THE RIVALS.
[Illustration.]
Lady Ongar sat alone, long into the night, when Harry Clavering had
left her. She sat there long, getting up occasionally from her seat,
once or twice attempting to write at her desk, looking now and then
at a paper or two, and then at a small picture which she had, but
passing the long hours in thinking,--in long, sad, solitary thoughts.
What should she do with herself,--with herself, her title, and her
money? Would it be still well that she should do something, that she
should make some attempt; or should she, in truth, abandon all, as
the arch-traitor did, and acknowledge that for her foot there could
no longer be a resting-place on the earth? At six-and-twenty, with
youth, beauty, and wealth at her command, must she despair? But her
youth had been stained, her beauty had lost its freshness; and as
for her wealth, had she not stolen it? Did not the weight of the
theft sit so heavy on her, that her brightest thought was one which
prompted her to abandon it?
As to that idea of giving up her income and her house, and calling
herself again Julia Brabazon, though there was something in the
poetry of it which would now and again for half an hour relieve her,
yet she hardly proposed such a course to herself as a reality. The
world in which she had lived had taught her to laugh at romance,
to laugh at it even while she liked its beauty; and she would tell
herself that for such a one as her to do such a thing as this, would
be to insure for herself the ridicule of all who knew her name. What
would Sir Hugh say, and her sister? What Count Pateroff and the
faithful Sophie? What all the Ongar tribe, who would reap the rich
harvest of her insanity? These latter would offer to provide her a
place in some convenient asylum, and the others would all agree that
such would be her fitting destiny. She could bear the idea of walking
forth, as she had said, penniless into the street, without a crust;
but she could not bear the idea of being laughed at when she got
there.
To her, in her position, her only escape was by marriage. It was the
solitude of her position which maddened her;--its solitude, or the
necessity of breaking that solitude by the presence of those who were
odious to her. Whether it were better to be alone, feeding on the
bitterness of her own thoughts, or to be comforted by the fulsome
flatteries and odious falsenesses of Sophie Gordeloup, she could
not tell. She hated herself for her loneliness, but she hated
herself almost worse for submitting herself to the society of
Sophie Gordeloup. Why not give all that she possessed to Harry
Clavering--herself, her income, her rich pastures and horses and
oxen, and try whether the world would not be better to her when she
had done so?
She had learned to laugh at romance, but still she believed in
love. While that bargain was going on as to her settlement, she had
laughed at romance, and had told herself that in this world worldly
prosperity was everything. Sir Hugh then had stood by her with truth,
for he had well understood the matter, and could enter into it with
zest. Lord Ongar, in his state of health, had not been in a position
to make close stipulations as to the dower in the event of his
proposed wife becoming a widow. "No, no; we won't stand that," Sir
Hugh had said to the lawyers. "We all hope, of course, that Lord
Ongar may live long; no doubt he'll turn over a new leaf, and die at
ninety. But in such a case as this the widow must not be fettered."
The widow had not been fettered, and Julia had been made to
understand the full advantage of such an arrangement. But still she
had believed in love when she had bade farewell to Harry in the
garden. She had told herself then, even then, that she would have
better liked to have taken him and his love,--if only she could have
afforded it. He had not dreamed that on leaving him she had gone
from him to her room, and taken out his picture,--the same that she
had with her now in Bolton Street,--and had kissed it, bidding him
farewell there with a passion which she could not display in his
presence. And she had thought of his offer about the money over and
over again. "Yes," she would say; "that man loved me. He would have
given me all he had to relieve me, though nothing was to come to him
in return." She had, at any rate, been loved once; and she almost
wished that she had taken the money, that she might now have an
opportunity of repaying it.
And she was again free, and her old lover was again by her side. Had
that fatal episode in her life been so fatal that she must now regard
herself as tainted and unfit for him? There was no longer anything to
separate them,--anything of which she was aware, unless it was that.
