A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAR PARK.
[Illustration.]
It will be remembered that Harry Clavering, on returning one evening
to his lodgings in Bloomsbury Square, had been much astonished at
finding there the card of Count Pateroff, a man of whom he had only
heard, up to that moment, as the friend of the late Lord Ongar. At
first he had been very angry with Lady Ongar, thinking that she and
this count were in some league together, some league of which he
would greatly disapprove; but his anger had given place to a new
interest when he learned direct from herself that she had not seen
the count, and that she was simply anxious that he, as her friend,
should have an interview with the man. He had then become very
eager in the matter, offering to subject himself to any amount of
inconvenience so that he might effect that which Lady Ongar asked of
him. He was not, however, called upon to endure any special trouble
or expense, as he heard nothing more from Count Pateroff till he had
been back in London for two or three weeks.
Lady Ongar's statement to him had been quite true. It had been even
more than true; for when she had written she had not even heard
directly from the count. She had learned by letter from another
person that Count Pateroff was in London, and had then communicated
the fact to her friend. This other person was a sister of the
count's, who was now living in London, one Madame Gordeloup,--Sophie
Gordeloup,--a lady whom Harry had found sitting in Lady Ongar's room
when last he had seen her in Bolton Street. He had not then heard her
name; nor was he aware then, or for some time subsequently, that
Count Pateroff had any relative in London.
Lady Ongar had been a fortnight in the country before she received
Madame Gordeloup's letter. In that letter the sister had declared
herself to be most anxious that her brother should see Lady Ongar.
The letter had been in French, and had been very eloquent,--more
eloquent in its cause than any letter with the same object could have
been if written by an Englishwoman in English; and the eloquence was
less offensive than it might, under all concurrent circumstances,
have been had it reached Lady Ongar in English. The reader must not,
however, suppose that the letter contained a word that was intended
to support a lover's suit. It was very far indeed from that, and
spoke of the count simply as a friend; but its eloquence went to show
that nothing that had passed should be construed by Lady Ongar as
offering any bar to a fair friendship. What the world said!--Bah! Did
not she know,--she, Sophie,--and did not her friend know,--her friend
Julie,--that the world was a great liar? Was it not even now telling
wicked venomous lies about her friend Julie? Why mind what the world
said, seeing that the world could not be brought to speak one word of
truth? The world indeed! Bah!
But Lady Ongar, though she was not as yet more than half as old as
Madame Gordeloup, knew what she was about almost as well as that
lady knew what Sophie Gordeloup was doing. Lady Ongar had known
the count's sister in France and Italy, having seen much of her
in one of those sudden intimacies to which English people are
subject when abroad; and she had been glad to see Madame Gordeloup
in London,--much more glad than she would have been had she been
received there on her return by a crowd of loving native friends.
But not on that account was she prepared to shape her conduct in
accordance with her friend Sophie's advice, and especially not
so when that advice had reference to Sophie's brother. She had,
therefore, said very little in return to the lady's eloquence,
answering the letter on that matter very vaguely; but, having a
purpose of her own, had begged that Count Pateroff might be asked to
call upon Harry Clavering. Count Pateroff did not feel himself to
care very much about Harry Clavering, but wishing to do as he was
bidden, did leave his card in Bloomsbury Square.
And why was Lady Ongar anxious that the young man who was her friend
should see the man who had been her husband's friend, and whose name
had been mixed with her own in so grievous a manner? She had called
Harry her friend, and it might be that she desired to give this
friend every possible means of testing the truth of that story which
she herself had told. The reader, perhaps, will hardly have believed
in Lady Ongar's friendship;--will, perhaps, have believed neither
the friendship nor the story. If so, the reader will have done her
wrong, and will not have read her character aright. The woman was
not heartless because she had once, in one great epoch of her life,
betrayed her own heart; nor was she altogether false because she had
once lied; nor altogether vile, because she had once taught herself
that, for such an one as her, riches were a necessity. It might be
that the punishment of her sin could meet with no remission in this
world, but not on that account should it be presumed that there was
no place for repentance left to her.
