
 be sufficient. She did not see, she said, how she 
 could live with her sister, because she did not 
 wish to be dependent. Julia, of course, would 
 live in a style to which she could make no pre- 
 tense. 
 
 Mrs. Clavering, who was present, as was also 
 Lady Ongar, declared that she saw no such 
 difficulty. " Sisters together," she said, " need 
 hardly think of a diiference in such matters." 
 
 Then it was that Lady Ongar first spoke to 
 either of them of her half-formed resolution 
 about her money, and then too, for the first 
 time, did she come down altogether from that 
 high horse on which she had been, as it were, 
 compelled to mount herself while in Mrs. Cla- 
 vering's presence. " I think I must explain," 
 said she, " something of what I mean to do — 
 about my money, that is. I do not think that 
 there will be much difference between me and 
 Hermy in that respect." 
 
 "That is nonsense," said her sister, fretfi>lly. 
 
 " There will be a difference in income cer- 
 tainly," said Mrs. Clavering, " but I do not see 
 that that need create any uncomfortable feel- 
 ing." 
 
 "Only one doesn't like to be dependent," 
 said Hei'mione. 
 
 "You shall not be asked to give up any of 
 your independence," said Julia, with a smile — 
 a melancholy smile, that gave but little sign of 
 pleasantness within. Then, on a sudden, her 
 face became stem and hard. "The fact is," 
 she said, "I do not intend to keep Lord On- 
 gar's money." 
 
 ' ' Not to keep your income ! " said Hermione. 
 
 " No ; I will give it back to them — or at 
 least the greater part of it. Why should I 
 keep it?" 
 
 " It is your own," said Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "Yes, legally it is my own. I know that. 
 And when there was some question whether it 
 should not be disputed, I would have fought for 
 it to the last shilling. Somebody — I suppose it 
 was the lawyer — wanted to keep from me the 
 place in Surrey. I told them that then I would 
 not abandon my right to an inch of it. But they 
 
 yielded, and now I have given them back the 
 house." 
 
 "You have given it back!" said her sister. 
 
 "Yes ; I have said they may have it. It is 
 of no use to me. I hate the place." 
 
 "You have beea very generous," said Mrs. 
 Clavering. 
 
 " But that will not affect your income," said 
 Hermione. 
 
 ' ' No, that would not affect my income. " Then 
 she paused, not knowing how to go on with the 
 story of her puipose. 
 
 "If I may say so, Lady Ongar," said Mrs. 
 Clavering, " I would not, if I were you, take any 
 steps in so importsfnt a matter without advice." 
 
 "Who is there that can advise me? Of 
 course the lawyer tells me that I ought to keep 
 it all. It is his business to give such advice as 
 that. But what does he know of what I feel ? 
 How can he understand me ? How, indeed, can 
 I expect that any one shall understand me ?" 
 
 " But it is possible that people should misun- 
 derstand you, "said Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "Exactly. That is just what he says. But, 
 Mrs. Clavering, I care nothing for that. I care 
 nothing for what any body says or thinks. What 
 is it to me what they say ?" 
 
 " I should have thought it was every thing," 
 s.aid her sister. 
 
 "No, it i« nothing — nothing at all." Then 
 she was again silent, and was unable to express 
 herself. She could not bring herself to declare 
 in words that self-condemnation of her own con- 
 duct which was now weighing so heavily upon 
 her. It was not that she wished to keep back 
 her own feelings either from her sister or from 
 Mrs. Clavering, but that the words in which to 
 express them were wantiiTg to her. 
 
 "And have they accepted the house?" Mrs. 
 Clavering asked. 
 
 " They must accept it. What else can they 
 do ? They can not make me call it mine if I do 
 not choose. If I refuse to take the income which 
 Mr. Courton's lawyer pays in to my bankers, 
 they can not compel me to have it." 
 
 " But you are not going to give that up too ?" 
 said hef sister. 
 
 " I am. I will not have his money — ^not more 
 than enough -to keep me from being a scandal to 
 his family. I will not have it. It is a curse to 
 me, and has been from the first. What right 
 have I to all that money, because — ^because — be- 
 cause — " She could not finish her sentence, 
 but turned away from them, and walked by her- 
 self to the window. 
 
 Lady Clavering looked at Mrs. Clavering as 
 though she thought that her sister was mad. 
 "Do you understand her?" said Lady Claver- 
 ing, in a whisper. 
 
 " I think I do," said the other. " I think I 
 know what is passing in her mind." Then she 
 followed Lady Ongar across the room, and, 
 taking her gently by the arm, tried to comfort 
 her — to comfort her and to argue with her as to 
 the rashness of that which she proposed to do. 
 She endeavored to explain to the poor woman 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 199 
 
 how it was that she should at this moment be 
 wretched, and anxious to do that which, if done, 
 would put it out of her power afterward to make 
 herself useful in the world. It shocked the pru- 
 dence of Mrs. Clavering-^this idea of abandon- 
 ing money, the possession of which was question- 
 ed by no one. They do not want it. Lady On- 
 gar," she said. 
 
 "That has nothing to do with it," answered 
 the other. 
 
 "And nobody has any suspicion but what it 
 is honorably and fairly your own." 
 
 " But does any body ever think how I got it ?" 
 said Lady Ongar, turning sharply round upon 
 Mrs. Clavering. "You — you — you — do you 
 dare to tell me what you think of the way in 
 which it became mine ? Could you bear it, if 
 it had become yours after such a fashion ? I 
 can not bear it, and I will not." She was now 
 speaking with so much violence that her sister 
 was awed into silence, and Mrs. Clavering her- 
 self found a difficulty in answering her. 
 
 "Whatever may have been the past," said 
 she, "the question now is how to do the best 
 for the future." 
 
 " I had hoped," continued Lady Ongar, with- 
 out noticing what was said to her, " I had hoped 
 to make every thing straight by giving his money 
 to another. You know to whom I mean, and 
 so does Hermy. I thought, when I returned, 
 that, bad as I had been, I might still do some 
 good in the world. But it is as they tell us in 
 the sermons. One can not make good come 
 out of evil. I have done evil, and nothing but 
 Qvil has come from the evil which I have done. 
 Nothing but evil will come from it. As for be- 
 ing useful in the world, I know of what use I am ! 
 When women hear how wretched I have been, 
 they will be unwilling to sell themselves as I 
 did. " Then she made her way to the door, and 
 left the room, going out with quiet steps, and 
 closing the lock behind her without a sound. . 
 
 " I did not know that she was such as that," 
 said Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 ' ' Nor did I. She has never spoken in that 
 way before." 
 
 "Poor soul! Hermione, you see there are 
 those in the world whose sufferings are worse 
 than yours." 
 
 "I don't know, " said Lady Clavering. " She 
 never lost what I have lost — never." 
 
 " She has lost what I am sure you never will 
 lose, her own self-esteem. But, Hermy, you 
 should be good to her. We must all be good 
 to her. Will it not be better that you should 
 stay with us for a while— both of you." 
 
 "What! here at the park?" 
 
 "We will make room for you at the rectory, 
 if you would like it." 
 
 " Oh no, I will go away. I shall be better 
 away. I suppose she will not be like that often, 
 will she ?" 
 
 " She was much moved just now." 
 
 " And what does she mean about her income ? 
 She can not be in earnest." 
 
 "She is in earnest now." 
 
 " And can not it be prevented ? Only think 
 — if, after all, she were to give up her jointure ! 
 Mrs. Clavering, you do not think she is mad, do 
 you?" 
 
 Mrs. Clavering said what she could to com- 
 fort the elder and weaker sister on this subject, 
 explaining to her that the Courtons would not 
 be at all likely to take advantage of any wild 
 generosity on the part of Lady Ongar, and then 
 she walked home across the park, meditating on 
 the character of the two sisters. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVL 
 
 MABAMB GOKDBLOtrP BETIRES FKOM BBITISH 
 DIPLOMACY. 
 
 The reader must be asked to accompany me 
 once more to that room in Mount Street in which 
 poor Archie practiced diplomacy, and whither 
 the courageous Doodles was carried prisoner in 
 those moments in which he was last seen of us. 
 The Spy was now sitting alone before her desk, 
 scribbling with all her energy- — writing letters 
 on foreign policy, no doubt, to all the courts of 
 Europe, but especially to that Russian court to 
 which her services were more especially due. 
 She was hard at work, when there came the 
 sound of a step upon the stairs. The practiced 
 ear of the Spy became erect, and she at once 
 knew who Was her visitor. It was not one with 
 whom diplomacy would much avail, or who was 
 likely to have money ready under his glove for 
 her behoof. "Ah ! Edouard, is that you ? I 
 am glad you have come," she said, as Count 
 Pateroif entered the room. 
 
 " Yes, it is I. I got your note yesterday." 
 
 "You are good — very good. You are al- 
 ways good." Sophie, as she said this, went on 
 very rapidly with her letters — so rapidly that her 
 hand seemed to run about the paper wildly. 
 Then she flung down her pen, and folded the 
 paper on which she had been writing with mar- 
 velous quickness. There was an activity about 
 the woman in all her movements which was 
 wonderful to watch. " There," she said, " that 
 is done ; now we can talk.' Ah ! I have near- 
 ly written off my fingers this . morning. " Her 
 brother smiled, but said nothing about the let- 
 ters. He never allowed himself to allude in 
 any way to her professional duties. 
 
 "So you are going to St. Petersburg?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Well — yes, I think. Why should I remain 
 here spending money with both hands and 
 through the nose?" At this idea the brother 
 again smiled pleasantly. He had never seen 
 his sister to be culpably extravagant as she now 
 described herself. " Nothing to get and every 
 thing to lose," she went on saying. 
 
 "You know your own affairs best," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Yes, I know my own affairs. If I remain- 
 ed here I should be taken away to that black 
 building there;" and she pointed in the direc- 
 
200 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 tion of the workhouse, which fronts so gloomily 
 upon Mount Street. " You would not come to 
 take me out." 
 
