“And for how long will you be gone?”
It was part of Sir Hugh Clavering’s theory as to these matters that there should be no lying in the conduct of them. He would not condescend to screen any part of his doings by a falsehood;—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 partridges, the game has gone so much to the devil here, that they are not worth coming for.”
“You’ll be 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 come to her from complaint. She knew his purpose now, and would no doubt reconcile herself 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 presence 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 at 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 almost insupportable to him. He was so unusually disagreeable in his intercourse with her, that his absence, one would think, must be preferable to his presence. But women can bear anything better than desertion. Cruelty 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 endured, and, as far as possible, to be forgotten, was more than even Lady Clavering could bear without complaint. When her husband left her, 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 cannot believe it, Hugh; I cannot 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 barrack 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 anywhere, 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 anything that you told me not? It’s all because 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 anybody 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 everybody; 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 are 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 anybody, 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 suppose 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 further 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. Julia, 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 here while I am away.”
“Have Julia here?”
“Yes; why not? She’ll come, I’m sure, when she knows that my
