DESOLATION.
In the meantime there was grief down at the great house of Clavering;
and grief, we must suppose also, at the house in Berkeley Square,
as soon as the news from his country home had reached Sir Hugh
Clavering. Little Hughy, his heir, was dead. Early one morning, Mrs.
Clavering, at the rectory, received a message from Lady Clavering,
begging that she would go up to the house, and, on arriving there,
she found that the poor child was very ill. The doctor was then at
Clavering, and had recommended that a message should be sent to the
father in London, begging him to come down. This message had been
already despatched when Mrs. Clavering arrived. The poor mother was
in a state of terrible agony, but at that time there was yet hope.
Mrs. Clavering then remained with Lady Clavering for two or three
hours; but just before dinner on the same day another messenger came
across to say that hope was past, and that the child had gone. Could
Mrs. Clavering come over again, as Lady Clavering was in a sad way?
"You'll have your dinner first?" said the rector.
"No, I think not. I shall wish to make her take something, and I can
do it better if I ask for tea for myself. I will go at once. Poor
dear little boy."
"It was a blow I always feared," said the rector to his daughter as
soon as his wife had left them. "Indeed, I knew that it was coming."
"And she was always fearing it," said Fanny. "But I do not think he
did. He never seems to think that evil will come to him."
"He will feel this," said the rector.
"Feel it, papa! Of course he will feel it."
"I do not think he would,--not deeply, that is,--if there were four
or five of them. He is a hard man;--the hardest man I ever knew. Who
ever saw him playing with his own child, or with any other? Who ever
heard him say a soft word to his wife? But he will be hit now, for
this child was his heir. He will be hit hard now, and I pity him."
Mrs. Clavering went across the park alone, and soon found herself in
the poor bereaved mother's room. She was sitting by herself, having
driven the old housekeeper away from her; and there were no traces
of tears then on her face, though she had wept plentifully when Mrs.
Clavering had been with her in the morning. But there had come upon
her suddenly a look of age, which nothing but such sorrow as this can
produce. Mrs. Clavering was surprised to see that she had dressed
herself carefully since the morning, as was her custom to do daily,
even when alone; and that she was not in her bedroom, but in a small
sitting-room which she generally used when Sir Hugh was not at the
park.
"My poor Hermione," said Mrs. Clavering, coming up to her, and taking
her by the hand.
"Yes, I am poor; poor enough. Why have they troubled you to come
across again?"
"Did you not send for me? But it was quite right, whether you sent or
no. Of course I should come when I heard it. It cannot be good for
you to be all alone."
"I suppose he will be here to-night?"
"Yes, if he got your message before three o'clock."
"Oh, he will have received it, and I suppose he will come. You think
he will come, eh?"
"Of course he will come."
"I do not know. He does not like coming to the country."
"He will be sure to come now, Hermione."
"And who will tell him? Some one must tell him before he comes to
me. Should there not be some one to tell him? They have sent another
message."
"Hannah shall be at hand to tell him." Hannah was the old housekeeper
who had been in the family when Sir Hugh was born. "Or, if you wish
it, Henry shall come down and remain here. I am sure he will do so,
if it will be a comfort."
"No; he would, perhaps, be rough to Mr. Clavering. He is so very
hard. Hannah shall do it. Will you make her understand?" Mrs.
Clavering promised that she would do this, wondering, as she did so,
at the wretched, frigid immobility of the unfortunate woman before
her. She knew Lady Clavering well;--knew her to be in many things
weak, to be worldly, listless, and perhaps somewhat selfish; but she
knew also that she had loved her child as mothers always love. Yet,
at this moment, it seemed that she was thinking more of her husband
than of the bairn she had lost. Mrs. Clavering had sat down by her
and taken her hand, and was still so sitting in silence when Lady
Clavering spoke again. "I suppose he will turn me out of his house
now," she said.
"Who will do so? Hugh? Oh, Hermione, how can you speak in such a
way?"
"He scolded me before because my poor darling was not strong. My
darling! How could I help it? And he scolded me because there was
none other but he. He will turn me out altogether now. Oh, Mrs.
Clavering, you do not know how hard he is."
Anything was better than this, and therefore Mrs. Clavering asked the
poor woman to take her into the room where the little body lay in
its little cot. If she could induce the mother to weep for the child,
even that would be better than this hard persistent fear as to what
her husband would say and do. So they both went and stood together
over the little fellow whose short sufferings had thus been brought
to an end. "My poor dear, what can I say to comfort you?" Mrs.