 The count smiled again. " Yon are too 
 clever for that, Sophie, I think. " 
 
 "Ah ! it is well for a woman to be clever, or 
 she must starve — ^yes, starve ! Such a one as I 
 must starve in this accursed country if I were 
 not what you call clever." The brother and 
 sister were talking in French, and she spoke now 
 almost as rapidly as she had written. " They 
 are beasts and fools, and as awkward as bulls — 
 yes, as bulls. I hate them — I hate them all. 
 Men, women, children, they are all alike. Look 
 at the street out there. Though it i's summer, 
 I shiver when I look out at its blackness. It is 
 the ugliest nation ! And they understand noth- 
 ing. Oh, how I hate them !" 
 
 "They are not without merit. They have 
 got money." 
 
 " Money — yes. They have got money, and 
 they are so stupid you may take it from under 
 their eyes. They will not see you. But of 
 their own hearts they will give you nothing. 
 You see that black building— the workhouse. I 
 call it Little England. It is just the same. 
 The naked, hungry, poor wretches lie at the 
 door, and the great fat beadles swell about like 
 turkey-cocks inside." 
 
 ' ' You have been here long enough to know, 
 at any rate." 
 
 "Yes, I have been here long — too long. I 
 have made my life a wilderness, staying here in 
 this country of barracks. And what have I got 
 for it ? I came back because of that woman, 
 and she has thrown me over. That is your 
 fault — yours — yours !" 
 
 "And you have sent for me to tell me that 
 again ?" 
 
 "No, Edouard. I sent for you that you 
 might see your sister once more — that I might 
 once more see my brother." This she said 
 leaning forward -on the table, on which her arms 
 rested, and looking steadfastly into his face with 
 eyes moist — just moist, with a tear in each. 
 Whether Edouard was too unfeeling to be moved 
 by this show of aifection, or whether he gave 
 more credit to his sister's histrionic powers than 
 to those of her heart, I will not say, but he was 
 altogether irresponsive to her appeal. "You 
 will be back again before long," he said. 
 
 "Never ! I shall come back to this accursed 
 country never again. No, I am going once and 
 for all. I will soil myself with the mud of its 
 gutters no more. I came for the sake of Julie ; 
 and now — how has she treated me?" Edouard 
 shrugged his shoulders. "And you — how has 
 she treated you ?" 
 
 "Never mind me." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! but I must mind you. Only that you 
 would not let me manage, it might be yours now 
 — yes, all. Why did you come down to that 
 accursed island?" 
 
 " It was my way to play my game. Leave 
 that alone, Sophie." And there came a frown 
 over the brother's brow. 
 
 " Your way to play your game ! Yes ; and 
 what has become of mine ? You have destroyed 
 mine, but you think nothing of that. After all 
 that I have gone through, to have nothing ; and 
 through you — my brother! Ah! that is the 
 hardest of all — when I was putting all things in 
 train for you. " 
 
 " You are always putting things in train. 
 Leave your trains alone, where I am con- 
 cerned. " 
 
 " But why did you come to that place in the 
 accursed island ? , I am ruined by that journey. 
 Yes, I am ruined. You will not help me to 
 get a shilling from her — not even for my ex- 
 penses." 
 
 "Certainly not. You are clever enough to 
 do your own work without my aid." 
 
 "And is that all from a brother? Well! 
 And, now that they have drowned themselves^ 
 the two Claverings — the fool and the brute, and 
 she can do what she pleases — " 
 
 "She could always do as she pleased since 
 Lord Ongar died." 
 
 " Yes ; but she is more lonely than ever now. 
 That cousin who is the greatest fool of all, who 
 might have had every thing — mon Dieu! yes, 
 every thing — she would have given it all to him 
 with a sweep of her hand if he would have tak- 
 en it. He is to many himself to a little brown girl 
 who has not a shilling. No one but an English- 
 man could make follies so abominable as these. 
 Ah ! I am sick — I am sick when I remember it ! " 
 And Sophie gave unmistakable signs of a grief 
 which could hardly have been self-interested. 
 But, in truth, she suffered jmin in seeing a good 
 game spoiled. It was not that she had any wish 
 for Hariy Clavering's welfare. Had he gone to 
 the bottom of the sea in the same boat with his 
 cousins, the tidings of liis fate would have been 
 pleasurable to her rather than otherwise. But 
 when she saw such cards thrown away as he had 
 held in his hand, she encountered that sort of 
 suffering which a good player feels when he sits 
 behind the chair of one who plays up to his ad- 
 versary's trump, and makes no tricks of his own 
 kings and aces. 
 
 "He may marry himself to the devil if he 
 please — it is nothing to me," said the count. 
 
 "But she is there — by herself — af that place 
 — what is it called ? Ten — hie. Will you not 
 go now, when you can do no harm ?" 
 
 "No, I will not go now." 
 
 "And in a year she will have taken some 
 other one for her husband." 
 
 " What is that to me ? But look here, Sophie, 
 for you may as well understand me at once, if 
 I were ever to think of Lady Ongar again as my 
 wife, I should noftell you." 
 
 ' ' And why not tell me — your sister ?" 
 
 "Because it would do me no good. If yon 
 had not been there she would have been my 
 wife now." 
 
 "Edouard!" 
 
 " What I say is true. But I do, not want to 
 reproach you because of that. Each of us was 
 pla\ ing his own game, and your game was not 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 201 
 
 my game. Tou are going now, and if I play 
 my game again I can play it alone." 
 
 Upon hearing this, Sophie sat a while in 
 silence, looking at him. "You will play it 
 alone," she said at last. " You would rather 
 do that ?" 
 
 " Much rather, if I play any game at all." 
 
 " And you will give me something to go ?" 
 
 "Not one sou." 
 
 " You will not — not a sou ?" 
 
 "Not half a sou — for you to go or stay. 
 Sophie, are you not a fool to ask me for mon- 
 ey?" 
 
 "And you are a fool — a fool who knows 
 nothing. You need not look at me like that. 
 I am not afraid. I shall remain here. I shall 
 stay and do as the lawyer tells me. He says 
 that if I bring my action she must pay me for 
 my expenses. I will bring my action. I am 
 not going to leave it all to you. No. Do you 
 remember those days in Florence ? I have not 
 been paid yet, but I will be paid. One hundred 
 and seventy-five thousand francs a year — and, 
 after all, I am to have none of it ! Say — should 
 it become yours, will you do something for your 
 sister ?" 
 
 "Nothing at all — nothing. Sophie, do you 
 think I am fool enough to bargain in such a 
 matter?" 
 
 "Then I will stay. Yes, I will bring my 
 action. All the world shall hear, and they shall 
 know how you have destroyed me and yourself. 
 Ah ! you think I am afraid ■ — that I will not 
 spend my money. Iwill spend all — all — all; 
 and I will be revenged." 
 
 "You may go or stay, it is the same thing to 
 me. Now, if you please, I will take my leave." 
 And he got up from his chair to leave her. 
 
 "It is the same thing to you?" 
 
 " Quite the same." 
 
 "Then I will stay, and she shall hear my 
 name every day of her life — every hour. She 
 shall be so sick of m_e and of you that — that — 
 that— Oh, Edouar'd!" Tbis last appeal was 
 made to him because he was already at the door, 
 and could not be stopped in any other way. 
 
 "What else have you to say, my sister?" 
 
 " Oh, Edouard, what would I not give to see 
 all those riches yours? Has it not been my 
 dearest wish? Edouard, you are ungrateful. 
 All men are ungrateful." Now, having suc- 
 ceeded in stopping him, she buried her face in 
 the corner of the sofa and wept plentifully. It 
 must be presumed that her acting before her 
 brother must have been altogether thrown away ; 
 but the acting was, nevertheless, very good. 
 
 " If you are in truth going to St. Petersburg," 
 he said', "I will bid you adieu now. If not— 
 au revoir." . 
 
 "I am going. Yes, Edouard, I am. lean 
 not bear this country longer. My heart is be- 
 ing torn to pieces. All my affections . are out- 
 raged. Yes, I am going— perhaps on Monday 
 —perhaps on Monday week. But I go in truth. 
 My brother, adieu. Then she got up, and, put- 
 ting a hand on each of his shoulders, lifted 
 
 up her face to be kissed. He embraced her in 
 the manner proposed, and turned to leave her. 
 But before he went she made to him one other 
 petition, holding him by the arm as she did so. 
 " Edouard, you can lend me twenty Napoleons 
 till I am at St. Petersburg ?" 
 
 "No, Sophie, no." 
 
 "Not lend your sister twenty Napoleons!" 
 
 "No, Sophie. I never lend money. It is a 
 rule." 
 
 "Will you give me five? I anf so poor. I 
 have almost nothing." 
 
 " Things are not so bad with you as that, I 
 hope." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! yes, they are very bad. Since I have 
 been in this accursed city— now, this time, what 
 have I got ? Nothing — nothing. She was to 
 be all in all to me, and she has given me noth- 
 ing ! It is very bad to be so poor. Say that 
 you will give me five Napoleons — oh my broth- 
 er." She was. still hanging by his arm, and, as 
 she did so, she looked up into his face with tears 
 in her eyes. As he regarded her, bending down 
 his face over hers, a slight smile Came upon his 
 countenance. Then he put his hand into his 
 pocket, and, taking out his purse, handed to her 
 five sovereigns. 
 
 " Only five," she said. 
 
 " Only five," he answered. 
 
 " A thousand thanks, oh my brother." Then 
 she kissed him again, and after that he went. 
 She accompanied him to the top of the stairs, 
 and from thence showered blessings on his head 
 till she heard the lock of the door closed behind 
 him. When he was altogether gone she un- 
 locked au inner drawer in her desk, and, taking 
 out an uncompleted rouleau of gold, added her 
 brother's sovereigns thereto. The sum he had 
 given her was exactly wanted to make up the 
 required number of twenty-five. She counted 
 them half a dozen times to be quite sure, and 
 then rolled them carefully in paper, and sealed 
 the littla packet at each end, "Ah!" she said, 
 speaking to herself, " they are very nice. Noth- 
 ing else English is nice, but only these." There 
 were many rolls of money there before her in 
 the drawer of the desk — some ten, perhaps, or 
 twelve. These she took out one after another, 
 passing them lovingly through her fingers, look- 
 ing at the little seals at the ends of each, weigh- 
 ing them in her hand as though to make sure 
 that no wrong had been done to them in her 
 absence, standing them up one against another 
 to see that they were of the same length. We 
 may be quite sure that Sophie Gordeloup brought 
 no sovereigns with her to England when she 
 came over with Lady Ongar after the earl's 
 death, and that the hoard before her contained 
 simply the plunder which she had collected 
 during this her latest visit to the "accursed" 
 country which she was going to leave'. 
 
