“Yes,” he said, “I will come across this evening. But you had better tell him, so that he need not be troubled to see me if he would rather be alone.”
“Oh, he will see you. Of course he will see you. And you will not remember that he ever offended you?”
Mrs. Clavering had written both to Julia and to Harry, and the day of the funeral had been settled. Harry had already communicated his intention of coming down; and Lady Ongar had replied to Mrs. Clavering’s letter, saying that she could not now offer to go to Clavering Park, but that if her sister would go elsewhere with her—to some place, perhaps, on the seaside—she would be glad to accompany her; and she used many arguments in her letter to show that such an arrangement as this had better be made.
“You will be with my sister,” she had said; “and she will understand why I do not write to her myself, and will not think that it comes from coldness.” This had been written before Lady Ongar saw Harry Clavering.
Mr. Clavering, when he got to the great house, was immediately shown into the room in which the baronet and his younger brother were sitting. They had, some time since, finished dinner, but the decanters were still on the table before them. “Hugh,” said the rector, walking up to his elder nephew, briskly, “I grieve for you. I grieve for you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Yes,” said Hugh, “it has been a heavy blow. Sit down, uncle. There is a clean glass there; or Archie will fetch you one.” Then Archie looked out a clean glass and passed the decanter; but of this the rector took no direct notice.
“It has been a blow, my poor boy—a heavy blow,” said the rector. “None heavier could have fallen. But our sorrows come from Heaven, as do our blessings, and must be accepted.”
“We are all like grass,” said Archie, “and must be cut down in our turns.” Archie, in saying this, intended to put on his best behaviour. He was as sincere as he knew how to be.
“Come, Archie, none of that,” said his brother. “It is my uncle’s trade.”
“Hugh,” said the rector, “unless you can think of it so, you will find no comfort.”
“And I expect none, so there is an end of that. Different people think of these things differently, you know, and it is of no more use for me to bother you than it is for you to bother me. My boy has gone, and I know that he will not come back to me. I shall never have another, and it is hard to bear. But, meaning no offence to you, I would sooner be left to bear it in my own way. If I were to talk about the grass as Archie did just now, it would be humbug, and I hate humbug. No offence to you. Take some wine, uncle.”
But the rector could not drink wine in that presence, and therefore he escaped as soon as he could. He spoke one word of intended comfort to Lady Clavering, and then returned to the rectory.
XXI
Yes; Wrong;—Certainly Wrong
Harry Clavering had heard the news of his little cousin’s death before he went to Bolton Street to report the result of his negotiation with the count. His mother’s letter with the news had come to him in the morning, and on the same evening he called on Lady Ongar. She also had then received Mrs. Clavering’s letter, and knew what had occurred at the park. Harry found her alone, having asked the servant whether Madame Gordeloup was with his mistress. Had such been the case he would have gone away, and left his message untold.
As he entered the room his mind was naturally full of the tidings from Clavering. Count Pateroff and his message had lost some of their importance through this other event, and the emptiness of the childless house was the first subject of conversation between him and Lady Ongar. “I pity my sister greatly,” said she. “I feel for her as deeply as I should have done had nothing occurred to separate us;—but I cannot feel for him.”
“I do,” said Harry.
“He is your cousin, and perhaps has been your friend?”
“No, not especially. He and I have never pulled well together; but still I pity him deeply.”
“He is not my cousin, but I know him better than you do, Harry. He will not feel much himself, and his sorrow will be for his heir, not for his son. He is a man whose happiness does not depend on the life or death of anyone. He likes some people, as he once liked me; but I do not think that he ever loved any human being. He will get over it, and he will simply wish that Hermy may die, that he may marry another wife. Harry, I know him so well!”
“Archie will marry now,” said Harry.
“Yes; if he can get anyone to have him. There are very few men who can’t get wives, but I can fancy Archie Clavering to be one of them. He has not humility enough to ask the sort of girl who would be glad to take him. Now, with his improved prospects, he will want a royal princess or something not much short of it. Money, rank, and blood might have done before, but he’ll expect youth, beauty, and wit now, as well as the other things. He may marry after all, for he is just the man to walk out of a church some day with the cookmaid under his arm as his wife.”
“Perhaps he may find something between a princess and a cookmaid.”
“I hope, for your sake, he may not;—neither a princess nor a cookmaid, nor anything between.”
“He has my leave to marry tomorrow, Lady Ongar. If I had my wish, Hugh should
