PARTING.
On the next day Harry was not better, but the doctor still said that
there was no cause for alarm. He was suffering from a low fever, and
his sister had better be kept out of his room. He would not sleep,
and was restless, and it might be some time before he could return to
London.
Early in the day the rector came into his son's bedroom, and told him
and his mother, who was there, the news which he had just heard from
the great house. "Hugh has come home," he said, "and is going out
yachting for the rest of the summer. They are going to Norway in Jack
Stuart's yacht. Archie is going with them." Now Archie was known to
be a great man in a yacht, cognizant of ropes, well up in booms and
spars, very intimate with bolts, and one to whose hands a tiller came
as naturally as did the saddle of a steeple-chase horse to the legs
of his friend Doodles. "They are going to fish," said the rector.
"But Jack Stuart's yacht is only a river-boat,--or just big enough
for Cowes harbour, but nothing more," said Harry, roused in his bed
to some excitement by the news.
"I know nothing about Jack Stuart or his boat either," said the
rector; "but that's what they told me. He's down here, at any rate,
for I saw the servant that came with him."
"What a shame it is," said Mrs. Clavering,--"a scandalous shame."
"You mean his going away?" said the rector.
"Of course I do;--his leaving her here by herself, all alone. He can
have no heart;--after losing her child and suffering as she has done.
It makes me ashamed of my own name."
"You can't alter him, my dear. He has his good qualities and his
bad,--and the bad ones are by far the more conspicuous."
"I don't know any good qualities he has."
"He does not get into debt. He will not destroy the property. He will
leave the family after him as well off as it was before him,--and
though he is a hard man, he does nothing actively cruel. Think of
Lord Ongar, and then you'll remember that there are worse men than
Hugh. Not that I like him. I am never comfortable for a moment in his
presence. I always feel that he wants to quarrel with me, and that I
almost want to quarrel with him."
"I detest him," said Harry, from beneath the bedclothes.
"You won't be troubled with him any more this summer, for he means to
be off in less than a week."
"And what is she to do?" asked Mrs. Clavering.
"Live here as she has done ever since Julia married. I don't see that
it will make much difference to her. He's never with her when he's in
England, and I should think she must be more comfortable without him
than with him."
"It's a great catch for Archie," said Harry.
"Archie Clavering is a fool," said Mrs. Clavering.
"They say he understands a yacht," said the rector, who then left the
room.
The rector's news was all true. Sir Hugh Clavering had come down
to the Park, and had announced his intention of going to Norway in
Jack Stuart's yacht. Archie also had been invited to join the party.
Sir Hugh intended to leave the Thames in about a week, and had not
thought it necessary to give his wife any intimation of the fact,
till he told her himself of his intention. He took, I think, a
delight in being thus over-harsh in his harshness to her. He proved
to himself thus not only that he was master, but that he would be
master without any let or drawback, without compunctions, and even
without excuses for his ill-conduct. There should be no plea put in
by him in his absences, that he had only gone to catch a few fish,
when his intentions had been other than piscatorial. He intended
to do as he liked now and always,--and he intended that his wife
should know that such was his intention. She was now childless, and
therefore he had no other terms to keep with her than those which
appertained to her necessities for bed and board. There was the
house, and she might live in it; and there were the butchers and the
bakers, and other tradesmen to supply her wants. Nay;--there were the
old carriage and the old horses at her disposal, if they could be of
any service to her. Such were Sir Hugh Clavering's ideas as to the
bonds inflicted upon him by his marriage vows.
"I'm going to Norway next week." It was thus Sir Hugh communicated
his intention to his wife within five minutes of their first
greeting.
"To Norway, Hugh?"
"Yes;--why not to Norway? I and one or two others have got some
fishing there. Archie is going too. It will keep him from spending
his money;--or rather from spending money which isn't his."
"And for how long will you be gone?"
It was part of Sir Hugh Clavering's theory as to these matters
that there should be no lying in the conduct of them. He would not
condescend to screen any part of his doings by a falsehood;--so he
answered this question with exact truth.
