“I’ve never thought about asking her—at least not lately.”
“No; of course. But you might as well do so now. It seems that she never goes to Ongar Park, and, as far as I can learn, never will. I’m going to see her myself.”
“You going to see her?”
“Yes; Lord Ongar’s people want to know whether she can be induced to give up the place; that is, to sell her interest in it. I have promised to see her. Do you write her a letter first, and tell her that I want to see her; and ask her also to come here as soon as she can leave London.”
“But wouldn’t the lawyers do it better than you?”
“Well;—one would think so; but I am commissioned to make her a kind of apology from the whole Courton family. They fancy they’ve been hard upon her; and, by George, I believe they have. I may be able to say a word for myself too. If she isn’t a fool she’ll put her anger in her pocket, and come down to you.”
Lady Clavering liked the idea of having her sister with her, but she was not quite meek enough to receive the permission now given her as full compensation for the injury done. She said that she would do as he had bidden her, and then went back to her own grievances. “I don’t suppose Julia, even if she would come for a little time, would find it very pleasant to live in such a place as this, all alone.”
“She wouldn’t be all alone when you are with her,” said Hugh, gruffly, and then again went out, leaving his wife to become used to her misfortune by degrees.
It was not surprising that Lady Clavering should dislike her solitude at Clavering Park house, nor surprising that Sir Hugh should find the place disagreeable. The house was a large, square, stone building, with none of the prettinesses of modern country-houses about it. The gardens were away from the house, and the cold desolate flat park came up close around the windows. The rooms were large and lofty—very excellent for the purpose of a large household, but with nothing of that snug, pretty comfort which solitude requires for its solace. The furniture was old and heavy, and the hangings were dark in colour. Lady Clavering when alone there—and she generally was alone—never entered the rooms on the ground-floor. Nor did she ever pass through the wilderness of a hall by which the front-door was to be reached. Throughout more than half her days she never came downstairs at all; but when she did so, preparatory to being dragged about the parish lanes in the old family carriage, she was let out at a small side-door; and so it came to pass that during the absences of the lord of the mansion, the shutters were not even moved from any of the lower windows. Under such circumstances there can be no wonder that Lady Clavering regarded the place as a prison. “I wish you could come upon it unawares, and see how gloomy it is,” she said to him. “I don’t think you’d stand it alone for two days, let alone all your life.”
“I’ll shut it up altogether if you like,” said he.
“And where am I to go?” she asked.
“You can go to Moor Hall if you please.” Now Moor Hall was a small house, standing on a small property belonging to Sir Hugh, in that part of Devonshire which lies north of Dartmoor, somewhere near the Holsworthy region, and which is perhaps as ugly, as desolate, and as remote as any part of England. Lady Clavering had heard much of Moor Hall, and dreaded it as the heroine, made to live in the big grim castle low down among the Apennines, dreads the smaller and grimmer castle which is known to exist somewhere higher up in the mountains.
“Why couldn’t I go to Brighton?” said Lady Clavering boldly.
“Because I don’t choose it,” said Sir Hugh. After that she did go to the rectory, and told Mrs. Clavering all her troubles. She had written to her sister, having, however, delayed the doing of this for two or three days, and she had not at this time received an answer from Lady Ongar. Nor did she hear from her sister till after Sir Hugh had left her. It was on the day before his departure that she went to the rectory, finding herself driven to this act of rebellion by his threat of Moor Hall. “I will never go there unless I am dragged there by force,” she said to Mrs. Clavering.
“I don’t think he means that,” said Mrs. Clavering. “He only wants to make you understand that you’d better remain at the Park.”
“But if you knew what a house it is to be all alone in!”
“Dear Hermione, I do know! But you must come to us oftener, and let us endeavour to make it better for you.”
“But how can I do that? How can I come to his uncle’s house, just because my own husband has made my own home so wretched that I cannot bear it. I’m ashamed to do that. I ought not to be telling you all this, of course. I don’t know what he’d do if he knew it; but it is so hard to bear it all without telling someone.”
“My poor dear!”
“I sometimes think I’ll ask Mr. Clavering to speak to him, and to tell him at once that I will not submit to it any longer. Of course he would be mad with rage, but if he were to kill me I should like it better than having to go on in this way. I’m sure he is only waiting for me to die.”
Mrs. Clavering said all that she could to comfort the poor woman, but there was not much that she could say. She had strongly advocated the plan of having Lady Ongar at the Park, thinking perhaps that Harry would be