Clavering, as she asked this, knew well that no comfort could be
spoken in words; but--if she could only make the sufferer weep!
"Comfort!" said the mother. "There is no comfort now, I believe,
in anything. It is long since I knew any comfort;--not since Julia
went."
"Have you written to Julia?"
"No; I have written to no one. I cannot write. I feel as though if it
were to bring him back again I could not write of it. My boy! my boy!
my boy!" But still there was not a tear in her eye.
"I will write to Julia," said Mrs. Clavering; "and I will read to you
my letter."
"No, do not read it me. What is the use? He has made her quarrel with
me. Julia cares nothing now for me, or for my angel. Why should she
care? When she came home we would not see her. Of course she will not
care. Who is there that will care for me?"
"Do not I care for you, Hermione?"
"Yes, because you are here; because of the nearness of the houses.
If you lived far away you would not care for me. It is just the
custom of the thing." There was something so true in this that Mrs.
Clavering could make no answer to it. Then they turned to go back
into the sitting-room, and as they did so Lady Clavering lingered
behind for a moment; but when she was again with Mrs. Clavering her
cheek was still dry.
"He will be at the station at nine," said Lady Clavering. "They must
send the brougham for him, or the dog-cart. He will be very angry if
he is made to come home in the fly from the public-house." Then the
elder lady left the room and gave orders that Sir Hugh should be met
by his carriage. What must the wife think of her husband, when she
feared that he would be angered by little matters at such a time as
this! "Do you think it will make him very unhappy?" Lady Clavering
asked.
"Of course it will make him unhappy. How should it be otherwise?"
"He had said so often that the child would die. He will have got used
to the fear."
"His grief will be as fresh now as though he had never thought so,
and never said so."
"He is so hard; and then he has such will, such power. He will thrust
it off from him and determine that it shall not oppress him. I know
him so well."
"We should all make some exertion like that in our sorrow, trusting
to God's kindness to relieve us. You too, Hermione, should determine
also; but not yet, my dear. At first it is better to let sorrow have
its way."
"But he will determine at once. You remember when Meeny went." Meeny
had been a little girl who had been born before the boy, and who had
died when little more than twelve months old. "He did not expect
that; but then he only shook his head, and went out of the room. He
has never spoken to me one word of her since that. I think he has
forgotten Meeny altogether,--even that she was ever here."
"He cannot forget the boy who was his heir."
"Ah, that is where it is. He will say words to me which would make
you weep if you could hear them. Yes, my darling was his heir. Archie
will marry now, and will have children, and his boy will be the heir.
There will be more division and more quarrels, for Hugh will hate his
brother now."
"I do not understand why."
"Because he is so hard. It is a pity he should ever have married, for
he wants nothing that a wife can do for him. He wanted a boy to come
after him in the estate, and now that glory has been taken from him.
Mrs. Clavering, I often wish that I could die."
It would be bootless here to repeat the words of wise and loving
counsel with which the elder of the two ladies endeavoured to comfort
the younger, and to make her understand what were the duties which
still remained to her, and which, if they were rightly performed,
would, in their performance, soften the misery of her lot. Lady
Clavering listened with that dull, useless attention which on such
occasions sorrow always gives to the prudent counsels of friendship;
but she was thinking ever and always of her husband, and watching the
moment of his expected return. In her heart she wished that he might
not come on that evening. At last, at half-past nine, she exerted
herself to send away her visitor.
"He will be here soon, if he comes to-night," Lady Clavering said,
"and it will be better that he should find me alone."
"Will it be better?"
"Yes, yes. Cannot you see how he would frown and shake his head if
you were here? I would sooner be alone when he comes. Good-night. You
have been very kind to me; but you are always kind. Things are done
kindly always at your house, because there is so much love there. You
will write to Julia for me. Good-night." Then Mrs. Clavering kissed
her and went, thinking as she walked home in the dark to the rectory,
how much she had to be thankful in that these words had been true
which her poor neighbour had spoken. Her house was full of love.
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 dog-cart 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.
[Illustration: "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away."]
"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 it.
"Oh, Hugh; what could we do? It was not our fault."
