CHAPTER XVI.
THE RIVALS.
[Illustration.]
Lady Ongar sat alone, long into the night, when Harry Clavering hadleft her. She sat there long, getting up occasionally from her seat,once or twice attempting to write at her desk, looking now and thenat a paper or two, and then at a small picture which she had, butpassing the long hours in thinking,--in long, sad, solitary thoughts.What should she do with herself,--with herself, her title, and hermoney? Would it be still well that she should do something, that sheshould make some attempt; or should she, in truth, abandon all, asthe arch-traitor did, and acknowledge that for her foot there couldno longer be a resting-place on the earth? At six-and-twenty, withyouth, beauty, and wealth at her command, must she despair? But heryouth had been stained, her beauty had lost its freshness; and asfor her wealth, had she not stolen it? Did not the weight of thetheft sit so heavy on her, that her brightest thought was one whichprompted her to abandon it?
As to that idea of giving up her income and her house, and callingherself again Julia Brabazon, though there was something in thepoetry 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. Theworld 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 tellherself that for such a one as her to do such a thing as this, wouldbe to insure for herself the ridicule of all who knew her name. Whatwould Sir Hugh say, and her sister? What Count Pateroff and thefaithful Sophie? What all the Ongar tribe, who would reap the richharvest of her insanity? These latter would offer to provide her aplace in some convenient asylum, and the others would all agree thatsuch would be her fitting destiny. She could bear the idea of walkingforth, as she had said, penniless into the street, without a crust;but she could not bear the idea of being laughed at when she gotthere.
To her, in her position, her only escape was by marriage. It was thesolitude of her position which maddened her;--its solitude, or thenecessity of breaking that solitude by the presence of those who wereodious to her. Whether it were better to be alone, feeding on thebitterness of her own thoughts, or to be comforted by the fulsomeflatteries and odious falsenesses of Sophie Gordeloup, she couldnot tell. She hated herself for her loneliness, but she hatedherself almost worse for submitting herself to the society ofSophie Gordeloup. Why not give all that she possessed to HarryClavering--herself, her income, her rich pastures and horses andoxen, and try whether the world would not be better to her when shehad done so?
She had learned to laugh at romance, but still she believed inlove. While that bargain was going on as to her settlement, she hadlaughed at romance, and had told herself that in this world worldlyprosperity was everything. Sir Hugh then had stood by her with truth,for he had well understood the matter, and could enter into it withzest. Lord Ongar, in his state of health, had not been in a positionto make close stipulations as to the dower in the event of hisproposed wife becoming a widow. "No, no; we won't stand that," SirHugh had said to the lawyers. "We all hope, of course, that LordOngar may live long; no doubt he'll turn over a new leaf, and die atninety. But in such a case as this the widow must not be fettered."The widow had not been fettered, and Julia had been made tounderstand the full advantage of such an arrangement. But still shehad believed in love when she had bade farewell to Harry in thegarden. She had told herself then, even then, that she would havebetter liked to have taken him and his love,--if only she could haveafforded it. He had not dreamed that on leaving him she had gonefrom him to her room, and taken out his picture,--the same that shehad with her now in Bolton Street,--and had kissed it, bidding himfarewell there with a passion which she could not display in hispresence. And she had thought of his offer about the money over andover again. "Yes," she would say; "that man loved me. He would havegiven me all he had to relieve me, though nothing was to come to himin return." She had, at any rate, been loved once; and she almostwished that she had taken the money, that she might now have anopportunity of repaying it.
And she was again free, and her old lover was again by her side. Hadthat fatal episode in her life been so fatal that she must now regardherself as tainted and unfit for him? There was no longer anything toseparate them,--anything of which she was aware, unless it was that.And as for his love,--did he not look and speak as though he lovedher still? Had he not pressed her hand passionately, and kissed it,and once more called her Julia? How should it be that he should notlove her? In such a case as his, love might have been turned tohatred or to enmity; but it was not so with him. He called himselfher 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 notthe man, she thought, to make his way in the world by hard work; butwith such an income as she could give him, he might shine among theproud ones of his nation. He should go into Parliament, and do greatthings. He should be lord of all. It should all be his without a wordof reserve. She had been mercenary once, but she would atone for thatnow by open-handed, undoubting generosity. She herself had learned tohate the house and fields and widespread comforts of Ongar Park. Shehad walked among it all alone, and despised. But it would be a gloryto her to see him go forth, with Giles at his heels, boldly givinghis orders, changing this and improving that. He would be rebuked forno errors, let him do with Enoch Gubby and the rest of them what hepleased! And then the parson's wife would be glad enough to come toher, and the house would be full of smiling faces. And it might bethat God would be good to her, and that she would have treasures, asother women had them, and that the flavour would come back to theapples, and that the ashes would cease to grate between her teeth.