 But before she started she was resolved to 
 make one more attempt upon that mine of 
 wealth which, but a few weeks ago, had seemed 
 to lie open before her. She had learned from 
 the servants in Bolton Street that Lady Ongar 
 
202 
 
 TPIE CLAVERINGS.' 
 
 was with Lady Claveiing, at Clavering Park, 
 and she addressed a letter to her there. This 
 tetter she wrote in English, and she threw into 
 her appeal all the pathos of which she was 
 capable. 
 
 "Mount Street, October, 186-. 
 
 •" Deaeest Julie, — I do not think you would 
 wish me to go away from this country forever — 
 forever, without one word' of farewell to her I 
 love so fondly. Yes, I have loved you with all 
 my heart, and now I am going away — forever. 
 Shall we not meet each other once, and have 
 one embrace? No trouble will be too much 
 to me for that. No journey will be too long, 
 Only say, Sophie, come to your Julie. 
 
 "I must go, because I am so poor. Tes, I 
 can not live longer here without the means. I 
 am not ashamed to say to my Julie, who is rich, 
 that I am poor. No ; nor would I be ashamed 
 to wait on my Julie like a slave if she would let 
 me. My Julie was angry with me because of 
 my brother! Was it my fault that he came 
 upon us in our little retreat, where we were so 
 happy? Oh no. I told him not to come. I 
 knew his coming was for nothing — nothing at 
 all. I knew where was the heart of my Julie 
 — my poor Julie ! But he was not worth that 
 heart, and the pearl was thrown before a pig. 
 But my brother — Ah ! he has ruined me. 
 Why am I separated from my Julie but for 
 him ? Well, I can go away, and in my own 
 countries there are those who will not wish to 
 be separated from Sophie Gordeloup. 
 
 " May I now tell my Julie in what condition 
 is her poor friend? She will remember how 
 it was that my feet brought me to England — 
 to England, to which I had said farewell for- 
 ever — to England, where people must be rich 
 like my Julie before they can eat and drink. 
 I thought nothing then but of my Julie. I 
 stopped not on the road to make merchandise — 
 what you call a bargain — about my coming. 
 No ; I came at once, leaving all things-ymy lit- 
 tle affairs — in confusion, because my Julie want- 
 ed me to come ! It was in the winter. Oh, 
 that winter ! My poor bones shall never for- 
 get it. They are racked still with the pains 
 which your savage winds have given them. 
 And now it is autumn. Ten months have I 
 been here, and I have eaten up my little sub- 
 stance. Oh, Julie, you, who are so rich, do not 
 know what is the poverty of your Sophie ! 
 
 " A lawyer have told me — not a French law- 
 yer, but aVi English — that somebody should pay 
 me every thing. He says the law would give it 
 me. He have offered me the money himself, 
 just to let him make an action. But I have 
 said no. No, Sophie will not have an action 
 with her Julie. She would scorn that ; and so 
 the lawyer went away. But if my Julie will 
 think of this, and will remember her Sophie — 
 how much she have expended, and now at last 
 there is nothing left. She must go and beg 
 among her friends. And why ? Because, she 
 have loved her Julie too well. You, who 
 are so rich, would miss it not at all. What 
 
 would two — three hundred pounds be to my 
 Julie ? 
 
 "Shall I come to yon? Say so; say so, 
 and I will go at once, if I did crawl on ray. 
 knees. Oh, what a joy to see my Julie ! And 
 do not think I will trouble you about money. 
 No, your Sophie will be too proud for that. 
 Not a word will I say but to love you. Nothing 
 will I do but to print one kiss, on my Julie's 
 forehead, and then to retire forever, asking 
 God's blessing for her dear head. 
 
 "Thine — always thine, Sophie." 
 
 Lady Ongar, when she received this letter, 
 was a little perplexed by it, not feeling quite 
 sure in what way she might best answer it. It 
 was the special severity of her position that there 
 was no one to whom, in such difficulties, she 
 could apply for advice. Of one thing she was 
 quite sure — that, willingly, she would never 
 again see her devoted Sophie. And she knew 
 that the woman deserved no money from her ; 
 that she had deserved none, but had received 
 much. Every assertion in her letter was false. 
 No one had wished her to come, and the expense 
 of her coming had been paid for her over and 
 over again. Lady Ongar knew that she had 
 money, and knew also that she wotild have had 
 immediate recourse to law if any lawyer would 
 have suggested to her, with a probability of suc- 
 cess, that he could get more for her. No doubt 
 she had been telling her story to some attorney, 
 in the hope that money might thus be extract- 
 ed, and had been dragging her Julie's name 
 through the mud, telling all she knew of that 
 wretched Florentine -story. As to all that Lady 
 Ongar had no doubt, and yet she wished to send 
 the woman money ! 
 
 There are services for which one is ready to 
 give almost any amount of money payment, if 
 only one can be sure that that money payment 
 will be taken as sufficient recompense for the 
 service in question. Sophie Gordeloup had been 
 useful. She had been very disagreeable, but 
 she had been useful. " She had done things 
 which nobody else could have done, and she had 
 done her work well. That she had been paid 
 for her work over and over again there was no 
 doubt ; but Lady Ongar was willing to give her 
 yet farther payment, if only there might be an 
 end of it. But she feared to do this, dreading 
 the nature and ctinning of the little woman — 
 lest she should take such payment as an ac- 
 knowledgment of services for which secret com- 
 pensation must be made, and should then pro- 
 ceed to farther threats. Thinking much of all 
 this, Julie at last wrote to her Sophie as follows : 
 
 "Lady Ongar presents her compliments to 
 Madame Gordeloup, and must decline to see 
 Madame Gordeloup again after what has passed. 
 Lady Ongar is very sorry to hear that Madame 
 Gordeloup is in want of funds. Whatever as- 
 sistance Lady Ongar might have been willing 
 to afford, she now feels that she is prohibited 
 from giving any by the allusion which Madame 
 Gordeloup has made to legal advice. If Ma- 
 
THE CLAVEEIKGS. 
 
 203 
 
 dame Gordeloup has legal demands on Lady 
 Ongar which are said by a lawyer to be valid, 
 Lady Ongar would strongly recommend Madame 
 Gordeloup to enforce them. 
 "Clavering Park, October, 186-." 
 
 This she wrote, acting altogether on her own 
 judgment, and sent o£f by return of post. She 
 almost wept at her own cruelty after the letter 
 was gone, and greatly doubted her own discre- 
 tion. But of whom could she have asked ad- 
 vice? Could she have told all the story of 
 Madame Gordeloup to the rector or to the rec- 
 tor's wife? The letter, no doubt, was a dis- 
 creet letter, but she greatly doubted her own 
 discretion, and when she received her Sophie's 
 rejoinder, she hardly dared to break the enve- 
 lope. 
 
 Poor Sophie ! Her Julie's letter nearly broke 
 her heart. For sincerity little credit was due 
 to her — but some little was perhaps due. That 
 she should be called Madame Gordeloup, and 
 have compliments presented to her by the wom- 
 an — by the countess with whom and with whose 
 husband she had been on such closely familiar 
 terms, did in truth wound some tender feelings 
 within her breast. Such love as she had been 
 able to give, she had given to her Julie. That 
 she had always been willing to rob her Julie — 
 to make a milch-cow of her Julie — to sell her 
 Julie — to threaten her Julie — to quarrel with 
 her Julie, if aught might be done in that way — 
 to expose her Julie^ — nay, to destroy her Julie, 
 if money was to be so made — all this did not 
 hinder her love. She loved her Julie, and was 
 broken-hearted that her Julie should have writ- 
 ten to her in such a strain. 
 ■ But her feelings were much more acute when 
 she came to perceive that she had damaged her 
 own affairs by the hint of a menace which she 
 had thrown out. Business is business, and must 
 take precedence of all sentiment and romance 
 in this hard world in which bread is so neces- 
 sary. Of that Madame Gordeloup was well 
 aware. And therefore, having given herself but 
 two short minutes to weep over her Julie's hard- 
 ness, she applied her mind at once to the rec- 
 tification of the error she had made. Yes, she 
 had been wrong about the lawyer — certainly 
 wrong. But then these English people were so 
 pig-headed ! A slight suspicion of a hint, such 
 as that she had made, would have been taken by 
 a Frenchman, by a Russian, by a Pole, as mean- 
 ing no more than it meant. "But these En- 
 glish are bulls ; the men and the women are all 
 like bulls— bulls !" 
 
 She at once sat down and wrote another let- 
 ter—another in such an ecstasy of eagerness to 
 remove the evil impressions which she had made, 
 that she wrote it almost with the natural effu- 
 sions of her heart. 
 
 "Deak Friend,— Tour coldness kills me— 
 kills me ! But perhaps I have deserved it. If 
 I said there were legal demands I did deserve it. 
 No, there are none. Legal demands ! Oh no. 
 What can your poor friend demand legally? 
 
 The lawyer — he knows nothing; he was a 
 stranger. It was my brother spoke to him. 
 What should I do with a lawyer? Oh, my 
 friend, do not be angry with your poor servant. 
 I write now not to ask for money, but for a kind 
 word — for one word of kindness and love to your 
 Sophie before she have gone forever — yes, for- 
 ever. Oh, Julie — oh, my angel, I would lie at 
 your feet and kiss them if you were here. 
 
 "Yours till death, even though you should 
 still be hard to me, Sophie." 
 
 To this appeal Lady. Ongar sent no direct an- 
 swer, but she commissioned Mr. TurnbuU, her 
 lawyer, to call upon Madame Gordeloup and pay 
 to that lady one hundred pounds, taking her re- 
 ceipt for the same. Lady Ongar, in her letter to 
 the lawyer, explained that the woman in question 
 had been useful in Florence, and explained also 
 that she might pretend that she had farther 
 claims. "If so," said Lady Ongar, "I wish 
 you to tell her that she can prosecute them at 
 law if she pleases. The money I now give her 
 is a gratuity made for certain services rendered 
 in Florence during the illness of Lord Ongar." 
 This commission Mr. TurnbuU executed, and 
 Sophie Gordeloup, when taking the money, 
 made no demand for any farther payment. 
 
