CHAPTER II.
HARRY CLAVERING CHOOSES HIS PROFESSION.
Harry Clavering might not be an usher, but, nevertheless, he washome for the holidays. And who can say where the usher ends and theschoolmaster begins? He, perhaps, may properly be called an usher,who is hired by a private schoolmaster to assist himself in hisprivate occupation, whereas Harry Clavering had been selected by apublic body out of a hundred candidates, with much real or pretendedreference to certificates of qualification. He was certainly not anusher, as he was paid three hundred a year for his work,--which isquite beyond the mark of ushers. So much was certain; but yet theword stuck in his throat and made him uncomfortable. He did not liketo reflect that he was home for the holidays.
But he had determined that he would never come home for the holidaysagain. At Christmas he would leave the school at which he had wonhis appointment with so much trouble, and go into an open profession.Indeed he had chosen his profession, and his mode of entering it. Hewould become a civil engineer, and perhaps a land surveyor, and withthis view he would enter himself as a pupil in the great house ofBeilby and Burton. The terms even had been settled. He was to pay apremium of five hundred pounds and join Mr. Burton, who was settledin the town of Stratton, for twelve months before he placed himselfin Mr. Beilby's office in London. Stratton was less than twenty milesfrom Clavering. It was a comfort to him to think that he could paythis five hundred pounds out of his own earnings, without troublinghis 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 notgo at once home to the rectory, but sauntered out all alone into thepark, intending to indulge in reminiscences of his past romance. Itwas all over, that idea of having Julia Brabazon for his love; andnow he had to ask himself whether he intended to be made permanentlymiserable by her worldly falseness, or whether he would borrowsomething of her worldly wisdom, and agree with himself to look backon what was past as a pleasurable excitement in his boyhood. Ofcourse we all know that really permanent misery was in truth out ofthe question. Nature had not made him physically or mentally so poora creature as to be incapable of a cure. But on this occasion hedecided on permanent misery. There was about his heart,--about hisactual anatomical heart, with its internal arrangement of valvesand blood-vessels,--a heavy dragging feeling that almost amountedto corporeal pain, and which he described to himself as agony. Whyshould this rich, debauched, disreputable lord have the power oftaking the cup from his lip, the one morsel of bread which he covetedfrom his mouth, his one ingot of treasure out of his coffer? Fighthim! No, he knew he could not fight Lord Ongar. The world was againstsuch an arrangement. And in truth Harry Clavering had so muchcontempt for Lord Ongar, that he had no wish to fight so poor acreature. The man had had delirium tremens, and was a worn-outmiserable object. So at least Harry Clavering was only too ready tobelieve. He did not care much for Lord Ongar in the matter. His angerwas against her;--that she should have deserted him for a miserablecreature, who had nothing to back him but wealth and rank!
There was wretchedness in every view of the matter. He loved her sowell, and yet he could do nothing! He could take no step towardssaving her or assisting himself. The marriage bells would ring withina month from the present time, and his own father would go to thechurch and marry them. Unless Lord Ongar were to die before thenby God's hand, there could be no escape,--and of such escape HarryClavering had no thought. He felt a weary, dragging soreness at hisheart, and told himself that he must be miserable for ever,--not somiserable but what he would work, but so wretched that the worldcould have for him no satisfaction.
What could he do? What thing could he achieve so that she shouldknow that he did not let her go from him without more thought thanhis poor words had expressed? He was perfectly aware that in theirconversation she had had the best of the argument,--that he hadtalked almost like a boy, while she had talked quite like a woman.She had treated him de haut en bas with all that superiority whichyouth and beauty give to a young woman over a very young man. Whatcould he do? Before he returned to the rectory, he had made up hismind what he would do, and on the following morning Julia Brabazonreceived by the hands of her maid the following note:--
"I think I understood all that you said to me yesterday. At anyrate, I understand that you have one trouble left, and that I havethe means of curing it." In the first draft of his letter he saidsomething about ushering, but that he omitted afterwards. "You may beassured that the enclosed is all my own, and that it is entirely atmy own disposal. You may also be quite sure of good faith on the partof the lender.--H. C." And in this letter he enclosed a cheque forsix hundred pounds. It was the money which he had saved since hetook his degree, and had been intended for Messrs. Beilby and Burton.But he would wait another two years,--continuing to do his usheringfor her sake. What did it matter to a man who must, under anycircumstances, be permanently miserable?