She loved him, and why should it not be so? She could go before God'saltar with him without disgracing herself with a lie. She could puther hand in his, and swear honestly that she would worship him andobey him. She had been dishonest;--but if he would pardon her forthat, could she not reward him richly for such pardon? And it seemedto her that he had pardoned her. He had forgiven it all and wasgracious to her,--coming at her beck and call, and sitting with heras though he liked her presence. She was woman enough to understandthis, and she knew that he liked it. Of course he loved her. Howcould it be otherwise?
But yet he spoke nothing to her of his love. In the old days therehad been with him no bashfulness of that kind. He was not a man totremble and doubt before a woman. In those old days he had been readyenough,--so ready, that she had wondered that one who had just comefrom his books should know so well how to make himself master of agirl's heart. Nature had given him that art, as she does give it tosome, withholding it from many. But now he sat near her, droppingonce and again half words of love, hearing her references to the oldtimes;--and yet he said nothing.
But how was he to speak of love to one who was a widow but of fourmonths' standing? And with what face could he now again ask for herhand, knowing that it had been filled so full since last it wasrefused to him? It was thus she argued to herself when she excusedhim in that he did not speak to her. As to her widowhood, to herselfit was a thing of scorn. Thinking of it, she cast her weepers fromher, and walked about the room, scorning the hypocrisy of her dress.It needed that she should submit herself to this hypocrisy beforethe world; but he might know,--for had she not told him?--that theclothes she wore were no index of her feeling or of her heart. Shehad been mean enough, base enough, vile enough, to sell herselfto that wretched lord. Mean, base, and vile she had been, and shenow confessed it; but she was not false enough to pretend that shemourned the man as a wife mourns. Harry might have seen enough toknow, have understood enough to perceive, that he need not regard herwidowhood.
And as to her money! If that were the stumbling-block, might it notbe well that the first overture should come from her? Could she notfind words to tell him that it might all be his? Could she not say tohim, "Harry Clavering, all this is nothing in my hands. Take it intoyour hands, and i
t will prosper." Then it was that she went to herdesk, and attempted to write to him. She did write to him a completednote, offering herself and all that was hers for his acceptance. Indoing so, she strove hard to be honest and yet not over bold; to beaffectionate and yet not unfeminine. Long she sat, holding her headwith one hand, while the other attempted to use the pen which wouldnot move over the paper. At length, quickly it flew across the sheet,and a few lines were there for her to peruse.
"Harry Clavering," she had written,
I know I am doing what men and women say no woman should do. You may, perhaps, say so of me now; but if you do, I know you so well, that I do not fear that others will be able to repeat it. Harry, I have never loved any one but you. Will you be my husband? You well know that I should not make you this offer if I did not intend that everything I have should be yours. It will be pleasant to me to feel that I can make some reparation for the evil I have done. As for love, I have never loved any one but you. You yourself must know that well. Yours, altogether if you will have it so,--JULIA.
She took the letter with her, back across the room to her seat by thefire, and took with her at the same time the little portrait; andthere she sat, looking at the one and reading the other. At last sheslowly folded the note up into a thin wisp of paper, and, lightingthe end of it, watched it till every shred of it was burnt to an ash."If he wants me," she said, "he can come and take me,--as other mendo." 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 herbeen a refusal?
Another hour went by before she took herself to her bed, duringwhich her cruelly-used maiden was waiting for her half asleep inthe chamber above; and during that time she tried to bring herselfto some steady resolve. She would remain in London for the comingmonths, so that he might come to her if he pleased. She would remainthere, even though she were subject to the daily attacks of SophieGordeloup. She hardly knew why, but in part she was afraid of Sophie.She had done nothing of which Sophie knew the secret. She had nocause to tremble because Sophie might be offended. The woman hadseen her in some of her saddest moments, and could indeed tellof indignities which would have killed some women. But these shehad borne, and had not disgraced herself in the bearing of them.But still she was afraid of Sophie, and felt that she could notbring herself absolutely to dismiss her friend from her house.Nevertheless, she would remain;--because Harry Clavering was inLondon and could come to her there. To her house at Ongar Park shewould never go again, unless she went as his wife. The place hadbecome odious to her. Bad as was her solitude in London, with SophieGordeloup to break it,--and perhaps with Sophie's brother to attackher, it was not so bad as the silent desolation of Ongar Park. Neveragain would she go there, unless she went there, in triumph,--asHarry's wife. Having so far resolved she took herself at last to herroom, and dismissed her drowsy Phoebe to her rest.
