SHEWING WHAT HAPPENED OFF HELIGOLAND.
During the six weeks after this, Harry Clavering settled down to
his work at the chambers in the Adelphi with exemplary diligence.
Florence, having remained a fortnight in town after Harry's return
to the sheepfold, and having accepted Lady Ongar's present,--not
without a long and anxious consultation with her sister-in-law on
the subject,--had returned in fully restored happiness to Stratton.
Mrs. Burton was at Ramsgate with the children, and Mr. Burton was in
Russia with reference to a line of railway which was being projected
from Moscow to Astracan. It was now September, and Harry, in his
letters home, declared that he was the only person left in London.
It was hard upon him,--much harder than it was upon the Wallikers
and other young men whom fate retained in town, for Harry was a man
given to shooting,--a man accustomed to pass the autumnal months in a
country house. And then, if things had chanced to go one way instead
of another, he would have had his own shooting down at Ongar Park
with his own friends,--admiring him at his heels; or if not so this
year, he would have been shooting elsewhere with the prospect of
these rich joys for years to come. As it was, he had promised to
stick to the shop, and was sticking to it manfully. Nor do I think
that he allowed his mind to revert to those privileges which might
have been his at all more frequently than any of my readers would
have done in his place. He was sticking to the shop, and though he
greatly disliked the hot desolation of London in those days, being
absolutely afraid to frequent his club at such a period of the
year,--and though he hated Walliker mortally,--he was fully resolved
to go on with his work. Who could tell what might be his fate?
Perhaps in another ten years he might be carrying that Russian
railway on through the deserts of Siberia. Then there came to him
suddenly tidings which disturbed all his resolutions, and changed the
whole current of his life.
At first there came a telegram to him from the country, desiring
him to go down at once to Clavering, but not giving him any reason.
Added to the message were these words,--"We are all well at the
parsonage;"--words evidently added in thoughtfulness. But before he
had left the office there came to him there a young man from the bank
at which his cousin Hugh kept his account, telling him the tidings
to which the telegram no doubt referred. Jack Stuart's boat had been
lost, and his two cousins had gone to their graves beneath the sea!
The master of the boat, and Stuart himself, with a boy, had been
saved. The other sailors whom they had with them, and the ship's
steward, had perished with the Claverings. Stuart, it seemed, had
caused tidings of the accident to be sent to the rector of Clavering
and to Sir Hugh's bankers. At the bank they had ascertained that
their late customer's cousin was in town, and their messenger had
thereupon been sent, first to Bloomsbury Square, and from thence to
the Adelphi.
Harry had never loved his cousins. The elder he had greatly disliked,
and the younger he would have disliked had he not despised him. But
not the less on that account was he inexpressibly shocked when he
first heard what had happened. The lad said that there could, as he
imagined, be no mistake. The message had come, as he believed, from
Holland, but of that he was not certain. There could, however, be no
doubt about the fact. It distinctly stated that both brothers had
perished. Harry had known when he received the message from home,
that no train would take him till three in the afternoon, and had
therefore remained at the office; but he could not remain now. His
head was confused, and he could hardly bring himself to think how
this matter would affect himself. When he attempted to explain his
absence to an old serious clerk there, he spoke of his own return
to the office as certain. He should be back, he supposed, in a week
at the furthest. He was thinking then of his promises to Theodore
Burton, and had not begun to realize the fact that his whole destiny
in life would be changed. He said something, with a long face, of
the terrible misfortune which had occurred, but gave no hint that
that misfortune would be important in its consequences to himself. It
was not till he had reached his lodgings in Bloomsbury Square that
he remembered that his own father was now the baronet, and that he
was his father's heir. And then for a moment he thought about the
property. He believed that it was entailed, but even of that he was
not certain. But if it were unentailed, to whom could his cousin have
left it? He endeavoured, however, to expel such thoughts from his
mind, as though there was something ungenerous in entertaining them.