And as for his love,--did he not look and speak as though he loved
her still? Had he not pressed her hand passionately, and kissed it,
and once more called her Julia? How should it be that he should not
love her? In such a case as his, love might have been turned to
hatred or to enmity; but it was not so with him. He called himself
her friend. How could there be friendship between them without love?
And then she thought how much with her wealth she might do for him.
With all his early studies and his talent Harry Clavering was not
the man, she thought, to make his way in the world by hard work; but
with such an income as she could give him, he might shine among the
proud ones of his nation. He should go into Parliament, and do great
things. He should be lord of all. It should all be his without a word
of reserve. She had been mercenary once, but she would atone for that
now by open-handed, undoubting generosity. She herself had learned to
hate the house and fields and widespread comforts of Ongar Park. She
had walked among it all alone, and despised. But it would be a glory
to her to see him go forth, with Giles at his heels, boldly giving
his orders, changing this and improving that. He would be rebuked for
no errors, let him do with Enoch Gubby and the rest of them what he
pleased! And then the parson's wife would be glad enough to come to
her, and the house would be full of smiling faces. And it might be
that God would be good to her, and that she would have treasures, as
other women had them, and that the flavour would come back to the
apples, and that the ashes would cease to grate between her teeth.
She loved him, and why should it not be so? She could go before God's
altar with him without disgracing herself with a lie. She could put
her hand in his, and swear honestly that she would worship him and
obey him. She had been dishonest;--but if he would pardon her for
that, could she not reward him richly for such pardon? And it seemed
to her that he had pardoned her. He had forgiven it all and was
gracious to her,--coming at her beck and call, and sitting with her
as though he liked her presence. She was woman enough to understand
this, and she knew that he liked it. Of course he loved her. How
could it be otherwise?
But yet he spoke nothing to her of his love. In the old days there
had been with him no bashfulness of that kind. He was not a man to
tremble and doubt before a woman. In those old days he had been ready
enough,--so ready, that she had wondered that one who had just come
from his books should know so well how to make himself master of a
girl's heart. Nature had given him that art, as she does give it to
some, withholding it from many. But now he sat near her, dropping
once and again half words of love, hearing her references to the old
times;--and yet he said nothing.
But how was he to speak of love to one who was a widow but of four
months' standing? And with what face could he now again ask for her
hand, knowing that it had been filled so full since last it was
refused to him? It was thus she argued to herself when she excused
him in that he did not speak to her. As to her widowhood, to herself
it was a thing of scorn. Thinking of it, she cast her weepers from
her, and walked about the room, scorning the hypocrisy of her dress.
It needed that she should submit herself to this hypocrisy before
the world; but he might know,--for had she not told him?--that the
clothes she wore were no index of her feeling or of her heart. She
had been mean enough, base enough, vile enough, to sell herself
to that wretched lord. Mean, base, and vile she had been, and she
now confessed it; but she was not false enough to pretend that she
mourned the man as a wife mourns. Harry might have seen enough to
know, have understood enough to perceive, that he need not regard her
widowhood.
And as to her money! If that were the stumbling-block, might it not
be well that the first overture should come from her? Could she not
find words to tell him that it might all be his? Could she not say to
him, "Harry Clavering, all this is nothing in my hands. Take it into
your hands, and it will prosper." Then it was that she went to her
desk, and attempted to write to him. She did write to him a completed
note, offering herself and all that was hers for his acceptance. In
doing so, she strove hard to be honest and yet not over bold; to be
affectionate and yet not unfeminine. Long she sat, holding her head
with one hand, while the other attempted to use the pen which would
not move over the paper. At length, quickly it flew across the sheet,
and a few lines were there for her to peruse.
"Harry Clavering," she had written,
I know I am doing what men and women say no woman should
do. You may, perhaps, say so of me now; but if you do,
I know you so well, that I do not fear that others will
be able to repeat it. Harry, I have never loved any one
but you. Will you be my husband? You well know that I
should not make you this offer if I did not intend that
everything I have should be yours. It will be pleasant to
me to feel that I can make some reparation for the evil
I have done. As for love, I have never loved any one but
you. You yourself must know that well. Yours, altogether
if you will have it so,--JULIA.
