For the next half hour Lady Clavering sat alone listening with eager ear for the sound of her husband’s wheels, and at last she had almost told herself that the hour for his coming had gone by, when she heard the rapid grating on the gravel as the dogcart was driven up to the door. She ran out on to the corridor, but her heart sank within her as she did so, and she took tightly hold of the balustrade to support herself. For a moment she had thought of running down to meet him;—of trusting to the sadness of the moment to produce in him, if it were but for a minute, something of tender solicitude; but she remembered that the servants would be there, and knew that he would not be soft before them. She remembered also that the housekeeper had received her instructions, and she feared to disarrange the settled programme. So she went back to the open door of the room, that her retreating step might not be heard by him as he should come up to her, and standing there she still listened. The house was silent and her ears were acute with sorrow. She could hear the movement of the old woman as she gently, tremblingly, as Lady Clavering knew, made her way down the hall to meet her master. Sir Hugh of course had learned his child’s fate already from the servant who had met him; but it was well that the ceremony of such telling should be performed. She felt the cold air come in from the opened front door, and she heard her husband’s heavy quick step as he entered. Then she heard the murmur of Hannah’s voice; but the first word she heard was in her husband’s tones, “Where is Lady Clavering?” Then the answer was given, and the wife, knowing that he was coming, retreated back to her chair.
But still he did not come quite at once. He was pulling off his coat and laying aside his hat and gloves. Then came upon her a feeling that at such a time any other husband and wife would have been at once in each other’s arms. And at the moment she thought of all that they had lost. To her her child had been all and everything. To him he had been his heir and the prop of his house. The boy had been the only link that had still bound them together. Now he was gone, and there was no longer any link between them. He was gone and she had nothing left to her. He was gone, and the father was also alone in the world, without any heir and with no prop to his house. She thought of all this as she heard his step coming slowly up the stairs. Slowly he came along the passage, and though she dreaded his coming it almost seemed as though he would never be there.
When he had entered the room she was the first to speak. “Oh, Hugh!” she exclaimed, “oh, Hugh!” He had closed the door before he uttered a word, and then he threw himself into a chair. There were candles near to him and she could see that his countenance also was altered. He had indeed been stricken hard, and his half-stunned face showed the violence of the blow. The harsh, cruel, selfish man had at last been made to suffer. Although he had spoken of it and had expected it, the death of his heir hit him hard, as the rector had said.
“When did he die?” asked the father.
“It was past four I think.” Then there was again silence, and Lady Clavering went up to her husband and stood close by his shoulder. At last she ventured to put her hand upon him. With all her own misery heavy upon her, she was chiefly thinking at this moment how she might soothe him. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and by degrees she moved it softly to his breast. Then he raised his own hand and with it moved hers from his person. He did it gently;—but what was the use of such nonsense as that?
“The Lord giveth,” said the wife, “and the Lord taketh away.” Hearing this Sir Hugh made with his head a gesture of impatience. “Blessed be the name of the Lord,” continued Lady Clavering. Her voice was low and almost trembling, and she repeated the words as though they were a task which she had set herself.
“That’s all very well in its way,” said he, “but what’s the special use of it now? I hate twaddle. One must bear one’s misfortune as one best can. I don’t believe that kind of thing ever makes it lighter.”
“They say it does, Hugh.”
“Ah! they say! Have they ever tried? If you have been living up to that kind of thing all your life, it may be very well;—that is as well at one time as another. But it won’t give me back my boy.”
“No, Hugh; he will never come back again; but we may think that he’s in Heaven.”
“If that is enough for you, let it be so. But don’t talk to me of it. I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit me. I had only one, and he has gone. It is always the way.” He spoke of the child as having been his—not his and hers. She felt this, and understood the want of affection which it conveyed; but she said nothing of
