The Claverings

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE HOUSE IN ONSLOW CRESCENT.

  Harry, as he walked away from the house in Bolton Street, hardly knewwhether he was on his heels or his head. Burton had told him not todress--"We don't give dress dinner parties, you know. It's all in thefamily way with us,"--and Harry, therefore, went direct from BoltonStreet to Onslow Crescent. But, though he managed to keep the propercourse down Piccadilly, he was in such confusion of mind that hehardly knew whither he was going. It seemed as though a new form oflife had been opened to him, and that it had been opened in such away as almost necessarily to engulf him. It was not only that LadyOngar's history was so terrible, and her life so strange, but that hehimself was called upon to form a part of that history, and to joinhimself in some sort to that life. This countess with her wealth, herrank, her beauty, and her bright intellect had called him to her, andtold him that he was her only friend. Of course he had promised hisfriendship. How could he have failed to give such a promise to onewhom he had loved so well? But to what must such a promise lead, orrather to what must it not have led had it not been for FlorenceBurton? She was young, free, and rich. She made no pretence of regretfor the husband she had lost, speaking of him as though in truth shehardly regarded herself as his wife. And she was the same Julia whomhe had loved, who had loved him, who had jilted him, and in regretfor whom he had once resolved to lead a wretched, lonely life! Ofcourse she must expect that he would renew it all;--unless, indeed,she knew of his engagement. But if she knew it, why had she notspoken of it?

  And could it be that she had no friends,--that everybody had desertedher, that she was all alone in the world? As he thought of it all,the whole thing seemed to him to be too terrible for reality. What atragedy was that she had told him! He thought of the man's insolenceto the woman whom he had married and sworn to love, then of hiscruelty, his fiendish, hellish cruelty,--and lastly of his terriblepunishment. "I stuck to him through it all," she had said to him;and then he endeavoured to picture to himself that bedside by whichJulia Brabazon, his Julia Brabazon, had remained firm, when hospitalattendants had been scared by the horrors they had witnessed, and thenerves of a strong man,--of a man paid for such work, had failed him!

  The truth of her word throughout he never doubted; and, indeed, noman or woman who heard her could have doubted. One hears stories toldthat to oneself, the hearer, are manifestly false; and one hearsstories as to the truth or falsehood of which one is in doubt; andstories again which seem to be partly true and partly untrue. But onealso hears that of the truth of which no doubt seems to be possible.So it had been with the tale which Lady Ongar had told. It had beenall as she had said; and had Sir Hugh heard it,--even Sir Hugh,who doubted all men and regarded all women as being false beyonddoubt,--even he, I think, would have believed it.

  But she had deserved the sufferings which had come upon her. EvenHarry, whose heart was very tender towards her, owned as much asthat. She had sold herself, as she had said of herself more thanonce. She had given herself to a man whom she regarded not at all,even when her heart belonged to another,--to a man whom she must haveloathed and despised when she was putting her hand into his beforethe altar. What scorn had there been upon her face when she spokeof the beginning of their married miseries! With what eloquence ofexpression had she pronounced him to be vile, worthless, unmanly; athing from which a woman must turn with speechless contempt! She hadnow his name, his rank, and his money, but she was friendless andalone. Harry Clavering declared to himself that she had deservedit,--and, having so declared, forgave her all her faults. Shehad sinned, and then had suffered; and, therefore, should now beforgiven. If he could do aught to ease her troubles, he would doit,--as a brother would for a sister.

  But it would be well that she should know of his engagement. Then hethought of the whole interview, and felt sure that she must know it.At any rate he told himself that he was sure. She could hardly havespoken to him as she had done, unless she had known. When last theyhad been together, sauntering round the gardens at Clavering, he hadrebuked her for her treachery to him. Now she came to him almostopen-armed, free, full of her cares, swearing to him that he was heronly friend! All this could mean but one thing,--unless she knew thatthat one thing was barred by his altered position.

  But it gratified him to think that she had chosen him for therepository of her tale; that she had told her terrible history tohim. I fear that some small part of this gratification was owingto her rank and wealth. To be the one friend of a widowed countess,young, rich, and beautiful, was something much out of the common way.Such confidence lifted him far above the Wallikers of the world. Thathe was pleased to be so trusted by one that was beautiful, was, Ithink, no disgrace to him;--although I bear in mind his conditionas a man engaged. It might be dangerous, but that danger in suchcase it would be his duty to overcome. But in order that it mightbe overcome, it would certainly be well that she should know hisposition.