As she walked alone through the shrubberies at Ongar Park she thought
much of those other paths at Clavering, and of the walks in which
she had not been alone; and she thought of that interview in the
garden when she had explained to Harry,--as she had then thought so
successfully,--that they two, each being poor, were not fit to love
and marry each other. She had brooded over all that, too, during the
long hours of her sad journey home to England. She was thinking of
it still when she had met him, and had been so cold to him on the
platform of the railway station, when she had sent him away angry
because she had seemed to slight him. She had thought of it as she
had sat in her London room, telling him the terrible tale of her
married life, while her eyes were fixed on his and her head was
resting on her hands. Even then, at that moment, she was asking
herself whether he believed her story, or whether, within his breast,
he was saying that she was vile and false. She knew that she had been
false to him, and that he must have despised her when, with her easy
philosophy, she had made the best of her own mercenary perfidy. He
had called her a jilt to her face, and she had been able to receive
the accusation with a smile. Would he now call her something worse,
and with a louder voice, within his own bosom? And if she could
convince him that to that accusation she was not fairly subject,
might the old thing come back again? Would he walk with her again,
and look into her eyes as though he only wanted her commands to show
himself ready to be her slave? She was a widow, and had seen many
things, but even now she had not reached her six-and-twentieth year.
The apples at her rich country-seat had quickly become ashes between
her teeth, but something of the juice of the fruit might yet reach
her palate if he would come and sit with her at the table. As she
complained to herself of the coldness of the world, she thought that
she would not care how cold might be all the world if there might be
but one whom she could love, and who would love her. And him she had
loved. To him, in old days,--in days which now seemed to her to be
very old,--she had made confession of her love. Old as were those
days, it could not be but he should still remember them. She had
loved him, and him only. To none other had she ever pretended love.
From none other had love been offered to her. Between her and that
wretched being to whom she had sold herself, who had been half dead
before she had seen him, there had been no pretence of love. But
Harry Clavering she had loved. Harry Clavering was a man, with all
those qualities which she valued, and also with those foibles which
saved him from being too perfect for so slight a creature as herself.
Harry had been offended to the quick, and had called her a jilt; but
yet it might be possible that he would return to her.
It should not be supposed that since her return to England she had
had one settled, definite object before her eyes with regard to
this renewal of her love. There had been times in which she had
thought that she would go on with the life which she had prepared
for herself, and that she would make herself contented, if not happy,
with the price which had been paid to her. And there were other
times, in which her spirits sank low within her, and she told herself
that no contentment was any longer possible to her. She looked at
herself in the glass, and found herself to be old and haggard. Harry,
she said, was the last man in the world to sell himself for wealth,
when there was no love remaining. Harry would never do as she
had done with herself! Not for all the wealth that woman ever
inherited,--so she told herself,--would he link himself to one who
had made herself vile and tainted among women! In this, I think, she
did him no more than justice, though it may be that in some other
matters she rated his character too highly. Of Florence Burton she
had as yet heard nothing, though had she heard of her, it may well
be that she would not on that account have desisted. Such being her
thoughts and her hopes, she had written to Harry, begging him to see
this man who had followed her,--she knew not why,--from Italy; and
had told the sister simply that she could not do as she was asked,
because she was away from London, alone in a country house.
And quite alone she was sitting one morning, counting up her misery,
feeling that the apples were, in truth, ashes, when a servant came to
her, telling her that there was a gentleman in the hall desirous of
seeing her. The man had the visitor's card in his hand, but before
she could read the name, the blood had mounted into her face as she
told herself that it was Harry Clavering. There was joy for a moment
at her heart; but she must not show it,--not as yet. She had been
but four months a widow, and he should not have come to her in
the country. She must see him and in some way make him understand
this,--but she would be very gentle with him. Then her eye fell upon
the card, and she saw, with grievous disappointment, that it bore
the name of Count Pateroff. No;--she was not going to be caught in
that way. Let the result be what it might, she would not let Sophie
Gordeloup, or Sophie's brother, get the better of her by such a ruse
as that! "Tell the gentleman, with my compliments," she said, as she
handed back the card, "that I regret it greatly, but I can see no
one now." Then the servant went away, and she sat wondering whether
the count would be able to make his way into her presence. She felt
rather than knew that she had some reason to fear him. All that had
been told of him and of her had been false. No accusation brought
against her had contained one spark of truth. But there had been
things between Lord Ongar and this man which she would not care to
have told openly in England. And though, in his conduct to her,
he had been customarily courteous, and on one occasion had been
generous, still she feared him. She would much rather that he should
have remained in Italy. And though, when all alone in Bolton Street,
she had in her desolation welcomed his sister Sophie, she would have
preferred that Sophie should not have come to her, claiming to renew
their friendship. But with the count she would hold no communion now,
even though he should find his way into the room.