He tried to think of the widow, but even in doing that he could not
tell himself that there was much ground for genuine sorrow. No wife
had ever had less joy from her husband's society than Lady Clavering
had had from that of Sir Hugh. There was no child to mourn the
loss,--no brother, no unmarried sister. Sir Hugh had had friends,--as
friendship goes with such men; but Harry could not but doubt whether
among them all there would be one who would feel anything like true
grief for his loss. And it was the same with Archie. Who in the world
would miss Archie Clavering? What man or woman would find the world
to be less bright because Archie Clavering was sleeping beneath the
waves? Some score of men at his club would talk of poor Clavvy for
a few days,--would do so without any pretence at the tenderness
of sorrow; and then even of Archie's memory there would be an end.
Thinking of all this as he was carried down to Clavering, Harry could
not but acknowledge that the loss to the world had not been great;
but, even while telling himself this, he would not allow himself to
take comfort in the prospect of his heirship. Once, perhaps, he did
speculate how Florence should bear her honours as Lady Clavering; but
this idea he swept away from his thoughts as quickly as he was able.
The tidings had reached the parsonage very late on the previous
night; so late that the rector had been disturbed in his bed to
receive them. It was his duty to make known to Lady Clavering the
fact that she was a widow, but this he could not do till the next
morning. But there was little sleep that night for him or for his
wife! He knew well enough that the property was entailed. He felt
with sufficient strength what it was to become a baronet at a sudden
blow, and to become also the owner of the whole Clavering property.
He was not slow to think of the removal to the great house, of the
altered prospects of his son, and of the mode of life which would
be fitting for himself in future. Before the morning came he had
meditated who should be the future rector of Clavering, and had
made some calculations as to the expediency of resuming his hunting.
Not that he was a heartless man,--or that he rejoiced at what had
happened. But a man's ideas of generosity change as he advances in
age, and the rector was old enough to tell himself boldly that this
thing that had happened could not be to him a cause of much grief. He
had never loved his cousins, or pretended to love them. His cousin's
wife he did love, after a fashion, but in speaking to his own wife
of the way in which this tragedy would affect Hermione, he did not
scruple to speak of her widowhood as a period of coming happiness.
"She will be cut to pieces," said Mrs. Clavering. "She was attached
to him as earnestly as though he had treated her always well."
"I believe it; but not the less will she feel her release,
unconsciously; and her life, which has been very wretched, will
gradually become easy to her."
Even Mrs. Clavering could not deny that this would be so, and then
they reverted to matters which more closely concerned themselves. "I
suppose Harry will marry at once now," said the mother.
"No doubt;--it is almost a pity; is it not?" The rector,--as we will
still call him,--was thinking that Florence was hardly a fitting wife
for his son with his altered prospects. Ah, what a grand thing it
would have been if the Clavering property and Lady Ongar's jointure
could have gone together!
"Not a pity at all," said Mrs. Clavering. "You will find that
Florence will make him a very happy man."
"I dare say;--I dare say. Only he would hardly have taken her had
this sad accident happened before he saw her. But if she will make
him happy that is everything. I have never thought much about
money myself. If I find any comfort in these tidings it is for his
sake, not for my own. I would sooner remain as I am." This was not
altogether untrue, and yet he was thinking of the big house and the
hunting.
"What will be done about the living?" It was early in the morning
when Mrs. Clavering asked this question. She had thought much about
the living during the night. And so had the rector;--but his thoughts
had not run in the same direction as hers. He made no immediate
answer, and then she went on with her question. "Do you think that
you will keep it in your own hands?"
"Well,--no; why should I? I am too idle about it as it is. I should
be more so under these altered circumstances."
"I am sure you would do your duty if you resolved to keep it, but I
don't see why you should do so."
"Clavering is a great deal better than Humbleton," said the rector.
Humbleton was the name of the parish held by Mr. Fielding, his
son-in-law.
But the idea here put forward did not suit the idea which was running
in Mrs. Clavering's mind. "Edward and Mary are very well off," she
said. "His own property is considerable, and I don't think they want
anything. Besides, he would hardly like to give up a family living."
"I might ask him at any rate."
"I was thinking of Mr. Saul," said Mrs. Clavering boldly.