  I fear he speculated as he went along as to what might have been hiscondition in the world had he never seen Florence Burton. First heasked himself, whether, under any circumstances, he would have wishedto marry a widow, and especially a widow by whom he had already beenjilted. Yes; he thought that he could have forgiven her even that, ifhis own heart had not changed; but he did not forget to tell himselfagain how lucky it was for him that his heart was changed. Whatcountess in the world, let her have what park she might, and anyimaginable number of thousands a year, could be so sweet, so nice,so good, so fitting for him as his own Florence Burton? Then heendeavoured to reflect what happened when a commoner married thewidow of a peer. She was still called, he believed, by her old title,unless she should choose to abandon it. Any such arrangement was nowout of the question; but he thought that he would prefer that sheshould have been called Mrs. Clavering, if such a state of things hadcome about. I do not know that he pictured to himself any necessity,either on her part or on his, of abandoning anything else that cameto her from her late husband.

  At half-past six, the time named by Theodore Burton, he found himselfat the door in Onslow Crescent, and was at once shown up into thedrawing-room. He knew that Mr. Burton had a family, and he hadpictured to himself an untidy, ugly house, with an untidy, motherlywoman going about with a baby in her arms. Such would naturally bethe home of a man who dusted his shoes with his pocket-handkerchief.But to his surprise he found himself in as pretty a drawing-roomas he remembered to have seen; and seated on a sofa, was almost aspretty a woman as he remembered. She was tall and slight, with largebrown eyes and well-defined eyebrows, with an oval face, and thesweetest, kindest mouth that ever graced a woman. Her dark brownhair was quite plain, having been brushed simply smooth across theforehead, and then collected in a knot behind. Close beside her, ona low chair, sat a little fair-haired girl, about seven years old,who was going through some pretence at needlework; and kneelingon a higher chair, while she sprawled over the drawing-room table,was another girl, some three years younger, who was engaged with apuzzle-box.

  "Mr. Clavering," said she, rising from her chair; "I am so glad tosee you, though I am almost angry with you for not coming to ussooner. I have heard so much about you; of course you know that."Harry explained that he had only been a few days in town, anddeclared that he was happy to learn that he had been considered worthtalking about.

  "If you were worth accepting you were worth talking about."

  "Perhaps I was neither," said he.

  "Well; I am not going to flatter you yet. Only as I think our Flo iswithout exception the most perfect girl I ever saw, I don't supposeshe would be guilty of making a bad choice. Cissy, dear, this is Mr.Clavering."

  Cissy got up from her chair, and came up to him. "Mamma says I am tolove you very much," said Cissy, putting up her face to be kissed.

  "But I did not tell you to say I had told you," said Mrs. Burton,laughing.

  "And I will love you very much," said Harry, taking her up in hisarms.

  "But not so much as Aunt Florence,--will you?"
/>
  They all knew it. It was clear to him that everybody connected withthe Burtons had been told of the engagement, and that they all spokeof it openly, as they did of any other everyday family occurrence.There was not much reticence among the Burtons. He could not but feelthis, though now, at the present moment, he was disposed to thinkspecially well of the family because Mrs. Burton and her childrenwere so nice.

  "And this is another daughter?"

  "Yes; another future niece, Mr. Clavering. But I suppose I may callyou Harry; may I not? My name is Cecilia. Yes, that is Miss Pert."

  "I'm not Miss Pert," said the little soft round ball of a girl fromthe chair. "I'm Sophy Burton. Oh! you musn't tittle."

  Harry found himself quite at home in ten minutes; and before Mr.Burton had returned, had been taken upstairs into the nursery to seeTheodore Burton Junior in his cradle, Theodore Burton Junior beingas yet only some few months old. "Now you've seen us all," said Mrs.Burton, "and we'll go downstairs and wait for my husband. I mustlet you into a secret, too. We don't dine till past seven; you mayas well remember that for the future. But I wanted to have you forhalf-an-hour to myself before dinner, so that I might look at you,and make up my mind about Flo's choice. I hope you won't be angrywith me?"

  "And how have you made up your mind?"

  "If you want to find that out, you must get it through Florence. Youmay be quite sure I shall tell her; and, I suppose, I may be quitesure she will tell you. Does she tell you everything?"

  "I tell her everything," said Harry, feeling himself, however, tobe a little conscience-smitten at the moment, as he remembered hisinterview with Lady Ongar. Things had occurred this very day which hecertainly could not tell her.

  "Do;--do; always do that," said Mrs. Burton, laying her handaffectionately on his arm. "There is no way so certain to bind awoman to you, heart and soul, as to show her that you trust her ineverything. Theodore tells me everything. I don't think there's adrain planned under a railway-bank, but that he shows it me in someway; and I feel so grateful for it. It makes me know that I can neverdo enough for him. I hope you'll be as good to Flo as he is to me."

  "We can't both be perfect, you know."

  "Ah, well! of course you'll laugh at me. Theodore always laughs at mewhen I get on what he calls a high horse. I wonder whether you are assensible as he is?"

  Harry reflected that he never wore cotton gloves. "I don't think I amvery sensible," said he. "I do a great many foolish things, and theworst is, that I like them."

  "So do I. I like so many foolish things."