Sir Hugh was not yet at Clavering. He was to come with Lord Ongaron the eve of the partridge-shooting. The two sisters, therefore,had the house all to themselves. At about twelve they sat down tobreakfast together in a little upstairs chamber adjoining LadyClavering's own room, Julia Brabazon at that time having her lover'sgenerous letter in her pocket. She knew that it was as improper as itwas generous, and that, moreover, it was very dangerous. There was noknowing what might be the result of such a letter should Lord Ongareven know that she had received it. She was not absolutely angrywith Harry, but had, to herself, twenty times called him a foolish,indiscreet, dear generous boy. But what was she to do with thecheque? As to that, she had hardly as yet made up her mind when shejoined her sister on the morning in question. Even to Hermione shedid not dare to tell the fact that such a letter had been received byher.
But in truth her debts were a great torment to her; and yet howtrifling they were when compared with the wealth of the man whowas to become her husband in six weeks! Let her marry him, and notpay them, and he probably would never be the wiser. They would getthemselves paid almost without his knowledge, perhaps altogetherwithout his hearing of them. But yet she feared him, knowing him tobe greedy about money; and, to give her such merit as was due toher, she felt the meanness of going to her husband with debts onher shoulder. She had five thousand pounds of her own; but the verysettlement which gave her a noble dower, and which made the marriageso brilliant, made over this small sum in its entirety to her lord.She had been wrong not to tell the lawyer of her trouble when he hadbrought the paper for her to sign; but she had not told him. If SirHugh Clavering had been her own brother there would have been nodifficulty, but he was only her brother-in-law, and she feared tospeak to him. Her sister, however, knew that there were debts, and onthat subject she was not afraid to speak to Hermione.
"Hermy," said she, "what am I to do about this money that I owe? Igot a bill from Colclugh's this morning."
"Just because he knows you're going 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 youcan do. You'll be sure to have money when you come back from theContinent."
"You couldn't lend it me; could you?"
"Who? I? Did you ever know me have any money in hand since I wasmarried? I have the name of an allowance, but it is always spentbefore 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 apound yet."
"I think he would say something you wouldn't like if you were to askhim; 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 havebeen nothing to him."
"Hugh didn't let you keep your own fortune."
"But the money which will be nothing to Lord Ongar was a good deal toHugh. You're going to have sixty thousand a year, while we h
ave todo with seven or eight. Besides, I hadn't been out in London, and itwasn't likely I should owe much in Nice. He did ask me, and there wassomething."
"What am I to do, Hermy?"
"Write and ask Lord Ongar to let you have what you want out of yourown money. Write to-day, so that he may get your letter before hecomes."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I never wrote a word to him yet, and to beginwith 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 mesee how it looks?"
This Lady Clavering did; and had she refused to do it, I think thatpoor Harry Clavering's cheque would have been used. As it was, LadyClavering wrote the letter to "My dear Lord Ongar," and it was copiedand signed by "Yours most affectionately, Julia Brabazon." The effectof this was the receipt of a cheque for a thousand pounds in a verypretty note from Lord Ongar, which the lord brought with him toClavering, and sent up to Julia as he was dressing for dinner. It wasan extremely comfortable arrangement, and Julia was very glad of themoney,--feeling it to be a portion of that which was her own. AndHarry's cheque had been returned to him on the day of its receipt."Of course I cannot take it, and of course you should not have sentit." These words were written on the morsel of paper in which themoney was returned. But Miss Brabazon had torn the signature off thecheque, so that it might be safe, whereas Harry Clavering had takenno precaution with it whatever. But then Harry Clavering had notlived two years in London.
During the hours that the cheque was away from him, Harry had toldhis father that perhaps, even yet, he might change his purpose as togoing to Messrs. Beilby and Burton. He did not know, he said, but hewas still in doubt. This had sprung from some chance question whichhis father had asked, and which had seemed to demand an answer. Mr.Clavering greatly disliked the scheme of life which his son had made.Harry's life hitherto had been prosperous and very creditable. He hadgone early to Cambridge, and at twenty-two had become a fellow of hiscollege. This fellowship he could hold for five or six years withoutgoing into orders. It would then lead to a living, and would in themeantime afford a livelihood. But, beyond this, Harry, with an energywhich he certainly had not inherited from his father, had become aschoolmaster, and was already a rich man. He had done more than well,and there was a great probability that between them they might beable to buy the next presentation to Clavering, when the time shouldcome in which Sir Hugh should determine on selling it. That SirHugh should give the family living to his cousin was never thoughtprobable by any of the family at the rectory; but he might perhapspart with it under such circumstances on favourable terms. For allthese reasons the father was very anxious that his son should followout the course for which he had been intended; but that he, beingunenergetic and having hitherto done little for his son, shoulddictate to a young man who had been energetic, and who had done muchfor himself, was out of the question. Harry, therefore, was to be thearbiter of his own fate. But when Harry received back the cheque fromJulia Brabazon, then he again returned to his resolution respectingMessrs. Beilby and Burton, and took the first opportunity of tellinghis father that such was the case.