"I don't suppose we shall be back before October."
"Not before October?"
"No. We are talking of putting in on the coast of Normandy somewhere;
and probably may run down to Brittany. I shall be back, at any rate,
for the hunting. As for the partridges, the game has gone so much to
the devil here, that they are not worth coming for."
"You'll be away four months!"
"I suppose I shall if I don't come back till October." Then he left
her, calculating that she would have considered the matter before
he returned, and have decided that no good could come to her from
complaint. She knew his purpose now, and would no doubt reconcile
herself to it quickly;--perhaps with a few tears, which would not
hurt him if he did not see them.
But this blow was almost more than Lady Clavering could bear,--was
more than she could bear in silence. Why she should have grudged her
husband his trip abroad, seeing that his presence in England could
hardly have been a solace to her, it is hard to understand. Had he
remained in England, he would rarely have been at Clavering Park; and
when he was at the Park he would rarely have given her the benefit
of his society. When they were together he was usually scolding her,
or else sitting in gloomy silence, as though that phase of his life
was almost insupportable to him. He was so unusually disagreeable in
his intercourse with her, that his absence, one would think, must be
preferable to his presence. But women can bear anything better than
desertion. Cruelty is bad, but neglect is worse than cruelty, and
desertion worse even than neglect. To be treated as though she were
not in existence, or as though her existence were a nuisance simply
to be endured, and, as far as possible, to be forgotten, was more
than even Lady Clavering could bear without complaint. When her
husband left her, she sat meditating how she might turn against her
oppressor. She was a woman not apt for fighting,--unlike her sister,
who knew well how to use the cudgels in her own behalf; she was
timid, not gifted with a full flow of words, prone to sink and become
dependent; but she,--even she,--with all these deficiencies,--felt
that she must make some stand against the outrage to which she was
now to be subjected.
"Hugh," she said, when next she saw him, "you can't really mean that
you are going to leave me from this time till the winter?"
"I said nothing about the winter."
"Well,--till October?"
"I said that I was going, and I usually mean what I say."
"I cannot believe it, Hugh; I cannot bring myself to think that you
will be so cruel."
"Look here, Hermy, if you take to calling names I won't stand it."
"And I won't stand it, either. What am I to do? Am I to be here in
this dreadful barrack of a house all alone? How would you like it?
Would you bear it for one month, let alone four or five? I won't
remain here; I tell you that fairly."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't want to go anywhere, but I'll go away somewhere and die;--I
will indeed. I'll destroy myself, or something."
"Psha!"
"Yes; of course it's a joke to you. What have I done to deserve this?
Have I ever done anything that you told me not? It's all because of
Hughy,--my darling,--so it is; and it's cruel of you, and not like a
husband; and it's not manly. It's very cruel. I didn't think anybody
would have been so cruel as you are to me." Then she broke down and
burst into tears.
"Have you done, Hermy?" said her husband.
"No; I've not done."
"Then go on again," said he.
But in truth she had done, and could only repeat her last accusation.
"You're very, very cruel."
"You said that before."
"And I'll say it again. I'll tell everybody; so I will. I'll tell
your uncle at the rectory, and he shall speak to you."
"Look here, Hermy; I can bear a deal of nonsense from you because
some women are given to talk nonsense; but if I find you telling
tales about me out of this house, and especially to my uncle, or
indeed to anybody, I'll let you know what it is to be cruel."
"You can't be worse than you are."
"Don't try me; that's all. And as I suppose you have now said all
that you've got to say, if you please we will regard that subject as
finished." The poor woman had said all that she could say, and had no
further means of carrying on the war. In her thoughts she could do
so; in her thoughts she could wander forth out of the gloomy house in
the night, and perish in the damp and cold, leaving a paper behind
her to tell the world that her husband's cruelty had brought her to
that pass. Or she would go to Julia and leave him for ever. Julia,
she thought, would still receive her. But as to one thing she had
certainly made up her mind; she would go with her complaint to Mrs.
Clavering at the rectory, let her lord and master show his anger in
whatever form he might please.