 Four days after this a little woman, carrying 
 a very big bandbox in her hands, might have 
 been seen to scramble with difficulty out of a 
 boat in the Thames up the side of a steamer 
 bound from thence for Boulogne ; and after her 
 there climbed up an active little man, who, with 
 peremptory voice, repulsed the boatman's de- 
 mand for farther payment. He also had a 
 bandbox on his arm, belonging, no doubt, to the 
 little woman. And it might have been seen 
 that the active little man, making his way to 
 the table at which the clerk of the boat was 
 sitting, out of his own purse paid the passage- 
 money for two passengers through to Paris. 
 And the head, and legs, and neck of that little 
 man were like to the head, and legs, and neck 
 of — our friend Doodles, alias Captain Boodle, 
 of Warwickshire. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVn. 
 
 SHOWING HOW THINGS SETTLED THEMSELVES 
 AT THE BEOTORT. 
 
 When Harry's letter, with the tidings of the 
 fate of his cousins, reached Florence at Strai- 
 ten, the whole family was, not unnaturally, 
 thrown into great excitement. Being slow peo- 
 ple, the elder Burtons had hardly as yet real- 
 ized the fact that Harry was again to be accept- 
 ed among the Burton Penates as a pure divini- 
 ty. Mrs. Burton, for some weeks past, had 
 grown to be almost snbliriie in her wrath 
 against him. That a man should live and' 
 treat her daughter as Florence was about to be 
 treated ! Had not her husband forbidden such 
 a journey, as being useless in regard to the ex- 
 
204 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 penditure, she would have gone up to London 
 that she might have told Harry what she thought 
 of him. Then came the news that Harry was 
 again a, divinity — an Apollo, whom the Burton 
 I'enates ought only to be too proud to welcome 
 to a seat among them ! 
 
 And now came this other news that this 
 Apollo was to be an Apollo indeed ! When the 
 god first became a god again, there was still a 
 cloud upon the minds of the elder Burtons as 
 to the means by which the divinity was to be 
 sustained. A god in truth, but a god with so 
 very moderate an annual income — unless, in- 
 deed, those old Burtons made it up to an extent 
 which seemed to them to be quite unnatural ! 
 There was joy among the Burtons, of course, 
 but the joy was somewhat dimmed by these re- 
 flections as to the slight means of their Apollo. 
 A lover who was not an Apollo might wait ; but, 
 as they had learned already, there was danger 
 in keeping such a god as this suspended on the 
 tenter-hooks of expectation. 
 
 But now there came the farther news ! This 
 Apollo of theirs had really a place of his own 
 among the gods of Olympus. He was the eld- 
 est son of a man of large fortune, and would be 
 a baronet! He had already declared that he 
 would marry at once — that his father wished 
 him to do so, and that an abundant income 
 would be forthcoming. As to his eagerness for 
 an immediate marriage, no divinity in or out 
 of the heavens could behave better. Old Mrs. 
 Burton, as she went through the process of tak- 
 ing him again to her heart, remembered that 
 that virtue had been his even before the days 
 of his backsliding had come — a warm-heart- 
 ed, eager, affectionate divinity, with only this 
 against him, that he wanted some careful look- 
 ing after in these, his unsettled days. ' ' I real- 
 ly do think that he'll be as fond of his own fire- 
 side as any other man, when he has once set- 
 tled down," said Mrs. Burton. 
 
 It will not, I hope, be taken as a blot on the 
 character of this mother that she was much 
 elated at the prospect of the good things which 
 were to fall to her daughter's lot. For herself 
 she desired nothing. For her daughters she 
 had coveted only good, substantial, painstaking 
 husbands, who would fear God and mind their 
 business. When Harry Clavering had come 
 across her path and had demanded a daughter 
 from her, after the manner of the other young 
 men who had learned the secrets of their profes- 
 sion at Stratton, she had desired nothing more 
 than that he and Florence should walk in the 
 path which had been followed by her sisters and 
 their husbands. But then had come that ter- 
 rible fear, and now had come these golden pros- 
 pects. That her daughter should be Lady Cla- 
 vering, of Clavering Park ! She could not but be 
 elated at the thought of it. She would not live 
 to see it, but the consciousness that it would be 
 so was pleasant to her in her old age. Flor- 
 ence had ever been regarded as the flower of 
 the flock, and now she would be taken up into 
 high places, according to her deserts. 
 
 First had come the letter from Harry, and 
 then, after an interval of a week, another letter 
 from Mrs. Clavering, pressing her dear Florence 
 to go to the parsonage . ' ' We think that at pres- 
 ent we all ought to be together," said Mrs. Cla- 
 vering, " and therefore we want you to be with 
 us." It was very flattering. "I suppose I 
 'ought to go, mamma," said Florence. Mrs. 
 Burton was of opinion that she certainly ought 
 to go. "You should write to her ladyship at 
 once," said Mrs. Burton, mindful of the change 
 which had taken place. Florence, however, 
 addressed her letter, as heretofore, to Mrs. Cla- 
 vering, thinking that a mistake on that side 
 would be better than a mistake on the other. 
 It was not for her to be over-mindful of the 
 rank with which she was^bout to be connected. 
 "Ton won't forget your old mother now that 
 you are going to be so grand ?" said Mrs. Bur- 
 ton, as Florence was leaving her. 
 
 "You only say that to laugh at me," said 
 Florence. " I expect no grandness, and I am 
 sure you expect no forgetfulness." 
 
 The solemnity consequent upon the first news 
 of the accident had worn itself off, and Florence 
 found the family at the parsonage happy and 
 comfortable. Mrs. Fielding was still there, and , 
 Mr. Fielding was expected again after the next 
 Sunday. Fanny also was there, and Florence 
 could see during the first half hour that she was 
 very radiant. Mr. Saul, however, was not there, 
 and it may as well be said at once that Mr. Saul 
 as yet knew nothing of his coming fortune. 
 Florence was received with open arms by them 
 all, and by Harry with arms which were almost 
 too open. "I suppose it may be in about 
 three weeks from now, " he said at the first mo- 
 ment in which he could have her to himself. 
 
 "Oh Harry — no," said Florence. 
 
 "No — why no? That's what my mother 
 proposes." 
 
 "In three weeks! She could not have said 
 that. Nobody has begun to think of such a 
 thing yet at Stratton." 
 
 "They are so very slow at Stratton!" 
 
 "And you are so very fast at Clavering! 
 But, Harry, we don't know where we are going 
 to live." 
 
 " We should go abroad at first, I suppose." 
 
 "And what then? That would only be for 
 a month or so." 
 
 " Only for a month ? I mean for all the win- 
 ter^ — and the spring. Why not? One can see 
 nothing in a month. If we are back for the 
 shooting next year, that would do ; and then, 
 of course, we should come here. I should say 
 next winter — that is, the winter after the next ; 
 we might as well stay with them at the big 
 house, and then we could look about us, yon 
 know. I should like a place near to this, be- 
 cause of the hunting." 
 
 Florence, when she heard all this, became 
 aware that in talking about a month she had 
 forgotten herself. She had been accustomed to 
 holidays of a month's duration, and to honey- 
 moon trips fitted to such vacations. A month 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 205 
 
 was the longest holiday ever heard of in the 
 chambers in the Adelphi, or at the house in 
 Onslow Crescent. She had forgotten herself. 
 It was not to be the lot of her husband to earn 
 his bread, and fit himself to such periods as 
 business might req^uire. Then Harry went on 
 describing the tour which he had arranged — 
 which, as he said, he only suggested. But it 
 was quite apparent that in this matter he intend- 
 ed to be paramount. Florence indeed made 
 no objection. To spend a fortnight in Paris — 
 to hurry over the Alps before the cold weather 
 came — to spend a month in Florence, and then 
 go on to Rome — it would all be very nice. But 
 she declared that it would suit the next year 
 better than this. 
 
 " Suit ten thousand fiddlesticks," said Harry. 
 "But it is October now." 
 "And therefore there is no time to lose." 
 "I haven't a dress in the world but the one 
 I have on, and a few others like it. Oh, Har- 
 ry, how can you talk in that way ?" 
 
 " Well, say four weeks then from now. That 
 will make it the seventh of November, and we'll 
 only stay a day or two in Paris. We can do 
 Paris next year — in May. If you'll agree to 
 that, I'll agree." 
 
 But Florence's breath was taken away from 
 her, and she could agree to nothing. She did 
 agree to nothing tiU she had been talked into 
 doing so by Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "My deal-," said her future mother-in-law, 
 "what you say is undoubtedly true. , There is 
 no absolute necessity for hurrying. It is not 
 an afi'air of life and death. But you and Harry 
 have been engaged quite long enough now, and 
 I really don't see why you should put it off. If 
 you do as he asks you, you will just have time 
 to make yourselves comfortable before the cold 
 weather begins." 
 
 "But mamma will be so surprised." 
 "I'm sure she will wish it, my dear. You 
 see Han-y is a young man of that sort — so im- 
 petuous I mean, you know, and so eager— and 
 
 so you know what I mean — th'at the sooner he 
 
 is married the better. Ton can't but take it as 
 a compliment, Florence, that he is so eager." 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 " And you should reward him. Believe me, 
 it will be best that it should not be delayed." 
 Whether or no Mrs. Clavering had present in 
 her imagination the possibility of any farther 
 danger that might result from Lady Ongar, I 
 will not say, but if so she altogether failed in 
 communicating her idea to Florence. 
 
 "Then I must go home at once," said Flor- 
 ence, driven almost to bewail the terrors of her 
 position. 
 
 "You can write home at once and tell your 
 mother You can tell her all that I say, and I 
 am sure, she will agree with me. If you wish 
 it, I will write a line to Mrs. Burton myself. 
 Florence said that she would wish it. And 
 we can begin, you know, to get your things 
 ready here. People don't take so long^out 
 all that nowadays as they used to do." 
 
 When 
 
 Mrs. Clavering had turned against her, Florence 
 knew that she had no hope, and surrendered, 
 subject to the approval of the higher authorities 
 at Stratton. The higher authorities at Stratton 
 approved also, of course, and Florence found 
 herself fixed to a day with a suddenness that be- 
 wildered her. Immediately — almost as soon as 
 the consent had been extorted from her — she be- 
 gan to be surrounded with incipient preparation 
 for the event, as to which, about three weeks 
 since, she had made up her mind that it would 
 never come to pass. 
 
