“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 Fanny intended to play the role of a brokenhearted young lady, and to regard the absent Mr. Saul with passionate devotion. That this should be so Mrs. Clavering felt to be the more cruel, because no such tendencies had been shown before the paternal sentence against Mr. Saul had been passed. Fanny in telling her own tale had begun by declaring that any such an engagement was an impossibility. She had not asked permission to have Mr. Saul for a lover. She had given no hint that she even hoped for such permission. 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 Apennines! And in this way she would really become deeply in love with Mr. Saul;—thinking of 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 further on the subject to anyone.
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 tomorrow, 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 a 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 question Harry made no immediate answer, and Mrs. Clavering was afraid to press 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 it 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 hardly be worse than the truth. But you 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 suppose that he said nothing of that mad caress—nothing, perhaps, of the final promise which he made to Julia as he last passed out of her presence; 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 despised 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, undoubtedly, 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 herself to think of the matter she knew that Florence’s claims should be held as paramount. And when she thought further and thought seriously, she knew also that Harry’s honour 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 suffered cruel ill-usage in this. It might be that no such taint had been deserved. Mrs. Clavering could plead