She took the letter with her, back across the room to her seat by the
fire, and took with her at the same time the little portrait; and
there she sat, looking at the one and reading the other. At last she
slowly folded the note up into a thin wisp of paper, and, lighting
the end of it, watched it till every shred of it was burnt to an ash.
"If he wants me," she said, "he can come and take me,--as other men
do." It was a fearful attempt, that which she had thought of making.
How could she have looked him in the face again had his answer to her
been a refusal?
Another hour went by before she took herself to her bed, during
which her cruelly-used maiden was waiting for her half asleep in
the chamber above; and during that time she tried to bring herself
to some steady resolve. She would remain in London for the coming
months, so that he might come to her if he pleased. She would remain
there, even though she were subject to the daily attacks of Sophie
Gordeloup. She hardly knew why, but in part she was afraid of Sophie.
She had done nothing of which Sophie knew the secret. She had no
cause to tremble because Sophie might be offended. The woman had
seen her in some of her saddest moments, and could indeed tell
of indignities which would have killed some women. But these she
had borne, and had not disgraced herself in the bearing of them.
But still she was afraid of Sophie, and felt that she could not
bring herself absolutely to dismiss her friend from her house.
Nevertheless, she would remain;--because Harry Clavering was in
London and could come to her there. To her house at Ongar Park she
would never go again, unless she went as his wife. The place had
become odious to her. Bad as was her solitude in London, with Sophie
Gordeloup to break it,--and perhaps with Sophie's brother to attack
her, it was not so bad as the silent desolation of Ongar Park. Never
again would she go there, unless she went there, in triumph,--as
Harry's wife. Having so far resolved she took herself at last to her
room, and dismissed her drowsy Phoebe to her rest.
And now the reader must be asked to travel down at once into the
country, that he may see how Florence Burton passed the same evening
at Clavering Rectory. It was Florence's last night there, and on
the following morning she was to return to her father's house at
Stratton. Florence had not as yet received her unsatisfactory letter
from Harry. That was to arrive on the following morning. At present
she was, as regarded her letters, under the influence of that one
which had been satisfactory in so especial a degree. Not that the
coming letter,--the one now on its route,--was of a nature to disturb
her comfort permanently, or to make her in any degree unhappy. "Dear
fellow; he must be careful, he is overworking himself." Even the
unsatisfactory letter would produce nothing worse than this from her;
but now, at the moment of which I am writing, she was in a paradise
of happy thoughts.
Her visit to Clavering had been in every respect successful. She had
been liked by every one, and every one in return had been liked by
her. Mrs. Clavering had treated her as though she were a daughter.
The rector had made her pretty presents, had kissed her, and called
her his child. With Fanny she had formed a friendship which was to
endure for ever, let destiny separate them how it might. Dear Fanny!
She had had a wonderful interview respecting Fanny on this very day,
and was at this moment disquieting her mind because she could not
tell her friend what had happened without a breach of confidence!
She had learned a great deal at Clavering, though in most matters
of learning she was a better instructed woman than they were whom
she had met. In general knowledge and in intellect she was Fanny's
superior, though Fanny Clavering was no fool; but Florence, when she
came thither, had lacked something which living in such a house had
given to her;--or, I should rather say, something had been given to
her of which she would greatly feel the want, if it could be again
taken from her. Her mother was as excellent a woman as had ever sent
forth a family of daughters into the world, and I do not know that
any one ever objected to her as being ignorant, or specially vulgar;
but the house in Stratton was not like Clavering Rectory in the
little ways of living, and this Florence Burton had been clever
enough to understand. She knew that a sojourn under such a roof, with
such a woman as Mrs. Clavering, must make her fitter to be Harry's
wife; and, therefore, when they pressed her to come again in the
autumn, she said that she thought she would. She could understand,
too, that Harry was different in many things from the men who had
married her sisters, and she rejoiced that it was so. Poor Florence!