After breakfast he followed his father into his study, and there,sitting in two easy-chairs opposite to each other, they lit each acigar. Such was the reverend gentleman's custom in the afternoon,and such also in the morning. I do not know whether the smoking offour or five cigars daily by the parson of a parish may now-a-day beconsidered as a vice in him, but if so, it was the only vice withwhich Mr. Clavering could be charged. He was a kind, soft-hearted,gracious man, tender to his wife, whom he ever regarded as theangel of his house, indulgent to his daughters, whom he idolized,ever patient with his parishioners, and awake,--though not widelyawake,--to the responsibilities of his calling. The world had beentoo comfortable for him, and also too narrow; so that he had sunkinto idleness. The world had given him much to eat and drink, but ithad given him little to do, and thus he had gradually fallen awayfrom his early purposes, till his energy hardly sufficed for thedoing of that little. His living gave him eight hundred a year; hiswife's fortune nearly doubled that. He had married early, and hadgot his living early, and had been very prosperous. But he was nota happy man. He knew that he had put off the day of action tillthe power of action had passed away from him. His library was wellfurnished, but he rarely read much else than novels and poetry; andof late years the reading even of poetry had given way to the readingof novels. Till within ten years of the hour of which I speak, he hadbeen a hunting parson,--not hunting loudly, but following his sportas it is followed by moderate sportsmen. Then there had come a newbishop, and the new bishop had sent for him,--nay, finally had cometo him, and had lectured him with blatant authority. "My lord," saidthe parson of Clavering, plucking up something of his past energy,as the colour rose to his face, "I think you are wrong in this. Ithink you are specially wrong to interfere with me in this way onyour first coming among us. You feel it to be your duty, no doubt;but to me it seems that you mistake your duty. But, as the matteris one simply of my own pleasure, I shall give it up." After thatMr. Clavering hunted no more, and never spoke a good word to any oneof the bishop of his diocese. For myself, I think it as well thatclergymen should not hunt; but had I been the parson of Clavering,I should, under those circumstances, have hunted double.
Mr. Clavering hunted no more, and probably smoked a greater numberof cigars in consequence. He had an increased amount of time at hisdisposal, but did not, therefore, give more time to his duties. Alas!what time did he give to his duties? He kept a most energetic curate,whom he allowed to do almost what he would with the parish. Every-dayservices he did prohibit, declaring that he would not have the parishchurch made ridiculous; but in other respects his curate was thepastor. Once every Sunday he read the service, and once every Sundayhe preached, and he resided in his parsonage ten months every year.His wife and daughters went among the poor,--and he smoked cigarsin his library. Though not yet fifty, he was becoming fat andidle,--unwilling to walk, and not caring much even for such riding asthe bishop had left to him. And, to make matters worse,--far worse,he knew all this of himself, and understood it thoroughly. "I see abetter path, and know how good it is, but I follow ever the worse."He was saying that to himself daily, and was saying it always withouthope.
And his wife had given him up. She had given him up, not withdisdainful rejection, nor with contempt in her eye, or censure in hervoice, not with diminution of love or of outward respect. She hadgiven him up as a man abandons his attempts to make his favourite dogtake the water. He would fain that the dog he loves should dash intothe stream as other dogs will do. It is, to his thinking, a nobleinstinct in a dog. But his dog dreads the water. As, however, hehas learned to love the beast, he puts up with this mischance, andnever dreams of banishing poor Ponto from his hearth because of thisfailure. And so it was with Mrs. Clavering and her husband at therectory. 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 sonhad spoken to him.
"Yes; it is serious,--about as serious a thing as a man can think of;but a man cannot put it off on that account. If I mean to make such achange 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 canI tell you all now. I had thought that I should want my money foranother 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."
"You were going to lend your money to some one?"
