The Claverings

of it all; but if so he checked it instantly, in accordance with the teachings of his whole life. He had made his reflections on all these things, and had tutored his mind to certain resolutions, and would not allow himself to be carried away by any womanly softness. She had her house, her carriage, her bed, her board, and her clothes; and seeing how very little she herself had contributed to the common fund, her husband determined that in having those things she had all that she had a right to claim. Then he drank a glass of sherry, and went into the drawing-room with that hard smile upon his face, which he was accustomed to wear when he intended to signify to his wife that she might as well make the best of existing things, and not cause unnecessary trouble, by giving herself airs or assuming that she was unhappy.

He had his cup of coffee, and she had her cup of tea, and she made one or two little attempts at saying something special⁠—something that might lead to a word or two as to their parting; but he was careful and crafty, and she was awkward and timid⁠—and she failed. He had hardly been there an hour, when looking at his watch he declared that it was ten o’clock, and that he would go to bed. Well; perhaps it might be best to bring it to an end, and to go through this embrace, and have done with it! Any tender word that was to be spoken on either side, it was now clear to her, must be spoken in that last farewell. There was a tear in her eye as she rose to kiss him; but the tear was not there of her own good will, and she strove to get rid of it without his seeing it. As he spoke he also rose, and having lit for himself a bed-candle was ready to go. “Goodbye, Hermy,” he said, submitting himself, with the candle in his hand, to the inevitable embrace.

“Goodbye, Hugh; and God bless you,” she said, putting her arms round his neck. “Pray⁠—pray take care of yourself.”

“All right,” he said. His position with the candle was awkward, and he wished that it might be over.

But she had a word prepared which she was determined to utter⁠—poor weak creature that she was. She still had her arm round his shoulders, so that he could not escape without shaking her off, and her forehead was almost resting on his bosom. “Hugh,” she said, “you must not be angry with me for what I said to you.”

“Very well,” said he;⁠—“I won’t.”

“And, Hugh,” said she; “of course I can’t like your going.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said he.

“No;⁠—I can’t like it; but, Hugh, I will not think ill of it any more. Only be here as much as you can when you come home.”

“All right,” said he; then he kissed her forehead and escaped from her, and went his way, telling himself, as he went, that she was a fool.

That was the last he saw of her⁠—before his yachting commenced; but she⁠—poor fool⁠—was up by times in the morning, and, peeping out between her curtains as the early summer sun glanced upon her eyelids, saw him come forth from the porch and descend the great steps, and get into his dogcart and drive himself away. Then, when the sound of the gig could be no longer heard, and when her eyes could no longer catch the last expiring speck of his hat, the poor fool took herself to bed again and cried herself to sleep.

XXXVI

Captain Clavering Makes His Last Attempt

The yachting scheme was first proposed to Archie by his brother Hugh. “Jack says that he can make a berth for you, and you’d better come,” said the elder brother, understanding that when his edict had thus gone forth, the thing was as good as arranged. “Jack finds the boat and men, and I find the grub and wine⁠—and pay for the fishing,” said Hugh; “so you need not make any bones about it.” Archie was not disposed to make any bones about it as regarded his acceptance either of the berth or of the grub and wine, and as he would be expected to earn his passage by his work, there was no necessity for any scruple; but there arose the question whether he had not got more important fish to fry. He had not as yet made his proposal to Lady Ongar, and although he now knew that he had nothing to hope from the Russian spy⁠—nevertheless he thought that he might as well try his own hand at the venture. His resolution on this head was always stronger after dinner than before, and generally became stronger and more strong as the evening advanced;⁠—so that he usually went to bed with a firm determination “to pop,” as he called it to his friend Doodles, early on the next day; but distance affected him as well as the hour of the day, and his purpose would become surprisingly cool in the neighbourhood of Bolton Street. When, however, his brother suggested that he should be taken altogether away from the scene of action, he thought of the fine income and of Ongar Park with pangs of regret, and ventured upon a mild remonstrance. “But there’s this affair of Julia, you know,” said he.

“I thought that was all off,” said Hugh.

“O dear, no; not off at all. I haven’t asked her yet.”

“I know you’ve not; and I don’t suppose you ever will.”

“Yes, I shall;⁠—that is to say, I mean it. I was advised not to be in too much of a hurry; that is to say, I thought it best to let her settle down a little after her first seeing me.”

“To recover from her confusion?”

“Well, not exactly that. I don’t suppose she was confused.”

“I should say not. My idea is that you haven’t a