Had he been more like them it might have been safer for her.
But we must return for a moment to the wonderful interview which
has been mentioned. Florence, during her sojourn at Clavering, had
become intimate with Mr. Saul, as well as with Fanny. She had given
herself for the time heartily to the schools, and matters had so far
progressed with her that Mr. Saul had on one occasion scolded her
soundly. "It's a great sign that he thinks well of you," Fanny had
said. "It was the only sign he ever gave me, before he spoke to
me in that sad strain." On the afternoon of this, her last day at
Clavering, she had gone over to Cumberly Green with Fanny, to say
farewell to the children, and walked back by herself, as Fanny had
not finished her work. When she was still about half a mile from the
rectory, she met Mr. Saul, who was on his way out to the Green. "I
knew I should meet you," he said, "so that I might say good-by."
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Saul,--for I am going in truth, to-morrow."
"I wish you were staying. I wish you were going to remain with us.
Having you here is very pleasant, and you do more good here, perhaps,
than you will elsewhere."
"I will not allow that. You forget that I have a father and mother."
"Yes; and you will have a husband soon."
"No, not soon; some day, perhaps, if all goes well. But I mean to be
back here often before that. I mean to be here in October, just for a
little visit, if mamma can spare me."
"Miss Burton," he said, speaking in a very serious tone--. All his
tones were serious, but that which he now adopted was more solemn
than usual. "I wish to consult you on a certain matter, if you can
give me five minutes of your time."
"To consult me, Mr. Saul?"
"Yes, Miss Burton. I am hard pressed at present, and I know no one
else of whom I can ask a certain question, if I cannot ask it of you.
I think that you will answer me truly, if you answer me at all. I do
not think you would flatter me, or tell me an untruth."
"Flatter you! how could I flatter you?"
"By telling me--; but I must ask you my question first. You and Fanny
Clavering are dear friends now. You tell each other everything."
"I do not know," said Florence, doubting as to what she might best
say, but guessing something of that which was coming.
"She will have told you, perhaps, that I asked her to be my wife.
Did she ever tell you that?" Florence looked into his face for a
few moments without answering him, not knowing how to answer such a
question. "I know that she has told you," said he. "I can see that it
is so."
"She has told me," said Florence.
"Why should she not? How could she be with you so many hours, and not
tell you that of which she could hardly fail to have the remembrance
often present with her. If I were gone from here, if I were not
before her eyes daily, it might be otherwise; but seeing me as she
does from day to day, of course she has spoken of me to her friend."
"Yes, Mr. Saul; she has told me of it."
"And now, will you tell me whether I may hope."
"Mr. Saul!"
"I want you to betray no secret, but I ask you for your advice. Can I
hope that she will ever return my love?"
"How am I to answer you?"
"With the truth. Only with the truth."
"I should say that she thinks that you have forgotten it."
"Forgotten it! No, Miss Burton; she cannot think that. Do you believe
that men or women can forget such things as that? Can you ever forget
her brother? Do you think people ever forget when they have loved?
No, I have not forgotten her. I have not forgotten that walk which
we had down this lane together. There are things which men never
forget." Then he paused for an answer.
Florence was by nature steady and self-collected, and she at once
felt that she was bound to be wary before she gave him any answer.
She had half fancied once or twice that Fanny thought more of Mr.
Saul than she allowed even herself to know. And Fanny, when she had
spoken of the impossibility of such a marriage, had always based the
impossibility on the fact that people should not marry without the
means of living,--a reason which to Florence, with all her prudence,
was not sufficient. Fanny might wait as she also intended to wait.
