And things had occurred and rumours had reached him which assisted him much in adopting this view of the subject. It was known to all the Claverings—and even to all others who cared about such things—that Lord and Lady Ongar were not happy together, and it had been already said that Lady Ongar had misconducted herself. There was a certain count whose name had come to be mingled with hers in a way that was, to say the least of it, very unfortunate. Sir Hugh Clavering had declared, in Mrs. Clavering’s hearing, though but little disposed in general to make many revelations to any of the family at the rectory, “that he did not intend to take his sister-in-law’s part. She had made her own bed, and she must lie upon it. She had known what Lord Ongar was before she had married him, and the fault was her own.” So much Sir Hugh had said, and, in saying it, had done all that in him lay to damn his sister-in-law’s fair fame. Harry Clavering, little as he had lived in the world during the last twelve months, still knew that some people told a different story. The earl too and his wife had not been in England since their marriage;—so that these rumours had been filtered to them at home through a foreign medium. During most of their time they had been in Italy, and now, as Harry knew, they were at Florence. He had heard that Lord Ongar had declared his intention of suing for a divorce; but that he supposed to be erroneous, as the two were still living under the same roof. Then he heard that Lord Ongar was ill; and whispers were spread abroad darkly and doubtingly, as though great misfortunes were apprehended.
Harry could not fail to tell himself that had Julia become his wife, as she had once promised, these whispers and this darkness would hardly have come to pass. But not on that account did he now regret that her early vows had not been kept. Living at Stratton, he had taught himself to think much of the quiet domesticities of life, and to believe that Florence Burton was fitter to be his wife than Julia Brabazon. He told himself that he had done well to find this out, and that he had been wise to act upon it. His wisdom had in truth consisted in his capacity to feel that Florence was a nice girl, clever, well-minded, high-principled, and full of spirit—and in falling in love with her as a consequence. All his regard for the quiet domesticities had come from his love, and had had no share in producing it. Florence was bright-eyed. No eyes were ever brighter, either in tears or in laughter. And when he came to look at her well he found that he had been an idiot to think her plain. “There are things that grow to beauty as you look at them—to exquisite beauty; and you are one of them,” he had said to her. “And there are men,” she had answered, “who grow to flattery as you listen to them—to impudent flattery; and you are one of them.” “I thought you plain the first day I saw you. That’s not flattery.” “Yes, sir, it is; and you mean it for flattery. But after all, Harry, it comes only to this, that you want to tell me that you have learned to love me.” He repeated all this to himself as he walked up and down Stratton, and declared to himself that she was very lovely. It had been given to him to ascertain this, and he was rather proud of himself. But he was a little diffident about his father. He thought that, perhaps, his father might see Florence as he himself had first seen her, and might not have discernment enough to ascertain his mistake as he had done. But Florence was not going to Clavering at once, and he would be able to give beforehand his own account of her. He had not been home since his engagement had been a thing settled; but his position with regard to Florence had been declared by letter, and his mother had written to the young lady asking her to come to Clavering.
When Harry got home all the family received him with congratulations. “I am so glad to think that you should marry early,” his mother said to him in a whisper. “But I am not married yet, mother,” he answered.
“Do show me a lock of her hair,” said Fanny, laughing. “It’s twice prettier hair than yours, though she doesn’t think half so much about it as you do,” said her brother, pinching Fanny’s arm. “But you’ll show me a lock, won’t you?” said Fanny.
“I’m so glad she’s to be here at my marriage,” said Mary, “because then Edward will know her. I’m so glad that he will see her.” “Edward will have other fish to fry, and won’t care much about her,” said Harry.
“It seems you’re going to do the