"Of Mr. Saul!" The image of Mr. Saul, as rector of Clavering,
perplexed the new baronet egregiously.
"Well;--yes. He is an excellent; clergyman. No one can deny that."
Then there was silence between them for a few moments. "In that case
he and Fanny would of course marry. It is no good concealing the fact
that she is very fond of him."
"Upon my word I can't understand it," said the rector.
"It is so,--and as to the excellence of his character there can be
no doubt." To this the rector made no answer, but went away into his
dressing-room, that he might prepare himself for his walk across the
park to the great house. While they were discussing who should be the
future incumbent of the living, Lady Clavering was still sleeping in
unconsciousness of her fate. Mr. Clavering greatly dreaded the task
which was before him, and had made a little attempt to induce his
wife to take the office upon herself; but she had explained to him
that it would be more seemly that he should be the bearer of the
tidings. "It would seem that you were wanting in affection for her if
you do not go yourself," his wife had said to him. That the rector of
Clavering was master of himself and of his own actions, no one who
knew the family ever denied, but the instances in which he declined
to follow his wife's advice were not many.
It was about eight o'clock when he went across the park. He had
already sent a messenger with a note to beg that Lady Clavering
would be up to receive him. As he would come very early, he had said,
perhaps she would see him in her own room. The poor lady had, of
course, been greatly frightened by this announcement; but this fear
had been good for her, as they had well understood at the rectory;
the blow, dreadfully sudden as it must still be, would be somewhat
less sudden under this preparation. When Mr. Clavering reached
the house the servant was in waiting to show him upstairs to the
sitting-room which Lady Clavering usually occupied when alone. She
had been there waiting for him for the last half-hour.
"Mr. Clavering, what is it?" she exclaimed, as he entered with
tidings of death written on his visage. "In the name of heaven, what
is it? You have something to tell me of Hugh."
"Dear Hermione," he said, taking her by the hand.
"What is it? Tell me at once. Is he still alive?"
The rector still held her by the hand, but spoke no word. He had been
trying as he came across the park to arrange the words in which he
should tell his tale, but now it was told without any speech on his
part.
"He is dead. Why do you not speak? Why are you so cruel?"
"Dearest Hermione, what am I to say to comfort you?"
What he might say after this was of little moment, for she had
fainted. He rang the bell, and then, when the servants were
there,--the old housekeeper and Lady Clavering's maid,--he told to
them, rather than to her, what had been their master's fate.
"And Captain Archie?" asked the housekeeper.
The rector shook his head, and the housekeeper knew that the rector
was now the baronet. Then they took the poor widow to her own
room,--should I not rather call her, as I may venture to speak the
truth, the enfranchised slave than the poor widow?--and the rector,
taking up his hat, promised that he would send his wife across to
their mistress. His morning's task had been painful, but it had been
easily accomplished. As he walked home among the oaks of Clavering
Park, he told himself, no doubt, that they were now all his own.
That day at the rectory was very sombre, if it was not actually sad.
The greater part of the morning Mrs. Clavering passed with the widow,
and sitting near her sofa she wrote sundry letters to those who were
connected with the family. The longest of these was to Lady Ongar,
who was now at Tenby; and in that there was a pressing request from
Hermione that her sister would come to her at Clavering Park. "Tell
her," said Lady Clavering, "that all her anger must be over now." But
Mrs. Clavering said nothing of Julia's anger. She merely urged the
request that Julia would come to her sister. "She will be sure to
come," said Mrs. Clavering. "You need have no fear on that head."
"But how can I invite her here, when the house is not my own?"
"Pray do not talk in that way, Hermione. The house will be your own
for any time that you may want it. Your husband's relations are your
dear friends; are they not?" But this allusion to her husband brought
her to another fit of hysterical tears. "Both of them gone," she
said. "Both of them gone!" Mrs. Clavering knew well that she was not
alluding to the two brothers, but to her husband and to her baby. Of
poor Archie no one had said a word,--beyond that one word spoken by
the housekeeper. For her, it had been necessary that she should know
who was now the master of Clavering Park.