"I must keep it a secret, though you know I seldom have any secretsfrom you. That idea, however, is abandoned, and I mean to go over toStratton to-morrow, and tell Mr. Burton that I shall be there afterChristmas. I must be at St. Cuthbert's on Tuesday."
Then the
y both sat silent for a while, silently blowing out theirclouds of smoke. The son had said all that he cared to say, and wouldhave wished that there might then be an end of it; but he knew thathis father had much on his mind, and would fain express, if he couldexpress it without too much trouble, or without too evident a needof self-reproach, his own thoughts on the subject. "You have madeup your mind, then, altogether that you do not like the church as aprofession," he said at last.
"I think I have, father."
"And on what grounds? The grounds which recommend it to you are verystrong. Your education has adapted you for it. Your success in itis already ensured by your fellowship. In a great degree you haveentered it as a profession already, by taking a fellowship. What youare doing is not choosing a line in life, but changing one alreadychosen. You are making of yourself a rolling stone."
"A stone should roll till it has come to the spot that suits it."
"Why not give up the school if it irks you?"
"And become a Cambridge Don, and practise deportment among theundergraduates."
"I don't see that you need do that. You need not even live atCambridge. Take a church in London. You would be sure to get oneby holding up your hand. If that, with your fellowship, is notsufficient, I will give you what more you want."
"No, father--no. By God's blessing I will never ask you for a pound.I can hold my fellowship for four years longer without orders, and infour 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 ifI took orders. And I do not wish to be crippled in doing what I thinklawful by conventional rules. A rebellious clergyman is, I think, asorry object. It seems to me that he is a bird fouling his own nest.Now, I know I should be a rebellious clergyman."
"In our church the life of a clergyman is as the life of any othergentleman,--within very broad limits."
"Then why did Bishop Proudie interfere with your hunting?"
"Limits may be very broad, Harry, and yet exclude hunting. BishopProudie was vulgar and intrusive, such being the nature of his wife,who instructs him; but if you were in orders I should be very sorryto see you take to hunting."
"It seems to me that a clergyman has nothing to do in life unlesshe is always preaching and teaching. Look at Saul,"--Mr. Saul wasthe curate of Clavering--"he is always preaching and teaching. He isdoing the best he can; and what a life of it he has. He has literallythrown off all worldly cares,--and consequently everybody laughs athim, and nobody loves him. I don't believe a better man breathes, butI shouldn't like his life."
At this point there was another pause, which lasted till the cigarshad come to an end. Then, as he threw the stump into the fire, Mr.Clavering spoke again. "The truth is, Harry, that you have had, allyour life, a bad example before you."
"No, father."
"Yes, my son;--let me speak on to the end, and then you can say whatyou please. In me you have had a bad example on one side, and now, inpoor Saul, you have a bad example on the other side. Can you fancy nolife between the two, which would fit your physical nature, which islarger 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 beunseemly that there should be any controversy between us on thesubject."
"If you choose to stop me in that way--"
"I do choose to stop you in that way. As for Saul, it is impossiblethat you should become such a man as he. It is not that he mortifieshis flesh, but that he has no flesh to mortify. He is unconsciousof the flavour of venison, or the scent of roses, or the beauty ofwomen. He is an exceptional specimen of a man, and you need no morefear, than you should venture to hope, that you could become such ashe is."
At this point they were interrupted by the entrance of FannyClavering, who came to say that Mr. Saul was in the drawing-room."What does he want, Fanny?" This question Mr. Clavering asked half ina whisper, but with something of comic humour in his face, as thoughpartly afraid that Mr. Saul should hear it, and partly intending toconvey 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 ofit has come,--and he wants you to go out to Cumberly Green about thesite."
"I thought that was all settled."
"He says not."
"What does it matter where it is? He can put it anywhere he likes onthe Green. However, I had better go to him." So Mr. Clavering went.Cumberly Green was a hamlet in the parish of Clavering, three milesdistant from the church, the people of which had got into a wickedhabit of going to a dissenting chapel near to them. By Mr. Saul'senergy, but chiefly out of Mr. Clavering's purse, an iron chapel hadbeen purchased for a hundred and fifty pounds, and Mr. Saul proposedto add to his own duties the pleasing occupation of walking toCumberly Green every Sunday morning before breakfast, and everyWednesday evening after dinner, to perform a service and bring backto the true flock as many of the erring sheep of Cumberly Green as hemight be able to catch. Towards the purchase of this iron church Mr.Clavering had at first given a hundred pounds. Sir Hugh, in answer tothe fifth application, had very ungraciously, through his steward,bestowed ten pounds. Among the farmers one pound nine and eightpencehad been collected. Mr. Saul had given two pounds; Mrs. Claveringgave five pounds; the girls gave ten shillings each; Henry Claveringgave five pounds;--and then the parson made up the remainder. But Mr.Saul had journeyed thrice painfully to Bristol, making the bargainfor the church, going and coming each time by third-class, and he hadwritten all the letters; but Mrs. Clavering had paid the postage,and she and the girls between them were making the covering for thelittle altar.