"Who is talking of any fault? I have said nothing as to fault. He
was always poor and sickly. The Claverings, generally, have been so
strong. Look at myself, and Archie, and my sisters. Well, it cannot
be helped. Thinking of it will not bring him back again. You had
better tell some one to get me something to eat. I came away, of
course, without any dinner."
She herself had eaten nothing since the morning, but she neither
spoke nor thought of that. She rang the bell, and going out into the
passage gave the servant the order on the stairs.
"It is no good my staying here," he said. "I will go and dress. It
is the best not to think of such things,--much the best. People call
that heartless, of course, but then people are fools. If I were to
sit still, and think of it for a week together, what good could I
do?"
"But how not to think of it? that is the thing."
"Women are different, I suppose. I will dress and then go down to the
breakfast-room. Tell Saunders to get me a bottle of champagne. You
will be better also if you will take a glass of wine."
It was the first word he had spoken which showed any care for her,
and she was grateful for it. As he arose to go, she came close to
him again, and put her hand very gently on his arm. "Hugh," she said,
"will you not see him?"
"What good will that do?"
"I think you would regret it if you were to let them take him away
without looking at him. He is so pretty as he lays in his little bed.
I thought you would come with me to see him." He was more gentle with
her than she had expected, and she led him away to the room which had
been their own, and in which the child had died.
"Why here?" he said, almost angrily, as he entered.
"I have had him here with me since you went."
"He should not be here now," he said, shuddering. "I wish he had been
moved before I came. I will not have this room any more; remember
that." She led him up to the foot of the little cot, which stood
close by the head of her own bed, and then she removed a handkerchief
which lay upon the child's face.
"Oh, Hugh! oh, Hugh!" she said, and, throwing her arms round his
neck, she wept violently upon his breast. For a few moments he did
not disturb her, but stood looking at his boy's face. "Hugh, Hugh,"
she repeated, "will you not be kind to me? Do be kind to me. It is
not my fault that we are childless."
Still he endured her for a few moments longer. He spoke no word to
her, but he let her remain there, with her head upon his breast.
"Dear Hugh, I love you so truly!"
"This is nonsense," said he, "sheer nonsense." His voice was low and
very hoarse. "Why do you talk of kindness now?"
"Because I am so wretched."
"What have I done to make you wretched?"
"I do not mean that; but if you will be gentle with me, it will
comfort me. Do not leave me here all alone, now my darling has been
taken from me."
Then he shook her from him, not violently, but with a persistent
action.
"Do you mean that you want to go up to town?" he said.
"Oh, no; not that."
"Then what is it you want? Where would you live, if not here?"
"Anywhere you please, only that you should stay with me."
"All that is nonsense. I wonder that you should talk of such things
now. Come away from this, and let me go to my room. All this is trash
and nonsense, and I hate it." She put back with careful hands the
piece of cambric which she had moved, and then, seating herself on
a chair, wept violently, with her hands closed upon her face. "That
comes of bringing me here," he said. "Get up, Hermione. I will not
have you so foolish. Get up, I say. I will have the room closed till
the men come."
"Oh, no!"
"Get up, I say, and come away." Then she rose, and followed him out
of the chamber, and when he went to change his clothes she returned
to the room in which he had found her. There she sat and wept, while
he went down and dined and drank alone. But the old housekeeper
brought her up a morsel of food and a glass of wine, saying that her
master desired that she would take it.
"I will not leave you, my lady, till you have done so," said Hannah.
"To fast so long must be bad always."
Then she eat the food, and drank a drop of wine, and allowed the old
woman to take her away to the bed that had been prepared for her. Of
her husband she saw no more for four days. On the next morning a note
was brought to her, in which Sir Hugh told her that he had returned
to London. It was necessary, he said, that he should see his lawyer
and his brother. He and Archie would return for the funeral. With
reference to that he had already given orders.
During the next three days, and till her husband's return, Lady
Clavering remained at the rectory, and in the comfort of Mrs.
Clavering's presence she almost felt that it would be well for her
if those days could be prolonged. But she knew the hour at which
her husband would return, and she took care to be at home when he
arrived. "You will come and see him?" she said to the rector, as she
left the parsonage. "You will come at once;--in an hour or two?"
Mr. Clavering remembered the circumstances of his last visit to the
house, and the declaration he had then made that he would not return
there. But all that could not now be considered.
"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 sea-side,--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.