The next day Sir Hugh himself made her a proposition which somewhat
softened the aspect of affairs. This he did in his usual voice, with
something of a smile on his face, and speaking as though he were
altogether oblivious of the scenes of yesterday. "I was thinking,
Hermy," he said, "that you might have Julia down here while I am
away."
"Have Julia here?"
"Yes; why not? She'll come, I'm sure, when she knows that my back is
turned."
"I've never thought about asking her,--at least not lately."
"No; of course. But you might as well do so now. It seems that she
never goes to Ongar Park, and, as far as I can learn, never will. I'm
going to see her myself."
"You going to see her?"
"Yes; Lord Ongar's people want to know whether she can be induced
to give up the place; that is, to sell her interest in it. I have
promised to see her. Do you write her a letter first, and tell her
that I want to see her; and ask her also to come here as soon as she
can leave London."
"But wouldn't the lawyers do it better than you?"
"Well;--one would think so; but I am commissioned to make her a kind
of apology from the whole Courton family. They fancy they've been
hard upon her; and, by George, I believe they have. I may be able to
say a word for myself too. If she isn't a fool she'll put her anger
in her pocket, and come down to you."
Lady Clavering liked the idea of having her sister with her, but she
was not quite meek enough to receive the permission now given her as
full compensation for the injury done. She said that she would do as
he had bidden her, and then went back to her own grievances. "I don't
suppose Julia, even if she would come for a little time, would find
it very pleasant to live in such a place as this, all alone."
"She wouldn't be all alone when you are with her," said Hugh,
gruffly, and then again went out, leaving his wife to become used to
her misfortune by degrees.
It was not surprising that Lady Clavering should dislike her solitude
at Clavering Park house, nor surprising that Sir Hugh should find the
place disagreeable. The house was a large, square, stone building,
with none of the prettinesses of modern country-houses about it.
The gardens were away from the house, and the cold desolate flat
park came up close around the windows. The rooms were large and
lofty,--very excellent for the purpose of a large household, but
with nothing of that snug, pretty comfort which solitude requires for
its solace. The furniture was old and heavy, and the hangings were
dark in colour. Lady Clavering when alone there,--and she generally
was alone,--never entered the rooms on the ground-floor. Nor did she
ever pass through the wilderness of a hall by which the front-door
was to be reached. Throughout more than half her days she never came
downstairs at all; but when she did so, preparatory to being dragged
about the parish lanes in the old family carriage, she was let out at
a small side-door; and so it came to pass that during the absences of
the lord of the mansion, the shutters were not even moved from any of
the lower windows. Under such circumstances there can be no wonder
that Lady Clavering regarded the place as a prison. "I wish you could
come upon it unawares, and see how gloomy it is," she said to him.
"I don't think you'd stand it alone for two days, let alone all your
life."
"I'll shut it up altogether if you like," said he.
"And where am I to go?" she asked.
"You can go to Moor Hall if you please." Now Moor Hall was a small
house, standing on a small property belonging to Sir Hugh, in that
part of Devonshire which lies north of Dartmoor, somewhere near the
Holsworthy region, and which is perhaps as ugly, as desolate, and as
remote as any part of England. Lady Clavering had heard much of Moor
Hall, and dreaded it as the heroine, made to live in the big grim
castle low down among the Apennines, dreads the smaller and grimmer
castle which is known to exist somewhere higher up in the mountains.
"Why couldn't I go to Brighton?" said Lady Clavering boldly.
"Because I don't choose it," said Sir Hugh. After that she did go
to the rectory, and told Mrs. Clavering all her troubles. She had
written to her sister, having, however, delayed the doing of this for
two or three days, and she had not at this time received an answer
from Lady Ongar. Nor did she hear from her sister till after Sir Hugh
had left her. It was on the day before his departure that she went to
the rectory, finding herself driven to this act of rebellion by his
threat of Moor Hall. "I will never go there unless I am dragged there
by force," she said to Mrs. Clavering.
"I don't think he means that," said Mrs. Clavering. "He only wants to
make you understand that you'd better remain at the Park."