"Is it all settled, Harry?" said Fanny, stopping with her brother,and hanging over his chair. She was a pretty, gay-spirited girl, withbright eyes and dark brown hair, which fell in two curls behind herears.
"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 intothe church, but that is about all."
"I think you are quite right."
"And Mary thinks I am quite wrong."
"Mary thinks so, of course. So should I too, perhaps, if I wereengaged to a clergyman. That's the old story of the fox who had losthis tail."
"And your tail isn't gone yet?"
"No, my tail isn't gone yet. Mary thinks that no life is like aclergyman's life. But, Harry, though mamma hasn't said so, I'm sureshe thinks you are right. She won't say so as long as it may seem tointerfere with anything papa may choose to say; but I'm sure she'sglad in her heart."
"And I am glad in my heart, Fanny. And as I'm the person mostconcerned, I suppose that's the most material thing." Then theyfollowed their father into the drawing-room.
"Couldn't you drive Mrs. Clavering over in the pony chair, and settleit between you," said Mr. Clavering to his curate. Mr. Saul lookeddisappointed. In the first place, he hated driving the pony, whichwas a rapid-footed little beast, that had a will of his own; and inthe next place, he thought the rector ought to visit the spot on suchan occasion. "Or Mrs. Clavering will drive you," said the rector,remembering Mr. Saul's objection to the pony. Still Mr. Saul lookedunhappy. 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 facewas so thin that his cheekbones obtruded themselves unpleasantly.He wore a long rusty black coat, and a high rusty black waistcoat,and trousers that were brown with dirty roads and general ill-usage.Nevertheless, it never occurred to any one that Mr. Saul did not looklike a gentleman, not even to himself, to whom no ideas whatever onthat subject ever presented themselves. But that he was a gentlemanI think he knew well enough, and was able to carry himself befor
eSir Hugh and his wife with quite as much ease as he could do in therectory. Once or twice he had dined at the great house; but LadyClavering had declared him to be a bore, and Sir Hugh had calledhim "that most offensive of all animals, a clerical prig." It hadtherefore been decided that he was not to be asked to the greathouse any more. It may be as well to state here, as elsewhere, thatMr. Clavering very rarely went to his nephew's table. On certainoccasions he did do so, so that there might be no recognized quarrelbetween 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'seye, Mr. Clavering consented to go to Cumberly Green, though therewas nothing he liked so little as a morning spent with his curate.When he had started, Harry told his mother also of his finaldecision. "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 tobe a clergyman, as that he does not wish me to have lost all my timeup to this."
"It is more than that, I think, Harry," said his elder sister, a tallgirl, less pretty than her sister, apparently less careful of herprettiness, very quiet, or, as some said, demure, but known to begood as gold by all who knew her well.
"I doubt it," said Harry, stoutly. "But, however that may be, a manmust choose for himself."
"We all thought you had chosen," said Mary.
"If it is settled," said the mother, "I suppose we shall do no goodby 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 ofambition which would satisfy me. Look at such men as Locke, andStephenson, and Brassey. They are the men who seem to me to do mostin the world. They were all self-educated, but surely a man can'thave a worse chance because he has learned something. Look at oldBeilby with a seat in Parliament, and a property worth two or threehundred thousand pounds! When he was my age he had nothing but hisweekly wages."
"I don't know whether Mr. Beilby is a very happy man or a very goodman," said Mary.
"I don't know, either," said Harry; "but I do know that he has throwna single arch over a wider span of water than ever was done before,and that ought to make him happy." After saying this in a tone ofhigh authority, befitting his dignity as a fellow of his college,Harry Clavering went out, leaving his mother and sisters to discussthe subject which to two of them was all-important. As to Mary,she had hopes of her own, vested in the clerical concerns of aneighbouring parish.