 On the second day of her arrival, in the pri- 
 vacy of her bedroom, Fanny communicated to 
 her the decision of her family in regard to Mr. 
 Saul. But she told the story at first as though 
 this decision referred to the living only — as 
 though the rectory were to be conferred on Mr. 
 Saul without any burden attached to it. " He 
 has been here so long, dear," said Fanny, " and 
 understands the people so well." 
 
 "I am so delighted," said Florence. 
 "I am sure it is the best thing papa could do 
 — that is, if he quite makes up his mind to give 
 up the parish himself." 
 
 This troubled Florence, who did not know 
 that a baronet could hold a living. 
 
 "I thought he must give up being a clergy- 
 man now that Sir Hugh is dead ?" 
 
 " Oh dear, no." And then Fanny, who was 
 great on ecclesiastical subjects, explained it all. 
 " Even though he were to be a peer, he could 
 hold a living if he pleased. A great many bar- 
 onets are clergymen, and some of them do hold 
 preferments. As to papa, the doubt has been 
 with him whether he would wish to give up the 
 work. But he will preach sometimes, you know, 
 though of course he will not be able to do that 
 unless Mr, Saul lets him. No one but the rec- 
 tor has a right to his own pulpit except the bish- 
 op, and he can preach three times a year if he 
 likes it." 
 
 " And suppose the bishop wanted to preach 
 four times ?" 
 
 "He couldn't do it — at 'least I believe not. 
 But, you see, be never wants to preach at all — 
 not in such a place as this — so that does not 
 signify." 
 
 "And will Mr. Saul come and live here, in 
 this house ?" • 
 
 " Some day I suppose he will," said Fanny, 
 blushing. 
 
 "And you, dear?" 
 " I don't know how that may he." 
 " Come, Fanny." 
 
 "Indeed I don't, Florence, or I would tell 
 you. Of course Mr. Saul has asked me. I 
 never had any secret with you about that — 
 have I?" 
 
 "No; you were very good." 
 "Then he asked me again — twice again. 
 And then there came — oh, such a quarrel be- 
 tween him and papa. It was so terrible. Do 
 you know, I believe they wouldn't speak in the 
 vestry ! Not but what each of them has the 
 highest possible opinion of the other. But of 
 
206 
 
 THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 course Mr. Saul couldn't marry on a curacy. 
 When I think of it it really seems that he must 
 have been mad." 
 
 " But you don't think him so mad now, dear." 
 " He doesn't know a word about it yet — not 
 a word. He hasn't been in the house since, and 
 papa and he didn't speak — not in a friendly way 
 — till the news came of poor Hugh's being 
 drowned. Then he came up to papa, and, of 
 course, papa took his hand. But he still thinks 
 he is going away. " 
 
 ' ' And when is he to be told that he needn't 
 ■ go?" 
 
 "That is the difficulty. Mamma will have 
 to do it, I believe. But what she will say I'm 
 sure I, for one, can't think." 
 
 " Mrs. Clavering will have no difficulty." 
 " Tou mustn't call her Mrs. Clavering." 
 " Lady Clavering, then." 
 "That's a great deal worse. She's your 
 mamma now — not quite so much as she is mine, 
 but the next thing to it. " 
 
 " She'll know what to say to Mr. Saul." 
 " But what is she to say ?" 
 "Well, Fanny, you ought to know that. I 
 suppose you do — love him ?" 
 ' ' I have never told him so. " 
 "But you will?" 
 
 " It seems so odd. Mamma will have to — 
 Suppose he were to turn round and say he didn't 
 want me." 
 
 "That would be awkward." 
 " He would in a minute, if that was what he 
 felt. The idea of having the living would not 
 weigh with him a bit." 
 
 " But when he was so much in love before, it 
 won't make him out of love — will it ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Fanny. " At any rate, 
 mamma is to see him to-morroiV, and after that 
 I suppose — I'm sure I don't know — ^but I sup- 
 pose he'll come to the rectory as he used to do." 
 " How happy you must be," said Plorence, 
 kissing her. To this Fanny made some unin- 
 telligible demur. It was undoubtedly possible 
 that, under the altered circumstances of the case, 
 so strange a being as Mr. Saul might have 
 changed his mind. 
 
 There was a great trial awaiting Florence 
 Burton. She had to be taken up to call on the 
 ladies at the great house — on the two widowed 
 ladies who were still remaining there when she 
 came to Clavering. It was only on the day be- 
 fore her arrival that Harry had seen Lady On- 
 gar. He had thought much of the matter before 
 he went across to the house, doubting whether 
 it would not be better to let Julia go without 
 troubling her with a farther interview. But he 
 had not then seen even Lady Clavering since 
 the tidings of her bereavement had come, and 
 he felt that it would not be well that he should 
 let his cousin's widow leave Clavering without 
 offering her his sympathy. And it might be 
 better, also, that he should see Julia once again, 
 if only that he might show" himself capable of 
 meeting her without the exhibition of any pe- 
 culiar emotion . He went, therefore, to the house, 
 
 and having inquired for Lady Clavering, saw 
 both the sisters together. He soon found that 
 the presence of the younger one was a relief to 
 him. Lady Clavering was so sad, and so peev- 
 ish in her sadness — so broken-spirited, so far as 
 yet from recognizing the great enfranchisement 
 that had come to her, that with her alone he 
 would have found himself almost unable to ex- 
 press the sympathy which he felt. But with 
 Lady Ongar he had no difficulty. Lady Ongar, 
 her sister being with them in the room, talked 
 to him easily, as though there had never been 
 any thing between them two to make conversa- 
 tion difficult. That all words between them 
 should, on such an occas'ion as this, be sad, was 
 a matter of course ; but it seemed to Harry that 
 Julia had freed herself from all the effects of 
 that feeling which had existed between them, 
 and that it would become him to do this as ef- 
 fectually as she had done it. Such an idea, at 
 least, was in his mind for a moment ; but when 
 he left her she spoke one word which dispelled 
 it. "Harry," she said, "you must ask Miss 
 Burton to come across and see me. I hear that 
 she is to be at the rectory to-morrow." Harry of 
 course said that he would send her. " She will 
 understand why I can not go to her, as I should 
 do — but for poor Hermy's position. You will 
 explain this, Harry." Harry, blushing up to his 
 forehead, declared that Florence would require 
 no explanation, and that she would certainly 
 make the visit as proposed. " I wish to see her, 
 Harry — so much. And if I do not see her now, 
 I may never have another chance." 
 
 It was nearly a week after this that Florence 
 went across to the great house with Mrs. Cla- 
 vering and Fanny. I think that she understood 
 the nature of the visit she was called upon to 
 make, and no doubt she trembled much at the 
 coming ordeal. She was going to see her great 
 rival — her rival, who had almost been preferred 
 to her — nay, who had been preferred to her for 
 some short space of time, and whose claims as 
 to beauty and wealth were so greatly superior 
 to her own. And this woman whom she was 
 to see had been the first love of the man whom 
 she now regarded as her own, and would have 
 been about to be his wife at this moment had it 
 not been for her own treachery to him. Was 
 she so beautiful as people said ? Florence, in 
 the bottom of her heart, wished that, she might 
 have been saved from this interview. 
 
 The three ladies from the rectory found the 
 two ladies at the great house sitting together in 
 the small drawing-room. Florence was so con- 
 fused that she could hardly bring herself to 
 speak to Lady Clavering, or so much as look at 
 Lady Ongar. She shook hands with the elder 
 sister, and knew that her hand was then taken 
 by the other. Julia at first spoke a very few 
 words to Mrs. Clavering, and Fanny sat herself 
 down beside Hevmione. Floi-ence took a chair 
 at a little distance, and was left there for a few 
 minutes without notice. For this she was very 
 thankful, and by degrees was able to fix her eyes 
 on the face of the woman whom she so feared to 
 
THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 207 
 
 see, and yet on whom she so desired to look. La- 
 dy Clavering was a mass of ill-arranged widow's 
 weeds. She had assumed in all its grotesque 
 ugliness those paraphernalia of outward woe 
 which women have been condemned to wear, in 
 or^er that for a time they may be shorn of all 
 the charms of their sex. Nothing could be 
 more proper or Unbecoming than the heavy, 
 drooping, shapeless blackness in which Lady 
 Clavering had enveloped herself. But Lady 
 Ongar, though also a widow, though as yet a 
 widow of not twelve months' standing, was 
 dressed — in weed?, no doubt, but in weeds which 
 had been so cultivated that they were as good 
 as flowers. She was very beautiful. Florence 
 owned to herself, as she sat there in silence, 
 that Lady Ongar was the most beautiful woman 
 she had ever seen. But hers was not the 
 beauty by which, as she would have thought, 
 Harry Clavering would have been attracted. 
 Lady Ongar's form, bust, and face were, at this 
 period of her life, almost majestic, whereas the 
 softness and grace of womanhood were the 
 charms which Harry loved. He had sometimes 
 said to Florence that, to his taste, Cecilia Bur- 
 ton was almost perfect as a woman ; and there 
 could be no contrast greate» than that between 
 Cecilia Burton and Lady Ongar. But Florence 
 did not remember that the Julia Brabazon of 
 three year's since had not been the same as the 
 Lady Ongar whom now she saw. 
 
 When they had been there some minutes 
 Lady Ongar came and sat beside Florence, 
 moving her seat as though she were doing the 
 most natural thing in the world. Florence's 
 heart came to her mouth, but she made a resolu- 
 tion that she would, if possible, bear herself 
 well. ' ' You have been at Clavering before, I 
 think," said Lady Ongar. Florence said that 
 she had been at the parsonage during the last 
 Easter. "Yes, I heard that you dined here 
 with my brother-in-law." This she said in a 
 low voice, having seen that Lady Clavering was 
 engaged with Fanny and Mrs. Clavering. ' ' Was 
 it not terribly sudden ?" 
 
 " Terribly sudden," said Florence. 
 
 " The two brothers ! Had you not met Cap- 
 tain Clavering?" 
 
 " Yes ; he was here when I dined with your 
 sister." 
 
