The Claverings

regular thing,” said his father, “like all the good apprentices. Marry your master’s daughter, and then become Lord Mayor of London.” This was not the view in which it had pleased Harry to regard his engagement. All the other “young men” that had gone to Mr. Burton’s had married Mr. Burton’s daughters⁠—or, at least, enough had done so to justify the Stratton assertion that all had fallen into the same trap. The Burtons, with their five girls, were supposed in Stratton to have managed their affairs very well, and something of these hints had reached Harry’s ears. He would have preferred that the thing should not have been made so common, but he was not fool enough to make himself really unhappy on that head. “I don’t know much about becoming Lord Mayor,” he replied. “That promotion doesn’t lie exactly in our line.” “But marrying your master’s daughter does, it seems,” said the Rector. Harry thought that this, as coming from his father, was almost ill-natured, and therefore dropped the conversation.

“I’m sure we shall like her,” said Fanny.

“I think that I shall like Harry’s choice,” said Mrs. Clavering.

“I do hope Edward will like her,” said Mary.

“Mary,” said her sister, “I do wish you were once married. When you are, you’ll begin to have a self of your own again. Now you’re no better than an unconscious echo.”

“Wait for your own turn, my dear,” said the mother.

Harry had reached home on a Saturday, and the following Monday was Christmas-day. Lady Clavering, he was told, was at home at the park, and Sir Hugh had been there lately. No one from the house except the servants were seen at church either on the Sunday or on Christmas-day. “But that shows nothing,” said the Rector, speaking in anger. “He very rarely does come, and when he does, it would be better that he should be away. I think that he likes to insult me by misconducting himself. They say that she is not well, and I can easily believe that all this about her sister makes her unhappy. If I were you I would go up and call. Your mother was there the other day, but did not see them. I think you’ll find that he’s away, hunting somewhere. I saw the groom going off with three horses on Sunday afternoon. He always sends them by the church gate just as we’re coming out.”

So Harry went up to the house, and found Lady Clavering at home. She was looking old and careworn, but she was glad to see him. Harry was the only one of the rectory family who had been liked at the great house since Sir Hugh’s marriage, and he, had he cared to do so, would have been made welcome there. But, as he had once said to Sir Hugh’s sister-in-law, if he shot the Clavering game, he would be expected to do so in the guise of a head gamekeeper, and he did not choose to play that part. It would not suit him to drink Sir Hugh’s claret, and be bidden to ring the bell, and to be asked to step into the stable for this or that. He was a fellow of his college, and quite as big a man, he thought, as Sir Hugh. He would not be a hanger-on at the park, and, to tell the truth, he disliked his cousin quite as much as his father did. But there had even been a sort of friendship⁠—nay, occasionally almost a confidence, between him and Lady Clavering, and he believed that by her he was really liked.

Lady Clavering had heard of his engagement, and of course congratulated him. “Who told you?” he asked⁠—“was it my mother?”

“No; I have not seen your mother I don’t know when. I think it was my maid told me. Though we somehow don’t see much of you all at the rectory, our servants are no doubt more gracious with the rectory servants. I’m sure she must be nice, Harry, or you would not have chosen her. I hope she has got some money.”

“Yes, I think she is nice. She is coming here at Easter.”

“Ah, we shall be away then, you know; and about the money?”

“She will have a little, but very little;⁠—a hundred a year.”

“Oh, Harry, is not that rash of you? Younger brothers should always get money. You’re the same as a younger brother, you know.”

“My idea is to earn my own bread. It’s not very aristocratic, but, after all, there are a great many more in the same boat with me.”

“Of course you will earn your bread, but having a wife with money would not hinder that. A girl is not the worse because she can bring some help. However, I’m sure I hope you’ll be happy.”

“What I meant was that I think it best when the money comes from the husband.”

“I’m sure I ought to agree with you, because we never had any.” Then there was a pause. “I suppose you’ve heard about Lord Ongar,” she said.

“I have heard that he is very ill.”

“Very ill. I believe there was no hope when we heard last; but Julia never writes now.”

“I’m sorry that it is so bad as that,” said Harry, not well knowing what else to say.

“As regards Julia, I do not know whether it may not be for the best. It seems to be a cruel thing to say, but of course I cannot but think most of her. You have heard, perhaps, that they have not been happy?”

“Yes; I had heard that.”

“Of course; and what is the use of pretending anything with you? You know what people have said of her.”

“I have never believed it.”

“You always loved her, Harry. Oh, dear, I remember how unhappy that made me once, and I was so afraid that Hugh would suspect it. She would never have done for you;⁠—would she, Harry?”

“She did a great deal better for herself,” said Harry.

“If you mean that ironically, you shouldn’t say it now.