Twice in the day Mrs. Clavering went over to the big house, and on
her second return, late in the evening, she found her son. When she
arrived, there had already been some few words on the subject between
him and his father.
"You have heard of it, Harry?"
"Yes; a clerk came to me from the banker's."
"Dreadful; is it not? Quite terrible to think of!"
"Indeed it is, sir. I was never so shocked in my life."
"He would go in that cursed boat, though I know that he was advised
against it," said the father, holding up his hands and shaking his
head. "And now both of them gone;--both gone at once!"
"How does she bear it?"
"Your mother is with her now. When I went in the morning,--I had
written a line, and she expected bad news,--she fainted. Of course,
I could do nothing. I can hardly say that I told her. She asked the
question, and then saw by my face that her fears were well-founded.
Upon my word, I was glad when she did faint;--it was the best thing
for her."
"It must have been very painful for you."
"Terrible;--terrible;" and the rector shook his head. "It will make a
great difference in your prospects, Harry."
"And in your life, sir! So to say, you are as young a man as myself."
"Am I? I believe I was about as young when you were born. But I don't
think at all about myself in this matter. I am too old to care to
change my manner of living. It won't affect me very much. Indeed, I
hardly know yet how it may affect me. Your mother thinks I ought to
give up the living. If you were in orders, Harry--"
"I'm very glad, sir, that I am not."
"I suppose so. And there is no need; certainly, there is no need. You
will be able to do pretty nearly what you like about the property. I
shall not care to interfere."
"Yes, you will, sir. It feels strange now, but you will soon get used
to it. I wonder whether he left a will."
"It can't make any difference to you, you know. Every acre of the
property is entailed. She has her settlement. Eight hundred a year,
I think it is. She'll not be a rich woman like her sister. I wonder
where she'll live. As far as that goes, she might stay at the house,
if she likes it. I'm sure your mother wouldn't object."
Harry on this occasion asked no question about the living, but he
also had thought of that. He knew well that his mother would befriend
Mr. Saul, and he knew also that his father would ultimately take his
mother's advice. As regarded himself he had no personal objection to
Mr. Saul, though he could not understand how his sister should feel
any strong regard for such a man.
Edward Fielding would make a better neighbour at the parsonage, and
then he thought whether an exchange might not be made. After that,
and before his mother's return from the great house, he took a stroll
through the park with Fanny. Fanny altogether declined to discuss any
of the family prospects, as they were affected by the accident which
had happened. To her mind the tragedy was so terrible that she could
only feel its tragic element. No doubt she had her own thoughts about
Mr. Saul as connected with it. "What would he think of this sudden
death of the two brothers? How would he feel it? If she could be
allowed to talk to him on the matter, what would he say of their
fate here and hereafter? Would he go to the great house to offer the
consolations of religion to the widow?" Of all this she thought much;
but no picture of Mr. Saul as rector of Clavering, or of herself as
mistress in her mother's house, presented itself to her mind. Harry
found her to be a dull companion, and he, perhaps, consoled himself
with some personal attention to the oak trees. The trees loomed
larger upon him now than they had ever done before.
On the third day the rector went up to London, leaving Harry at the
parsonage. It was necessary that lawyers should be visited, and
that such facts as to the loss should be proved as were capable of
proof. There was no doubt at all as to the fate of Sir Hugh and his
brother. The escape of Mr. Stuart and of two of those employed by him
prevented the possibility of a doubt. The vessel had been caught in a
gale off Heligoland, and had foundered. They had all striven to get
into the yacht's boat, but those who had succeeded in doing so had
gone down. The master of the yacht had seen the two brothers perish.
Those who were saved had been picked up off the spars to which they
had attached themselves. There was no doubt in the way of the new
baronet, and no difficulty.
Nor was there any will made either by Sir Hugh or his brother. Poor
Archie had nothing to leave, and that he should have left no will was
not remarkable. But neither had there been much in the power of Sir
Hugh to bequeath, nor was there any great cause for a will on his
part. Had he left a son, his son would have inherited everything. He
had, however, died childless, and his wife was provided for by her
settlement. On his marriage he had made the amount settled as small
as his wife's friends would accept, and no one who knew the man
expected that he would increase the amount after his death. Having
been in town for three days the rector returned,--being then in full
possession of the title; but this he did not assume till after the
second Sunday from the date of the telegram which brought the news.