 "Poor fellow! Is it not odd that thej 
 should have gone, and that their friend, whose 
 yacht it was, should have been saved ? They 
 say, however, that Mr. Stuart behaved admira- 
 bly, begging his friends to get into the boat first. 
 He staid by the vessel when the boat was carried 
 away, and he was saved in that way. But he 
 meant to do the best he could for them. There's 
 no doubt of that." 
 
 " But how dreadful his feelings must be !" 
 
 " Men do not think so jnuch of these things 
 as we do. They have so much more to employ 
 their minds. Don't you think so ?" Florence 
 did not at the moment quite know what she 
 thought about men's feelings, but said that she 
 supposed that such was the case. " But I think 
 
 that, after all, they are juster than we are," con- 
 tinued Lady Ongai- — "juster and truer, though 
 not so tender-hearted. Mr. Stuart, no doubt, 
 would have been willing to drown himself to 
 save his friends, because the fault was in some 
 degree his. I don't know that I should have 
 been able to do so much." 
 
 "In such a moment, it must have been so 
 diflScult to think of what ought to be done." 
 
 ' ' Yes, indeed ; and there is but little good in 
 speculating upon it now. You know this place, 
 do you not — the house I mean, and the gar- 
 dens ?" 
 
 "Not very well." Florence, as she answered 
 this question, began again to tremble. "Take 
 a turn with me, and I will show you the garden. 
 My hat and cloak are in the hall." Then Flor- 
 ence got up to accompany her, trembling very 
 much inwardly. " Miss Burton and I are go- 
 ing out for a few minutes," said Lady Ongar, 
 addressing herself to Mrs. Clavering. "We 
 will not keep you waiting very long." 
 
 "We are in no hurry," said Mrs. Clavering. 
 Then Florence was carried off, and found herself 
 alone with her conquered rival. 
 
 "Not that there is much to show you," said 
 Lady Ongar — " indeed nothing; but the place 
 must be of more interest to you than to any one 
 else, and if you are fond of that sort of thing, 
 no doubt you will. make it all that is charm- 
 ing." 
 
 "I am very fond of a garden," said Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 "I don't know whether I am. Alone, by 
 myself, I think I should care nothing for the 
 prettiest Eden in all England. I don't think I 
 would care for a walk through the Elysian fields 
 by myself. I am a chameleon, and take the 
 color of those with whom I live. My future 
 colors will not be very bright, as I take it. It's a 
 gloomy place enough, is it not ? But there are 
 fine trees, you see, which are the only things 
 which one can not by any possibility command. 
 Given good trees, taste and money may do any 
 thing very quickly, as I have no doubt you'll 
 find." 
 
 "I don't suppose I shall have much to do 
 with it — at present. " 
 
 " I should think that you will have every 
 thing to do with it. There, Miss Burton, I 
 brought you here to show you this very spot, 
 and to make to you my confession here, and to 
 get from you, here, one word of confidence, if 
 you will give it me." Florence was trembling 
 now outwardly as well as inwardly. "You 
 know my story — as far, I mean, as I had a story 
 once, in conjunction with Harry Clavering ?" 
 
 " I think I do," said Florence. 
 
 "I am sure you do," said Lady Ongar. "He 
 has told me that you do, and what he says is 
 always true. It was here, on this spot, that I 
 gave him back his troth to me, and told him 
 that I would have none of his love, because he 
 was poor. That is barely two years ago. Now 
 he is poor no longer. Now, had I been true to 
 him, a man'iage with him would have been, in 
 
208 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 a prudential point of view, all that any woman 
 could desire. I gave up the dearest heart, the 
 sweetest temper, ay, and the truest man that, 
 that — "Well, you have won him instead, and 
 he has been the gainer. I doubt whether I ever 
 should have made him happy, but I know that 
 you will do so. It was just here that I parted 
 from him." 
 
 ' ' He has told me of that parting, " said Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 "I am sure he has. And, Miss Burton, if 
 you will allow me to say one word farther — do 
 not be made to think any ill of him because of 
 what happened the other day." ' 
 
 ' ' I think no ill of him, " said Florence, proudly. 
 
 ' ' That is well. But I am sure you do not. 
 You ara not one to think evil, as I take it, of 
 any body, much less of him whom you love. 
 When he saw me again, free as I am, and when 
 I saw him, thinking him also to be free, was it 
 strange that some memory of old days should 
 come back upon us ? But the fault, if fault 
 there has been, was mine." 
 
 " I have never said that there was any fault." 
 
 "No, Miss Burton, but others have said so. 
 No doubt I am foolish to talk to you in this 
 way, and I have not yet said that which I de- 
 sired to say. It is simply this — that I do not 
 begrudge you your happiness. I wished the 
 same happiness to be mine, but it is not mine. 
 It might have been, but I forfeited it. It is 
 past, and I will pray that you may enjoy it long. 
 You will not refuse to receive my congratula- 
 tions ?" 
 
 " Indeed I will not." 
 
 "Or to think of me as a friend of your hus- 
 band's?" 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 "That is all, then. I have shown you the 
 gardens, and now we may go in. Some day, 
 perhaps, when you are Lady Paramount here, 
 and your children are running about the place, 
 I may come again to see them — if you and he 
 will have me." 
 
 "I hope you will. Lady Ongar. In truth I 
 hope so." 
 
 "It is odd enough that I said to him once 
 that I would never go to Clavering Park again 
 till I went there to see his wife. That was long 
 before those two poor brothers perished — before 
 I had ever heard of Florence Burton. And yet, 
 indeed, it was not very long ago. It was since 
 my husband died. But that was not quite true, 
 for here I am, and he has not yet got a wife. 
 But it was odd, was it not ?" 
 
 " I can not think what should have made you 
 say that." 
 
 " A spirit of prophecy comes on one some- 
 times, I suppose. Well, shall we go in ? I 
 have shown you all the wonders of the garden, 
 and told you all the wonders connected with it 
 of which I know aught. No doubt there would 
 be other wonders more wonderful, if one could 
 ransack the private history of all tlie Claverings 
 for the last hundred years. I hope, Miss Burton, 
 that any marvels which may attend your career 
 
 here may be -happy marvels." She then took 
 Florence by the hand, and, drawing close to her, 
 stooped over and kissed her. " You will think 
 me a fool, of course," said she, " but I do not 
 care for that." Florence now was in tears, and 
 could make no answer in words ; but she press- 
 ed the hand which she still held, and then fol- 
 lowed her companion back into the house. Aft- 
 er that the visit was soon brought to an end, and 
 the three ladies from the rectory returned across 
 the park to their house. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVm. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Florence Btikton had taken upon herself 
 to say that Mrs. Clavering would have no diffi- 
 culty in making to Mr. Saul the communication 
 which was now needed before he could be re- 
 ceived at the rectory, as the rector's successor 
 and future son-in-law ; but Mrs. Clavering was 
 by no means so confident of her own powers. 
 To her it seemed as though the undertaking 
 which she had in hand, was one surrounded 
 with difficulties. Her husband, when the mat- 
 ter was being discussed, at once made her un- 
 derstand that he would not relieve her by an 
 offer to perform the task. He had been made 
 to break the bad news to Lady Clavering, and, 
 having been submissive in that matter, felt him- 
 self able to stand aloof altogether as to this more 
 difficult embassy. ' ' I suppose it would hardly 
 do to ask Harry to see him again," Mrs. Claver- 
 ing had said. " You would do it much better, 
 my dear," the rector had replied. Then Mrs. 
 Clavering had submitted in her turn ; and when 
 the scheme was fully matured, and the time had 
 come in which the making of the proposition 
 could no longer be delayed with prudence, Mr. 
 Saul was summoned by a short note. "Dear 
 Mk. Saul, — If you are disengaged, would you 
 come to me at the rectory at eleven to-morrow? 
 Yours ever, M. C." Mr. Saul of course said 
 that he would come. When the to-morrow had 
 arrived and breakfast was over, the rector and 
 Harry took themselves off somewhere about the 
 grounds of the great house, counting up their 
 treasures of proprietorship, as we can fancy that 
 men so circumstanced would do, while Maiy 
 Fielding, with Fanny and Florence, retired up 
 stairs, so that they might be well out of the way. 
 They knew, all of them, what was about to be 
 done, and Fanny behaved herself like a white 
 lamb, decked with bright ribbons for the sacri- 
 ficial altar. To her it was a sacrificial morn- 
 ing — very sacred, very solemn, and very trying 
 to the nerves. 
 
 " I don't think that any girl was ever in such 
 a position before," sjie said to her sister. 
 
 ' ' A great many girls would be glad to be in 
 the same position," Mrs. Fielding replied. 
 
 "Do you tliink so ? To me there is some- 
 thing almost humiliating in the idea that he 
 should be asked to tnke me." 
 
THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 209 
 
 " Fiddlestick, my dear," replied Mrs. Field- 
 
 ing. 
 
 Mr. Saul came, punctual as the church clock, 
 of which he had the regulating himself, and was 
 shown into the rectory dining-room, where Mrs. 
 Clavering was sitting alone. He looked, as he 
 ever did, serious, composed, ill dressed, and like 
 a gentleman. Of course he must have supposed 
 that the present rector would make some change 
 in his mode of living, and could not be surprised 
 that he should have been summoned to the rec- 
 tory; but he was surprised that the summons 
 should have come from Mrs. Clavering, and not 
 from the rector himself. It appeared to him 
 that the old enmity mlist be very enduring if, 
 even now, Mr. Clavering could not bring him- 
 self to see his curate on a matter of business. 
 
 "It seems a long time since we have seen 
 you here, Mr. Saul," said Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 " Yes ; when I have remembered how often 
 I used to be here, my absence has seemed long 
 and strange." 
 
 " It has been a source of great grief to me." 
 
 "And to me," Mrs. Clavering. 
 
 "But, as circumstances then were, in truth 
 it could not be avoided. Common prudence 
 made it necessary. Don't you think so, Mr. 
 Saul ?" 
 
 "If you ask me I must answer according to 
 my own ideas. Common prudence should not 
 have made it necessary — at least not according 
 to my view, of things. Common prudence, with 
 different people, means such different things ! 
 But I am not going to quarrel with your ideas 
 of common prudence, Mrs. Clavering." 
 
 Mrs. Clavering had begun badly, and was 
 aware of it. She should have said nothing 
 about the past. She had foreseen, from the 
 first, the danger of doing so, but had been una- 
 ble to rush at once into the golden future. "I 
 hope we shall have no more quarreling, at any 
 rate,'' she said. 
 