And now the reader must be asked to travel down at once into thecountry, that he may see how Florence Burton passed the same eveningat Clavering Rectory. It was Florence's last night there, and onthe following morning she was to return to her father's house atStratton. Florence had not as yet received her unsatisfactory letterfrom Harry. That was to arrive on the following morning. At presentshe was, as regarded her letters, under the influence of that onewhich had been satisfactory in so especial a degree. Not that thecoming letter,--the one now on its route,--was of a nature to disturbher comfort permanently, or to make her in any degree unhappy. "Dearfellow; he must be careful, he is overworking himself." Even theunsatisfactory letter would produce nothing worse than this from her;but now, at the moment of which I am writing, she was in a paradiseof happy thoughts.
Her visit to Clavering had been in every respect successful. She hadbeen liked by every one, and every one in return had been liked byher. Mrs. Clavering had treated her as though she were a daughter.The rector had made her pretty presents, had kissed her, and calledher his child. With Fanny she had formed a friendship which was toendure for ever, let destiny separate them how it might. Dear Fanny!She had had a wonderful interview respecting Fanny on this very day,and was at this moment disquieting her mind because she could nottell her friend what had happened without a breach of confidence!She had learned a great deal at Clavering, though in most mattersof learning she was a better instructed woman than they were whomshe had met. In general knowledge and in intellect she was Fanny'ssuperior, though Fanny Clavering was no fool; but Florence, when shecame thither, had lacked something which living in such a house hadgiven to her;--or, I should rather say, something had been given toher of which she would greatly feel the want, if it could be againtaken from her. Her mother was as excellent a woman as had ever sentforth a family of daughters into the world, and I do not know thatany one ever objected to her as being ignorant, or specially vulgar;but the house in Stratton was not like Clavering Rectory in thelittle ways of living, and this Florence Burton had been cleverenough to understand. She knew that a sojourn under such a roof, withsuch a woman as Mrs. Clavering, must make her fitter to be Harry'swife; and, therefore, when they pressed her to come again in theautumn, she said that she thought she would. She could understand,too, that Harry was different in many things from the men who hadmarried her sisters, and she rejoiced that it was so. Poor Florence!Had he been more like them it might have been safer for her.
But we must return for a moment to the wonderful interview whichhas been mentioned. Florence, during her sojourn at Clavering, hadbecome intimate with Mr. Saul, as well as with Fanny. She had givenherself for the time heartily to the schools, and matters had so farprogressed with her that Mr. Saul had on one occasion scolded hersoundly. "It's a great sign that he thinks well of you," Fanny hadsaid. "It was the only sign he ever gave me, before he spoke tome in that sad strain." On the afternoon of this, her last day atClavering, she had gone over to Cumberly Green with Fanny, to sayfarewell to the children, and walked back by herself, as Fanny hadnot finished her work. When she was still about half a mile from therectory, she met Mr. Saul, who was on his way out to the Green. "Iknew 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. I wish you were going to remain with us.Having you here is very pleasant, and you do more good here, perhaps,than you will elsewhere."
"I will not allow that. You forget that I have a father and mother."
"Yes; and you will have a husband soon."
"No, not soon; some day, perhaps, if all goes well. But I mean to beback here often before that. I mean to be here in October, just for alittle visit, if mamma can spare me."
"Miss Burton," he said, speaking in a very serious tone--. All histones were serious, but that which he now adopted was more solemnthan usual. "I wish to consult you on a certain matter, if you cangive me five minutes of your time."
"To consult me, Mr. Saul?"
"Yes, Miss Burton. I am hard pressed at present, and I know no oneelse of whom I can ask a certain question, if I cannot ask it of you.I think that you will answer me truly, if you answer me at all. I donot 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 FannyClavering are dear friends now. You tell each other everything."
"I do not know," said Florence, doubting as to what she might bestsay, but guessing something of that which was coming.
"She will have told you, perhaps, that I asked her to be my wife.Did she ever tell you that?" Florence looked into his face for afew moments without answering him, not knowing how to answer such aquestion. "I know that she has told you," said he. "I can see that itis so."
"She has told me," said Florence.