In the meantime Harry had written to Florence, to whom the tidings
were as important as to any one concerned. She had left London very
triumphant,--quite confident that she had nothing now to fear from
Lady Ongar or from any other living woman, having not only forgiven
Harry his sins, but having succeeded also in persuading herself
that there had been no sins to forgive,--having quarrelled with her
brother half-a-dozen times in that he would not accept her arguments
on this matter. He too would forgive Harry,--had forgiven him; was
quite ready to omit all further remark on the matter; but could not
bring himself when urged by Florence to admit that her Apollo had
been altogether godlike. Florence had thus left London in triumph,
but she had gone with a conviction that she and Harry must remain
apart for some indefinite time, which probably must be measured by
years. "Let us see at the end of two years," she had said; and Harry
had been forced to be content. But how would it be with her now?
Harry of course began his letter by telling her of the catastrophe,
with the usual amount of epithets. It was very terrible, awful,
shocking,--the saddest thing that had ever happened! The poor widow
was in a desperate state, and all the Claverings were nearly beside
themselves. But when this had been duly said, he allowed himself
to go into their own home question. "I cannot fail," he wrote, "to
think of this chiefly as it concerns you,--or rather, as it concerns
myself in reference to you. I suppose I shall leave the business now.
Indeed, my father seems to think that my remaining there would be
absurd, and my mother agrees with him. As I am the only son, the
property will enable me to live easily without a profession. When I
say 'me,' of course you will understand what 'me' means. The better
part of 'me' is so prudent, that I know she will not accept this
view of things without ever so much consideration, and, therefore,
she must come to Clavering to hear it discussed by the elders. For
myself, I cannot bear to think that I should take delight in the
results of this dreadful misfortune; but how am I to keep myself from
being made happy by the feeling that we may now be married without
further delay? After all that has passed, nothing will make me happy
or even permanently comfortable till I can call you fairly my own. My
mother has already said that she hopes you will come here in about a
fortnight,--that is, as soon as we shall have fallen tolerably into
our places again; but she will write herself before that time. I
have written a line to your brother addressed to the office, which I
suppose will find him. I have written also to Cecilia. Your brother,
no doubt, will hear the news first through the French newspapers."
Then he said a little, but a very little, as to their future modes
of life, just intimating to her, and no more, that her destiny might
probably call upon her to be the mother of a future baronet.
The news had reached Clavering on a Saturday. On the following Sunday
every one in the parish had no doubt heard of it, but nothing on the
subject was said in church on that day. The rector remained at home
during the morning, and the whole service was performed by Mr. Saul.
But on the second Sunday Mr. Fielding had come over from Humbleton,
and he preached a sermon on the loss which the parish had sustained
in the sudden death of the two brothers. It is, perhaps, well that
such sermons should be preached. The inhabitants of Clavering would
have felt that their late lords had been treated like dogs, had no
word been said of them in the house of God. The nature of their fate
had forbidden even the common ceremony of a burial service. It is
well that some respect should be maintained from the low in station
towards those who are high, even when no respect has been deserved.
And, for the widow's sake, it was well that some notice should be
taken in Clavering of this death of the head of the Claverings. But
I should not myself have liked the duty of preaching an eulogistic
sermon on the lives and death of Hugh Clavering and his brother
Archie. What had either of them ever done to merit a good word from
any man, or to earn the love of any woman? That Sir Hugh had been
loved by his wife had come from the nature of the woman, not at all
from the qualities of the man. Both of the brothers had lived on
the unexpressed theory of consuming, for the benefit of their own
backs and their own bellies, the greatest possible amount of those
good things which fortune might put in their way. I doubt whether
either of them had ever contributed anything willingly to the comfort
or happiness of any human being. Hugh, being powerful by nature
and having a strong will, had tyrannized over all those who were
subject to him. Archie, not gifted as was his brother, had been
milder, softer, and less actively hateful; but his principle of
action had been the same. Everything for himself! Was it not well
that two such men should be consigned to the fishes, and that the
world,--especially the Clavering world, and that poor widow, who
now felt herself to be so inexpressibly wretched when her period of
comfort was in truth only commencing,--was it not well that the world
and Clavering should be well quit of them? That idea is the one which
one would naturally have felt inclined to put into one's sermon on
such an occasion; and then to sing some song of rejoicing;--either to
do that, or to leave the matter alone.