 "There shall be none on my part. Only, 
 Mrs. Clavering, you must not suppose, from my 
 saying so, that I intend to give up my preten- 
 sions. A word from your daughter would make 
 me do so, but no words from any one else." 
 
 "She ought to be very proud of such con- 
 stancy on your part, Mr. Saul, and I have no 
 doubt she will be." Mr. Saul did not under- 
 stand this, and made no reply to it. ,"I don't 
 know whether you have heard that Mr. Claver- 
 ing intends to— give up the living." 
 
 "I have not heard it. I have thought it 
 probable that he would do so." 
 
 " He has made up his mind that he will. The 
 fact is, that if he held it, he must neglect either 
 that or the property." We will not stop at this 
 moment to examine what Mr. Saul's ideas must 
 have been as to the exigencies of the property, 
 which would leave no time for the performance 
 of such clerical duties as had fallen for some 
 years past to the share of the rector himself. 
 "He hopes that he maybe allowed to take some 
 part in the services, but he means to resign the 
 
 living." 
 
 O 
 
 " I suppose that will not much affect me for 
 the little time that I have to remain " 
 
 "We think it will affect you, and hope that 
 it may. Mr. Clavering wishes you to accept the 
 living." 
 
 " To accept the living ?" And for a moment 
 even Mr. Saul looked as though he were sur- 
 prised. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Saul." 
 " To be rector of Clavering ?" 
 "If you see no objection to such an arrange- 
 ment." 
 
 " It is a most munificent offer, hut as strange 
 as it is munificent. Unless, indeed — " And 
 then some glimpse of the truth made its way 
 into the chinks of Mr. Saul's mind. 
 
 " Mr. Clavering would, no doubt, have made 
 the offer to you himself had it not been that I 
 can, perhaps, speak to you about dear Fanny 
 better than he could. Though our prudence has 
 not been quite to your mind, you can, at any 
 rate, understand that we might very much ob- 
 ject to her marrying you when there was noth- 
 ing for you to live on, even though we had no 
 objection to yourself personally. " 
 
 "But Mr. Clavering did object on both 
 grounds." , 
 
 " I was not aware that he had done so ; but, 
 if so, no such objection is now made by him — 
 or by me. My idea is that a child should he 
 allowed to consult her own heart, and to indulge 
 her own choice, provided that in doing so she 
 does not prepare for herself a life of indigence, 
 which must be a life of misery ; and of course 
 providing also that there be no strong personal 
 objection." 
 
 "A life of indigence need not be a life of 
 misery," said Mr. Saul, with that obstinacy 
 which formed so great a part of his character. 
 " Well, well." 
 
 " I am very indigent, but I am not at all mis- 
 erable. If we are to be made miserable by that, 
 what is the use of all our teaching ?" 
 
 "But, at any rate, a, competence is comfort- 
 able." 
 
 " Too comfortable !" As Mr. Saul made this 
 exclamation, Mrs. Clavering could not but won- 
 der at her daughter's taste. But the matter 
 had gone too far now for any possibility of re- 
 ceding. 
 
 ' ' You will not refuse it, I hope, as it will be 
 accompanied by what you say you still desire." 
 "No, I will not refuse it. And may God 
 give her and me grace so to use the riches of 
 this world that they become not a stumbling- 
 block to us, and a rock of offense. It is possi- 
 ble that the camel should be made to go through 
 the needle's eye. It is possible." 
 
 " The position, you know, is not one of great 
 wealth." 
 
 " It is to me, who have barely hitherto had 
 the means of support. Will you tell your hus- 
 band from me that I will accept, and endeavor 
 not to betray the double trust he proposes to 
 confer on me ? It is much that he should give 
 to me his daughter. She shall be to me bone 
 
210 
 
 THE CLAVEEINGS. 
 
 of my bonO) and flesh of my flesh. If God will 
 give me his grace thereto, I will watch over her, 
 so that no harm shall come nigh her. I love 
 her as the apple of jny eye ; and I am thankful 
 — very thankful that the rich gift should be made 
 to me." 
 
 " I am sure that you love her, Mr. Saul." 
 
 " But," continued he, not marking her inter- 
 ruption, "that othAr trust is one still greater, 
 and requiring a more tender care and even a 
 closer sympathy. I shall feel that the souls of 
 these people will be, as it were, in my hand, and 
 that I shall bo called upon to give an account 
 of their welfare. I will strive — I will strive. 
 And she, also, will be with me to help me." 
 
 When Mrs. Clavering described this scene to 
 her husband, he shook his head, and there came 
 over his face a smile, in which there was much 
 of melancholy, as he said, "Ah ! yes, that is all 
 very well now. He will settle down as other 
 men do, I suppose, when he has four or five 
 children aroun^ him." Such were the ideas 
 which the experience of the outgoing and elder 
 clergyman taught him to entertain as to the 
 ecstatic piety of his younger brother. 
 
 It was Mrs. Clavering who suggested to Mr. 
 Saul that perhaps he wy)uld like to see Panny. 
 This she did when her story had been told, and 
 he was preparing to leave her. " Certainly, if 
 she will come to me. " 
 
 "I will make no promise," said Mrs. Claver- 
 ing, " but I will see." Then she went up stairs 
 to the room where the girls were sitting, and the 
 sacrificial lamb was sent down into the drawing- 
 room. " I suppose, if you say so, mamma — " 
 
 "I think, my dear, that you had better see 
 him. You will meet then more comfortably 
 afterward." So Panny went into the drawing- 
 room, and Mr. Saul was sent to her there. What 
 passed between them all readers of these pages 
 will understand. Few young ladies, I fear, will 
 envy Fanny Clavering her lover ; but they will 
 remember that Love will still be lord of all, and 
 they will acknowledge that he had done much 
 to deserve the success in life which had come in 
 his way. 
 
 It was long before the old rector could recon- 
 cile himself either to the new rector or his new 
 Qwr-JB-law. Mrs. Clavering had now so warmly 
 tajren up Fanny's part, and had so completely 
 ^sumed a mother's interest in her coming mar- 
 riage, that Mr. Clavering, or Sii' Henry, as we 
 may now call him, had found himself obliged to 
 abstain from repeating to her the wonder with 
 which he still regarded his daughter's choice. 
 But to Harry he could still be eloquent on the 
 subject. " Of course it's all right now," he said. 
 "He's a very good young man, and nobody would 
 work harder in the parish. I always thought I 
 was very lucky to have such an assistant ; but, 
 upon my word, I can not understand Fanny — I 
 can not, indeed." 
 
 " She has been taken by the religions side of 
 her character," said Harry. 
 
 "Yes, of course. And no doubt it is very 
 ■gratifying to me to see that she thinks so much 
 
 of religion. It should be the first consideration 
 with all of us at all times. But she has never 
 been used to men like Mr. Saul." 
 
 ' ' Nobody can deny that he is a gentleman. " 
 
 ' ' Yes, he is a gentleman ; God forbid that I 
 should say he was not, especially now that he is 
 going to marry your sister. But — I don't know 
 whether you quite understand what I mean." 
 t "I think I do. He isn't quite one of our 
 sort." *■ 
 
 "How on earth she can ever have brought 
 herself to look at him in that light !" 
 
 ""There's no accounting for tastes, sir. And, 
 after all, as he's to have the' living, there will be 
 nothing to regret." 
 
 " No, nothing to regret. I suppose he'll be 
 up at the other house occasionally? I never 
 could m^ke any thing of him when he dined at 
 the rectory ; perhaps he'll be better there. Per- 
 haps, when he's married, he'll get into the way 
 of drinking a glass of wine like any body else. 
 Dear Fanny, ,1 hope she'll be happy. That's 
 every thing." In answer to this, Harry took 
 upon himself to assure his father that Fanny 
 would be happy ; and then they changed the 
 conversation, and discussed the alterations which 
 they would make in reference to the preserva- 
 tion of pheasants. 
 
 Mr. Saul and Fanny remained long together 
 on that occasion, and when they parted he went 
 ofi' about his work, not saying a word to any 
 other person in the house, and she betook her- 
 self as fast as her feet could carry her to her 
 own room. She said not a word either to her 
 mother, or to her sister, or to Floi-ence as to 
 what had passed at that interview; but, when 
 she was first seen by any of them, she was very 
 grave in her demeanor, and very silent. When 
 her father congratulated her, which he did with 
 as much cordiality as he was able to assume, 
 she kissed him, and thanked him for his care 
 and kindness ; but even this she did almost 
 solemnly. "Ah! I see how it is to be," said 
 the old rector to his wife. " There are to be no 
 more cakes and ale in the parish." Then his 
 wife reminded him of what he himself had said 
 of the change which would take place in Mr. 
 Saul's ways when he should have a lot of chil- 
 dren running about his feet. Then I can only 
 hope that they'll begin to run about very soon," 
 said the old rector. 
 
 To her sister, Mary Fielding, Fanny said little 
 or nothing of her coming marriage, but to Flor- 
 ence, who, as regarded that event, was in the 
 same position as herself, she frequently did ex- 
 press her feelings, declaring how awful to her 
 was the responsibility of the thing she was about 
 to do. "Of course that's quite true, " said Flor- 
 ence, "but it doesn't make one doubt that one 
 is right to marry." 
 
 "I don't know," said Fanny. "When I 
 think of it, it does almost make me doubt." 
 
 " Then, if I were Mr. Saul, I would not let 
 you think of it at all." 
 
 "Ah! that shows that you do not under- 
 stand him. He would be the first to advise me 
 
THE CLAVERnSfGS. 
 
 211 
 
 to hesitate if he thought that — that — that — I 
 don't know that I can quite express what I 
 mean." 
 
 "Under those ciicnmstances Mr. Saul won't 
 think that — that — that — that — " 
 - " Oh, Florence, it is too serious for laughing 
 — it is, indeed." Then Florence also hoped that 
 a time might come, and that shortly, in which 
 Mr. Saul might moderate his views, though she' 
 did not express herself exactly as the rector had 
 done. 
 