A few minutes passed before the servant returned, and then he brought
a note with him. As the door opened Lady Ongar rose, ready to leave
the room by another passage; but she took the note and read it. It
was as follows:--"I cannot understand why you should refuse to see
me, and I feel aggrieved. My present purpose is to say a few words to
you on private matters connected with papers that belonged to Lord
Ongar. I still hope that you will admit me.--P." Having read these
words while standing, she made an effort to think what might be
the best course for her to follow. As for Lord Ongar's papers, she
did not believe in the plea. Lord Ongar could have had no papers
interesting to her in such a manner as to make her desirous of seeing
this man or of hearing of them in private. Lord Ongar, though she had
nursed him to the hour of his death, earning her price, had been her
bitterest enemy; and though there had been something about this count
that she had respected, she had known him to be a man of intrigue and
afraid of no falsehoods in his intrigues,--a dangerous man, who might
perhaps now and again do a generous thing, but one who would expect
payment for his generosity. Besides, had he not been named openly
as her lover? She wrote to him, therefore, as follows:--"Lady Ongar
presents her compliments to Count Pateroff, and finds it to be out
of her power to see him at present." This answer the visitor took
and walked away from the front door without showing any disgust
to the servant, either by his demeanour or in his countenance. On
that evening she received from him a long letter, written at the
neighbouring inn, expostulating with her as to her conduct towards
him, and saying in the last line, that it was "impossible now that
they should be strangers to each other." "Impossible that we should
be strangers," she said almost out loud. "Why impossible? I know no
such impossibility." After that she carefully burned both the letter
and the note.
She remained at Ongar Park something over six weeks, and then, about
the beginning of May, she went back to London. No one had been to see
her, except Mr. Sturm, the clergyman of the parish; and he, though
something almost approaching to an intimacy had sprung up between
them, had never yet spoken to her of his wife. She was not quite
sure whether her rank might not deter him,--whether under such
circumstances as those now in question, the ordinary social rules
were not ordinarily broken,--whether a countess should not call on a
clergyman's wife first, although the countess might be the stranger;
but she did not dare to do as she would have done, had no blight
attached itself to her name. She gave, therefore, no hint; she said
no word of Mrs. Sturm, though her heart was longing for a kind word
from some woman's mouth. But she allowed herself to feel no anger
against the husband, and went through her parish work, thanking him
for his assistance.
Of Mr. Giles she had seen very little, and since her misfortune with
Enoch Gubby, she had made no further attempt to interfere with the
wages of the persons employed. Into the houses of some of the poor
she had made her way, but she fancied that they were not glad to
see her. They might, perhaps, have all heard of her reputation,
and Gubby's daughter may have congratulated herself that there was
another in the parish as bad as herself, or perhaps, happily, worse.
The owner of all the wealth around strove to make Mrs. Button become
a messenger of charity between herself and some of the poor; but Mrs.
Button altogether declined the employment, although, as her mistress
had ascertained, she herself performed her own little missions of
charity with zeal. Before the fortnight was over, Lady Ongar was sick
of her house and her park, utterly disregardful of her horses and
oxen, and unmindful even of the pleasant stream which in these spring
days rippled softly at the bottom of her gardens.
She had undertaken to be back in London early in May, by appointment
with her lawyer, and had unfortunately communicated the fact to
Madame Gordeloup. Four or five days before she was due in Bolton
Street, her mindful Sophie, with unerring memory, wrote to her,
declaring her readiness to do all and anything that the most diligent
friendship could prompt. Should she meet her dear Julie at the
station in London? Should she bring any special carriage? Should
she order any special dinner in Bolton Street? She herself would of
course come to Bolton Street, if not allowed to be present at the
station. It was still chilly in the evenings, and she would have
fires lit. Might she suggest a roast fowl and some bread sauce, and
perhaps a sweetbread,--and just one glass of champagne? And might she
share the banquet? There was not a word in the note about the too
obtrusive brother, either as to the offence committed by him, or the
offence felt by him.
The little Franco-Polish woman was there in Bolton Street, of
course,--for Lady Ongar had not dared to refuse her. A little, dry,
bright woman she was, with quick eyes, and thin lips, and small nose,
and mean forehead, and scanty hair drawn back quite tightly from her
face and head; very dry, but still almost pretty with her quickness
and her brightness. She was fifty, was Sophie Gordeloup, but she had
so managed her years that she was as active on her limbs as most
women are at twenty-five. And the chicken, and the bread-sauce, and
the sweetbread, and the champagne were there, all very good of their
kind; for Sophie Gordeloup liked such things to be good, and knew how
to indulge her own appetite, and to coax that of another person.
Some little satisfaction Lady Ongar received from the fact that she
was not alone; but the satisfaction was not satisfactory. When Sophie
had left her at ten o'clock, running off by herself to her lodgings
in Mount Street, Lady Ongar, after but one moment's thought, sat down
and wrote a note to Harry Clavering.
DEAR HARRY,--I am back in town. Pray come and see me to-morrow
evening. Yours ever,
J. O.