"But if you knew what a house it is to be all alone in!"
"Dear Hermione, I do know! But you must come to us oftener, and let
us endeavour to make it better for you."
"But how can I do that? How can I come to his uncle's house, just
because my own husband has made my own home so wretched that I cannot
bear it. I'm ashamed to do that. I ought not to be telling you all
this, of course. I don't know what he'd do if he knew it; but it is
so hard to bear it all without telling some one."
"My poor dear!"
"I sometimes think I'll ask Mr. Clavering to speak to him, and to
tell him at once that I will not submit to it any longer. Of course
he would be mad with rage, but if he were to kill me I should like it
better than having to go on in this way. I'm sure he is only waiting
for me to die."
Mrs. Clavering said all that she could to comfort the poor woman, but
there was not much that she could say. She had strongly advocated the
plan of having Lady Ongar at the Park, thinking perhaps that Harry
would be more safe while that lady was at Clavering, than he might
perhaps be if she remained in London. But Mrs. Clavering doubted much
whether Lady Ongar would consent to make such a visit. She regarded
Lady Ongar as a hard, worldly, pleasure-seeking woman,--sinned
against perhaps in much, but also sinning in much herself,--to whom
the desolation of the Park would be even more unendurable than it was
to the elder sister. But of this, of course, she said nothing. Lady
Clavering left her, somewhat quieted, if not comforted; and went back
to pass her last evening with her husband.
"Upon second thought, I'll go by the first train," he said, as he saw
her for a moment before she went up to dress. "I shall have to be off
from here a little after six, but I don't mind that in summer." Thus
she was to be deprived of such gratification as there might have been
in breakfasting with him on the last morning! It might be hard to say
in what that gratification would have consisted. She must by this
time have learned that his presence gave her none of the pleasures
usually expected from society. He slighted her in everything. He
rarely vouchsafed to her those little attentions which all women
expect from all gentlemen. If he handed her a plate, or cut for her
a morsel of bread from the loaf, he showed by his manner and by his
brow that the doing so was a nuisance to him. At their meals he
rarely spoke to her,--having always at breakfast a paper or a book
before him, and at dinner devoting his attention to a dog at his
feet. Why should she have felt herself cruelly ill-used in this
matter of his last breakfast,--so cruelly ill-used that she wept
afresh over it as she dressed herself,--seeing that she would lose so
little? Because she loved the man;--loved him, though she now thought
that she hated him. We very rarely, I fancy, love those whose love
we have not either possessed or expected,--or at any rate for whose
love we have not hoped; but when it has once existed, ill-usage will
seldom destroy it. Angry as she was with the man, ready as she was to
complain of him, to rebel against him,--perhaps to separate herself
from him for ever, nevertheless she found it to be a cruel grievance
that she should not sit at table with him on the morning of his
going. "Jackson shall bring me a cup of coffee as I'm dressing,"
he said, "and I'll breakfast at the club." She knew that there was
no reason for this, except that breakfasting at his club was more
agreeable to him than breakfasting with his wife.
She had got rid of her tears before she came down to dinner, but
still she was melancholy and almost lachrymose. This was the last
night, and she felt that something special ought to be said; but
she did not know what she expected, or what it was that she herself
wished to say. I think that she was longing for an opportunity to
forgive him,--only that he would not be forgiven. If he would have
spoken one soft word to her, she would have accepted that one word as
an apology; but no such word came. He sat opposite to her at dinner,
drinking his wine and feeding his dog; but he was no more gracious to
her at this dinner than he had been on any former day. She sat there
pretending to eat, speaking a dull word now and then, to which his
answer was a monosyllable, looking out at him from under her eyes,
through the candlelight, to see whether any feeling was moving him;
and then having pretended to eat a couple of strawberries she left
him to himself. Still, however, this was not the last. There would
come some moment for an embrace,--for some cold half-embrace, in
which he would be forced to utter something of a farewell.