But not so are such sermons preached; and not after that fashion
did the young clergyman who had married the first-cousin of these
Claverings buckle himself to the subject. He indeed had, I think, but
little difficulty, either inwardly with his conscience, or outwardly
with his subject. He possessed the power of a pleasant, easy flow of
words, and of producing tears, if not from other eyes, at any rate
from his own. He drew a picture of the little ship amidst the storm,
and of God's hand as it moved in its anger upon the waters; but of
the cause of that divine wrath and its direction he said nothing.
Then, of the suddenness of death and its awfulness he said much, not
insisting as he did so on the necessity of repentance for salvation,
as far as those two poor sinners were concerned. No, indeed;--how
could any preacher have done that? But he improved the occasion by
telling those around him that they should so live as to be ever ready
for the hand of death. If that were possible, where then indeed would
be the victory of the grave? And at last he came to the master and
lord whom they had lost. Even here there was no difficulty for him.
The heir had gone first, and then the father and his brother. Who
among them would not pity the bereaved mother and the widow? Who
among them would not remember with affection the babe whom they had
seen at that font, and with respect the landlord under whose rule
they had lived? How pleasant it must be to ask those questions which
no one can rise to answer! Farmer Gubbins as he sat by, listening
with what power of attention had been vouchsafed to him, felt himself
to be somewhat moved, but soon released himself from the task, and
allowed his mind to run away into other ideas. The rector was a
kindly man and a generous. The rector would allow him to enclose that
little bit of common land, that was to be taken in, without adding
anything to his rent. The rector would be there on audit days, and
things would be very pleasant. Farmer Gubbins, when the slight
murmuring gurgle of the preacher's tears was heard, shook his
own head by way of a responsive wail; but at that moment he was
congratulating himself on the coming comfort of the new reign. Mr.
Fielding, however, got great credit for his sermon; and it did,
probably, more good than harm,--unless, indeed, we should take into
our calculation, in giving our award on this subject, the permanent
utility of all truth, and the permanent injury of all falsehood.
Mr. Fielding remained at the parsonage during the greater part of
the following week, and then there took place a great deal of family
conversation respecting the future incumbent of the living. At these
family conclaves, however, Fanny was not asked to be present. Mrs.
Clavering, who knew well how to do such work, was gradually bringing
her husband round to endure the name of Mr. Saul. Twenty times had
he asserted that he could not understand it; but, whether or no such
understanding might ever be possible, he was beginning to recognize
it as true that the thing not understood was a fact. His daughter
Fanny was positively in love with Mr. Saul, and that to such an
extent that her mother believed her happiness to be involved in it.
"I can't understand it;--upon my word I can't," said the rector for
the last time, and then he gave way. There was now the means of
giving an ample provision for the lovers, and that provision was to
be given.
Mr. Fielding shook his head,--not in this instance as to Fanny's
predilection for Mr. Saul; though in discussing that matter with his
own wife he had shaken his head very often; but he shook it now with
reference to the proposed change. He was very well where he was. And
although Clavering was better than Humbleton, it was not so much
better as to induce him to throw his own family over by proposing to
send Mr. Saul among them. Mr. Saul was an excellent clergyman, but
perhaps his uncle, who had given him his living, might not like Mr.
Saul. Thus it was decided in these conclaves that Mr. Saul was to be
the future rector of Clavering.
In the meantime poor Fanny moped,--wretched in her solitude,
anticipating no such glorious joys as her mother was preparing for
her; and Mr. Saul was preparing with energy for his departure into
foreign parts.