"Why should she not? How could she be with you so many hours, and nottell you that of which she could hardly fail to have the remembranceoften present with her. If I were gone from here, if I we
re notbefore her eyes daily, it might be otherwise; but seeing me as shedoes 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 Ihope 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, Miss Burton; she cannot think that. Do you believethat men or women can forget such things as that? Can you ever forgether brother? Do you think people ever forget when they have loved?No, I have not forgotten her. I have not forgotten that walk whichwe had down this lane together. There are things which men neverforget." Then he paused for an answer.
Florence was by nature steady and self-collected, and she at oncefelt 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 hadspoken of the impossibility of such a marriage, had always based theimpossibility on the fact that people should not marry without themeans of living,--a reason which to Florence, with all her prudence,was not sufficient. Fanny might wait as she also intended to wait.Latterly, too, Fanny had declared more than once to Florence herconviction that Mr. Saul's passion had been a momentary insanitywhich had altogether passed away; and in these declarations Florencehad half fancied that she discovered some tinge of regret. If it wereso, what was she now to say to Mr. Saul?
"You think then, Miss Burton," he continued, "that I have no chanceof success? I ask the question because if I felt certain that thiswas so,--quite certain, I should be wrong to remain here. It has beenmy first and only parish, and I could not leave it without bittersorrow. But if I were to remain here hopelessly, I should becomeunfit for my work. I am becoming so, and shall be better away."
"But why ask me, Mr. Saul?"
"Because I think that you can tell me."
"But why not ask herself? Who can tell you so truly as she can do?"
"You would not advise me to do that if you were sure that she wouldreject me?"
"That is what I would advise."
"I will take your advice, Miss Burton. Now, good-by, and may Godbless you. You say you will be here in the autumn; but before theautumn I shall probably have left Clavering. If so our farewellswill be for very long, but I shall always remember our pleasantintercourse here." Then he went on towards Cumberly Green; andFlorence, as she walked into the vicarage grounds, was thinking thatno girl had ever been loved by a more single-hearted, pure-mindedgentleman than Mr. Saul.
As she sat alone in her bed-room, five or six hours after thisinterview, she felt some regret that she should leave Claveringwithout a word to Fanny on the subject. Mr. Saul had exacted nopromise 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 tospeak, and it might even be that her speaking on the matter would domore harm than good. Her sympathies were doubtless with Mr. Saul, butshe could not therefore say that she thought Fanny ought to accepthis love. It would be best to say nothing of the matter, and to allowMr. Saul to fight his own battle.
Then she turned to her own matters, and there she found thateverything was pleasant. How good the world had been to her to giveher such a lover as Harry Clavering! She owned with all her heart theexcellence of being in love, when a girl might be allowed to callsuch a man her own. She could not but make comparisons between himand Mr. Saul, though she knew that she was making them on points thatwere hardly worthy of her thoughts. Mr. Saul was plain, uncouth, withlittle that was bright about him except the brightness of his piety.Harry was like the morning star. He looked and walked and spoke asthough he were something more godlike than common men. His veryvoice created joy, and the ring of his laughter was to Florenceas the music of the heavens. What woman would not have loved HarryClavering? Even Julia Brabazon,--a creature so base that she had soldherself to such a thing as Lord Ongar for money and a title, butso grand in her gait and ways, so Florence had been told, that sheseemed to despise the earth on which she trod,--even she had lovedhim. Then as Florence thought of what Julia Brabazon might have hadand of what she had lost, she wondered that there could be women bornso sadly vicious.
But that woman's vice had given her her success, her joy, her greattriumph! It was surely not for her to deal hardly with the faults ofJulia Brabazon,--for her who was enjoying all the blessings of whichthose faults had robbed the other! Julia Brabazon had been her verygood friend.
But why had this perfect lover come to her, to one so small, sotrifling, so little in the world's account as she, and given to herall the treasure of his love? Oh, Harry,--dear Harry! what couldshe do for him that would be a return good enough for such greatgoodness? Then she took out his last letter, that satisfactoryletter, that letter that had been declared to be perfect, and read itand read it again. No; she did not want Fanny or any one else to tellher that he was true. Honesty and truth were written on every line ofhis face, were to be heard in every tone of his voice, could be seenin 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 nightbeneath his father's roof,--wrote to him when she had nearly preparedherself for her bed; and honestly, out of her full heart, thanked himfor 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 havedone for me in loving me and choosing me for your wife, I know thatI can never pay you all that I owe you."
Such were the two rival claimants for the hand of Harry Clavering.