He, when he was left alone, first turned his mind to the subject of
Jack Stuart and his yacht. He had on that day received a letter from
a noble friend,--a friend so noble that he was able to take liberties
even with Sir Hugh Clavering,--in which his noble friend had told him
that he was a fool to trust himself on so long an expedition in Jack
Stuart's little boat. Jack, the noble friend said, knew nothing of
the matter, and as for the masters who were hired for the sailing of
such crafts, their only object was to keep out as long as possible,
with an eye to their wages and perquisites. It might be all very well
for Jack Stuart, who had nothing in the world to lose but his life
and his yacht; but his noble friend thought that any such venture
on the part of Sir Hugh was simply tomfoolery. But Sir Hugh was an
obstinate man, and none of the Claverings were easily made afraid by
personal danger. Jack Stuart might know nothing about the management
of a boat, but Archie did. And as for the smallness of the craft,--he
knew of a smaller craft which had been out on the Norway coast during
the whole of the last season. So he drove that thought away from his
mind, with no strong feelings of gratitude towards his noble friend.
And then for a few moments he thought of his own home. What had his
wife done for him, that he should put himself out of his way to do
much for her? She had brought him no money. She had added nothing
either by her wit, beauty, or rank to his position in the world.
She had given him no heir. What had he received from her that he
should endure her commonplace conversation, and washed-out, dowdy
prettinesses? Perhaps some momentary feeling of compassion, some
twang of conscience, came across his heart, as he thought of it all;
but if so he checked it instantly, in accordance with the teachings
of his whole life. He had made his reflections on all these things,
and had tutored his mind to certain resolutions, and would not allow
himself to be carried away by any womanly softness. She had her
house, her carriage, her bed, her board, and her clothes; and seeing
how very little she herself had contributed to the common fund, her
husband determined that in having those things she had all that she
had a right to claim. Then he drank a glass of sherry, and went into
the drawing-room with that hard smile upon his face, which he was
accustomed to wear when he intended to signify to his wife that
she might as well make the best of existing things, and not cause
unnecessary trouble, by giving herself airs or assuming that she was
unhappy.
He had his cup of coffee, and she had her cup of tea, and she made
one or two little attempts at saying something special,--something
that might lead to a word or two as to their parting; but he was
careful and crafty, and she was awkward and timid,--and she failed.
He had hardly been there an hour, when looking at his watch he
declared that it was ten o'clock, and that he would go to bed. Well;
perhaps it might be best to bring it to an end, and to go through
this embrace, and have done with it! Any tender word that was to be
spoken on either side, it was now clear to her, must be spoken in
that last farewell. There was a tear in her eye as she rose to kiss
him; but the tear was not there of her own good will, and she strove
to get rid of it without his seeing it. As he spoke he also rose,
and having lit for himself a bed-candle was ready to go. "Good-by,
Hermy," he said, submitting himself, with the candle in his hand, to
the inevitable embrace.
"Good-by, Hugh; and God bless you," she said, putting her arms round
his neck. "Pray,--pray take care of yourself."
"All right," he said. His position with the candle was awkward, and
he wished that it might be over.
[Illustration: Husband and wife.]
But she had a word prepared which she was determined to utter,--poor
weak creature that she was. She still had her arm round his
shoulders, so that he could not escape without shaking her off, and
her forehead was almost resting on his bosom. "Hugh," she said, "you
must not be angry with me for what I said to you."
"Very well," said he;--"I won't."
"And, Hugh," said she; "of course I can't like your going."
"Oh, yes, you will," said he.
"No;--I can't like it; but, Hugh, I will not think ill of it any
more. Only be here as much as you can when you come home."
"All right," said he; then he kissed her forehead and escaped from
her, and went his way, telling himself, as he went, that she was a
fool.
That was the last he saw of her,--before his yachting commenced;
but she,--poor fool,--was up by times in the morning, and, peeping
out between her curtains as the early summer sun glanced upon her
eyelids, saw him come forth from the porch and descend the great
steps, and get into his dog-cart and drive himself away. Then, when
the sound of the gig could be no longer heard, and when her eyes
could no longer catch the last expiring speck of his hat, the poor
fool took herself to bed again and cried herself to sleep.