 Immediately after this Florence went back 
 to Stratton, in order that she might pass what 
 remained to her of her freedom with her moth- 
 er and father, and that she might prepare her- 
 self for her wedding. The affair with her was 
 so much hurried that she had hardly time to 
 give her mind to those considerations which 
 were weighing so heavily on Fanny's mind. It 
 was felt by all the Burtons, especially by Cecilia, 
 that there was need for extension of their views 
 in regard to millinery, seeing that Florence was 
 to njarry the eldest son and heir of a baronet. 
 And old Mrs. Burton was awed almost into 
 acquiescence by the reflections which came upon 
 her when she thought of the breakfast, and of 
 the presence of Sir Henry Clavering. She at 
 once summoned her daughter-in-law from Rams- 
 gate to her assistance, and felt that all her ex- 
 perience, gathered from the wedding breakfasts 
 of so many elder daughters, would hardly carry 
 her through the difficulties of the present occa- 
 sion. 
 
 The two widowed sisters were still at the 
 great house when Sir Henry Clavering, with 
 Harry and Fanny, went to Stratton, but they 
 left it on the following day. The father and 
 son went up together to bid them farewell, on 
 the eve of their departure, and to press upon 
 them, over and over again, the fact that they 
 were still to regard the Claverings of Clavering 
 Park as their nearest relations and friends. 
 The eldest sister simply cried when this was 
 said to her — cried easily with plenteous tears, 
 till the weeds which enveloped her seemed to be 
 damp from the ever-running fountain. Hith- 
 erto to weep had been her only refuge ; bilt I 
 think that even this had already become prefer- 
 able to her former life. Lady Ongar assured 
 Sir Henry, or Mr. (jlavering, as he was still call- 
 ed till after their departure, that she would al- 
 ways remember and accept his kindness. " And 
 you will come to us?" said he.- "Certainly; 
 when I can make Hermy come. She will be 
 better when the summer is here. And then, 
 after that, we will think about it." On this oc- 
 casion she seemed to be quite cheerful herself, 
 and bade Harry farewell with all the frank af- 
 fection of an old friend. 
 
 "I have given up the house in Bolton btreet, 
 she said to him. 
 
 " And where do you mean to live i 
 
 "Any where; just as it may suit Hermy. 
 ■What difference does it make ? We are going 
 to Tenby now, and though Tenby seems to me 
 to have as few attractions as any place I ever 
 
 knew, I dare say we shall stay there,' simply be- 
 cause we shall he there. That is the consider- 
 ation which weighs most with such old women 
 as we are. Good-by, Harry." 
 
 " Good-by, Julia. I hope that I may yet see 
 you — you and Hermy, happy before long." 
 
 "I don't know much about happiness, Harry. 
 There comes a dream of it sometimes — such as 
 you have got now. But I will answer for this 
 — you shall never hear of my being downheart- 
 ed — at least not on my own account," she add- 
 ed, in a whisper, "Poor Hermy may some- 
 times drag me down; but I will do my best. 
 And, Harry, tell your wife that I shall write to 
 her occasionally — once a year, or something like 
 that, so that she need not be afraid. Good-by, 
 Harry." 
 
 "Good-by, Julia." And so they parted. 
 Immediately on her arrival at Tenby, Lady 
 Ongar communicated to Mr. Turnbull her in- 
 tention of giving back to the Courton family 
 not pnly the place called Ongar Park, but also 
 the whole of her income with the exception of 
 eight hundred a year, so that in that respect 
 she might be equal to her sister. This brought 
 Mr. Turnbull down to Tenby, and there was 
 interview after interview between the countess 
 land the lawyer. The proposition, however, was 
 made to the Courtpns, and was absolutely re- 
 fused by them. Ongar Park was accepted on 
 behalf of the mother of the present earl ; but as 
 regarded the money, the widow of the late eail 
 was assured by the elder surviving brother that 
 no one doubted her right to it, or would be a 
 party to accepting it from her. "Then," said 
 Lady Ongar, "it will accumulate. in my hands, 
 and I can leave it as I please in my will." 
 
 "As to that, no one can control you," said 
 her brother-in-law, who went to Tenby to see 
 her; "but you must not be angry if I advise 
 you not to make any such resolution. Such 
 hoards never have good results." This good 
 result, however, did come from the effort which 
 the poor broken-spirited woman was making— 
 that an intimacy, and at last a close friendship, 
 was formed between her and the relatives of 
 her deceased lord. 
 
 And now my story is done. My readers will 
 easily understand what would be the future life 
 of Harry Clavering and his wife after the com- 
 pletion of that tour in Italy and the birth of the 
 heir, the preparations for which made the tour 
 somewhat shorter than Harry had intended. 
 His father, of course, gave up to him the shoot- 
 ing, and the farming of the home farm, and, 
 after a while, the management of the proper- 
 ty. Sir Henry preached occasionally — believing 
 himself able to preach much oftener than he 
 did — and usually performed some portion of the 
 morning service. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Theodore Burton, in answer 
 to some comfortable remark from his wife, 
 "Providence has done very well for Florence. 
 And Providence has done very well for him 
 also ; but Providence was making a great mis- _ 
 take when he expected him to earn his bread." 
 
 END. 
 
By Miss Mulock. 
 
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 MISS MULOCK'S NOVELS. 
 
 She attempts to show how the trials, perplexities, joys, sorrows, labors, and successes of life deepen or wither the 
 character according to its inward bent. 
 
 She cares to teach, not how dishonesty is always plunging men into infinitely more complicated external difficulties 
 than it would in real life, but how any continued insincerity gradually darkens and corrupts the very life-springs of 
 the mind ; TWt how all events conspire to crush an unreal being who is to be the *' example" of .the story, but how 
 every event, adverse or fortunate, tends to strengthen and expand a high mind, and to break the springs of a selfish 
 or merely weak and self-indulgent nature. ' 
 
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 a large range of events— the influence of worldly successes and feilures— the risks of commercial enterprises— the 
 power of social position — in short, the various elements of a wider economy than that generally admitted into a tale. 
 
 She has a true respect for her works, and never permits herself to "make books," and yet she has evidently very 
 great fecility in making them. ^ 
 
 There are few writers who have exhibited a more marked progress, whether in fi-eedom of touch or in depth of 
 purpose, than the authoress of "The Ogilvies" and "John Halifax." 
 
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PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 DISTINGUISHED GENERALS. 
 
 By WILLIAM F. G. SHANKS. 
 
 PORTRAITS. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, Beveled Edges, $2 00, 
 
 Without fear or favor he exhibits to the read- 
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 He aims to illustrate not only their great mili- 
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 to record, and to embrace singular facts about 
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 unexpectedly upon it in the Dismal Swamp of 
 contemporaneous history. — N. Y. Heratd. 
 
 His book bears the mark of careful prepara- 
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 new facts in so fresh and vigorous a manner, 
 and with such apparent sincerity. — N. Y. Even- 
 ing Post. 
 
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 books called out by the recent war. — Albany 
 Journal. 
 
 A book of great interest. — Boston Transcript. 
 
 Mr. Shanks has added much to our national 
 collection by publishing the pen-portraits con- 
 tained in this volume. — N. Y. Citizen. 
 
 Nothing that we have seen so clearly presents 
 the characters and peculiarities of our leading 
 generals. — Hartford Press. 
 
 He writes well, criticises earnestly and freely, 
 but not maliciously, and has altogether given us 
 a volume which will find many and well-pleased 
 readers. — Baltimore American. 
 
 For a fresh, racy, and thoroughly readable 
 criticism on the leading military men of the day 
 — at least those who fought on the Northern side 
 in the recent straggle — commend us to Shanks, 
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 Generals" is a work calculated to create a sensa- 
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 pleasant to some of the parties whose merits and 
 demerits are discussed. — N. Y. Day Book. 
 
 It is not only pleasant reading, but contains 
 valuable history, besides giving us a most graphic 
 and distinct conception of the personal charac- 
 ters and idiosyncrasies of the great heroes of the 
 war. — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 The matter of these reminiscences is altogeth- 
 er fresh, and is extremely interesting. The an- 
 ecdotes are intimately personal, and are there- 
 fore more than ordinarily interesting. — N. Y. 
 Express. 
 
 A very readable volume of really interesting 
 personal reminiscences, which for independent 
 and severe criticism of characters and actions is 
 one of the most remarkable books of the day. — 
 Georgetown Cowier. 
 
 It is the most_ thoughtful volume we have 
 seen on topics connected with the war, and, as a 
 general thing, the most honest. — Chicago Even- 
 ing Journal. 
 
 Decidedly the most readable book pertaining 
 to the war that we have seen.- — Roxbury Journal. 
 
 He has brought together a great quantity of 
 matter that could have been obtained only by a 
 close and accurate observer in the field, and he 
 tells what he wishes to tell with the careless ease 
 of a man who is perfectly at home in a difficult 
 task. — Boston Traveller. 
 
 Dazzling recollections honestly related. Mr. 
 Shanks means to be perfectly honest in his state- 
 ments, and damages several heroes by his de- 
 scriptions and criticisms. He gives a ludicrous 
 coloring to many things which would bo serious 
 in some men's hands, and the reader soon be- 
 comes interested. ^(Si.ioiBS Christian Advocate. 
 
 A valuable contribution to our war literature. 
 — Pittsburg Christian Advocate. 
 
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 ' London Review. 
 It was once said of a very charming and high-minded 
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 and we are inclined to set an almost equally high value on 
 an acquaintance with the writings of "George Eliot." For 
 those who read them aright they possess the faculty of ed- 
 ucating in its highest sense, of invigorating the intellect, 
 giving a healthy tone to the taste, appealing to the nobler 
 feelings of the heart, training its impulses aright, and 
 awakening or developing in every mind the consciousness 
 of a craving for something higher than the pleasures and 
 rewards of that life which only the senses realize, the be- 
 Hef m a destiny of a nobler nature than can be grasped by 
 experience or demonstrated by argument. In reading 
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 the atmosphere is heavy and tainted, and the sunlight has 
 to struggle tlirough blinding veils of mist, and to be set 
 upon the higher ranges where the air is fresh and bracing, 
 where the sky is bright and clear, and where earth seems 
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 Reader. 
 Her acquaintance with different phases of outward life, 
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 mind, are alike wonderful. 
 
 Examiner. 
 " George Eliot's" novels belong to the enduring litera- 
 ture of our country— durable, not for the fashionableness 
 of its pattern, but for the texture of its stuff. 
 
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