The Claverings

were not generally summoned 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 maidservant felt to be unusual. And the rector was sitting uncomfortably prepared for the visit, not having had his after-breakfast cigar. 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 marriage 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 clergymen 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 clergymen 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 question. When meeting his brother rectors and vicars, he had quite a different tone in addressing them⁠—as they might belong to his class, or to another. There was no offence in this. The clerical country gentlemen understood it all as though there were some secret sign or shibboleth 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 was a young curate from the outer circle demanding Mr. Clavering’s daughter in marriage, and that without a shilling in his pocket, Mr. Clavering 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 casting 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 endeavouring to gain her affections behind 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 cannot 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 proposition 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 better.”

A dark cloud came across Mr. Saul’s brow as he heard these last words. “That 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 cannot 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 your 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, inconvenient as it will be to myself⁠—terribly inconvenient, I must ask you to go at once. Of course I cannot allow you to meet my daughter any more. As long as you remain she will be 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 instant 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.