Latterly, too, Fanny had declared more than once to Florence her
conviction that Mr. Saul's passion had been a momentary insanity
which had altogether passed away; and in these declarations Florence
had half fancied that she discovered some tinge of regret. If it were
so, what was she now to say to Mr. Saul?
"You think then, Miss Burton," he continued, "that I have no chance
of success? I ask the question because if I felt certain that this
was so,--quite certain, I should be wrong to remain here. It has been
my first and only parish, and I could not leave it without bitter
sorrow. But if I were to remain here hopelessly, I should become
unfit for my work. I am becoming so, and shall be better away."
"But why ask me, Mr. Saul?"
"Because I think that you can tell me."
"But why not ask herself? Who can tell you so truly as she can do?"
"You would not advise me to do that if you were sure that she would
reject me?"
"That is what I would advise."
"I will take your advice, Miss Burton. Now, good-by, and may God
bless you. You say you will be here in the autumn; but before the
autumn I shall probably have left Clavering. If so our farewells
will be for very long, but I shall always remember our pleasant
intercourse here." Then he went on towards Cumberly Green; and
Florence, as she walked into the vicarage grounds, was thinking that
no girl had ever been loved by a more single-hearted, pure-minded
gentleman than Mr. Saul.
As she sat alone in her bed-room, five or six hours after this
interview, she felt some regret that she should leave Clavering
without a word to Fanny on the subject. Mr. Saul had exacted no
promise of secrecy from her; he was not a man to exact such promises.
But she felt not the less that she would be betraying confidence to
speak, and it might even be that her speaking on the matter would do
more harm than good. Her sympathies were doubtless with Mr. Saul, but
she could not therefore say that she thought Fanny ought to accept
his love. It would be best to say nothing of the matter, and to allow
Mr. Saul to fight his own battle.
Then she turned to her own matters, and there she found that
everything was pleasant. How good the world had been to her to give
her such a lover as Harry Clavering! She owned with all her heart the
excellence of being in love, when a girl might be allowed to call
such a man her own. She could not but make comparisons between him
and Mr. Saul, though she knew that she was making them on points that
were hardly worthy of her thoughts. Mr. Saul was plain, uncouth, with
little that was bright about him except the brightness of his piety.
Harry was like the morning star. He looked and walked and spoke as
though he were something more godlike than common men. His very
voice created joy, and the ring of his laughter was to Florence
as the music of the heavens. What woman would not have loved Harry
Clavering? Even Julia Brabazon,--a creature so base that she had sold
herself to such a thing as Lord Ongar for money and a title, but
so grand in her gait and ways, so Florence had been told, that she
seemed to despise the earth on which she trod,--even she had loved
him. Then as Florence thought of what Julia Brabazon might have had
and of what she had lost, she wondered that there could be women born
so sadly vicious.
But that woman's vice had given her her success, her joy, her great
triumph! It was surely not for her to deal hardly with the faults of
Julia Brabazon,--for her who was enjoying all the blessings of which
those faults had robbed the other! Julia Brabazon had been her very
good friend.
But why had this perfect lover come to her, to one so small, so
trifling, so little in the world's account as she, and given to her
all the treasure of his love? Oh, Harry,--dear Harry! what could
she do for him that would be a return good enough for such great
goodness? Then she took out his last letter, that satisfactory
letter, that letter that had been declared to be perfect, and read it
and read it again. No; she did not want Fanny or any one else to tell
her that he was true. Honesty and truth were written on every line of
his face, were to be heard in every tone of his voice, could be seen
in every sentence that came from his hand. Dear Harry; dearest Harry!
She knew well that he was true.
Then she also sat down and wrote to him, on that her last night
beneath his father's roof,--wrote to him when she had nearly prepared
herself for her bed; and honestly, out of her full heart, thanked him
for his love. There was no need that she should be coy with him now,
for she was his own. "Dear Harry, when I think of all that you have
done for me in loving me and choosing me for your wife, I know that
I can never pay you all that I owe you."
Such were the two rival claimants for the hand of Harry Clavering.