  "Oh, mamma!" said Cissy.

  "I shall have that quoted against me, now, for the next six months,whenever I am preaching wisdom in the nursery. But Florence is nearlyas sensible as her brother."

  "Much more so than I am."

  "All the Burtons are full up to their eyes with good sense. And whata good thing it is! Who ever heard of any of them coming to sorrow?Whatever they have to live on, they always have enough. Did you everknow a woman who has done better with her children, or has known howto do better, than Theodore's mother? She is the dearest old woman."Harry had heard her called a very clever old woman by certain personsin Stratton, and could not but think of her matrimonial successes asher praises were thus sung by her daughter-in-law.

  They went on talking, while Sophy sat in Harry's lap, till there washeard the sound of the key in the latch of the front-door, and themaster of the house was known to be there. "It's Theodore," said hiswife, jumping up and going out to meet him. "I'm so glad that youhave been here a little before him, because now I feel that I knowyou. When he's here I shan't get in a word." Then she went down toher husband, and Harry was left to speculate how so very charminga woman could ever have been brought to love a man who cleaned hisboots with his pocket-handkerchief.

  There were soon steps again upon the stairs, and Burton returnedbringing with him another man whom he introduced to Harry as Mr.Jones. "I didn't know my brother was coming," said Mrs. Burton, "butit will be very pleasant, as of course I shall want you to knowhim." Harry became a little perplexed. How far might these familyramifications be supposed to go? Would he be welcomed, as one ofthe household, to the hearth of Mrs. Jones; and if of Mrs. Jones,then of Mrs. Jones's brother? His mental inquiries, however, inthis direction, were soon ended by his finding that Mr. Jones was abachelor.

  Jones, it appeared, was the editor, or sub-editor, or co-editor, ofsome influential daily newspaper. "He is a night bird, Harry--," saidMrs. Burton. She had fallen into the way of calling him Harry atonce, but he could not on that occasion bring himself to call herCecilia. He might have done so had not her husband been present, buthe was ashamed to do it before him. "He is a night bird, Harry," saidshe, speaking of her brother, "and flies away at nine o'clock, thathe may go and hoot like an owl in some dark city haunt that he has.Then, when he is himself asleep at breakfast-time, his hootings arebeing heard round the town."

  Harry rather liked the idea of knowing an editor. Editors were, hethought, influential people, who had the world very much under theirfeet,--being, as he conceived, afraid of no men, while other men arevery much afraid of them. He was glad enough to shake Jones by thehand, when he found that Jones was an editor. But Jones, though hehad the face and forehead of a clever man, was very quiet, and seemedalmost submissive to his sister and brother-in-law.

  The dinner was plain, but good, and Harry after a while became happyand satisfied, although he had come to the house with somethingalmost like a resolution to find fault. Men, and women also, dofrequently go about in such a mood, having unconscionably from somesmall circumstance, prejudged their acquaintances, and made up theirmind that their acquaintances should be condemned. Influenced in thisway, Harry had not intended to pass a pleasant evening, and wouldhave stood aloof and been cold, had it been possible to him; buthe found that it was not possible; and after a little while he wasfriendly and joyous, and the dinner went off very well. There wassome wild-fowl, and he was agreeably surprised as he watched themental anxiety and gastronomic skill with which Burton went throughthe process of preparing the gravy, with lemon and pepper, havingin the room a little silver-pot and an apparatus of fire for theoccasion. He would as soon have expected the Archbishop of Canterburyhimself to go through such an operation in the dining-room at Lambethas the hard-working man of business whom he had known in the chambersat the Adelphi.

  "Does he always do that, Mrs. Burton?" Harry asked.

  "Always," said Burton, "when I can get the materials. One doesn'tbother oneself about a cold leg of mutton, you know, which is myusual dinner when we are alone. The children have it hot in themiddle of the day."

  "Such a thing never happened to him yet, Harry," said Mrs. Burton.

  "Gently with the pepper," said the editor. It was the first word hehad spoken for some time.

  "Be good enough to remember that, yourself, when you are writing yourarticle to-night."

  "No, none for me, Theodore," said Mrs. Burton.

  "Cissy!"

  "I have dined really. If I had remembered that you were going todisplay your cookery, I would have kept some of my energy, but Iforgot it."

  "As a rule," said Burton, "I don't think women recognize anydifference in flavours. I believe wild duck and hashed mutton wouldbe quite the same to my wife if her eyes were blinded. I shouldnot mind this, if it were not that they are generally proud of thedeficiency. They think it grand."

  "Just as men think it grand not to know one tune from another," saidhis wife.

  When dinner was over, Burton got up from his seat. "Harry," said he,"do you like good wine?" Harry said that he did. Whatever women maysay about wild-fowl, men never profess an indifference to good wine,although there is a theory about the world, quite as incorrect as itis general, that they have given up drinking it. "Indeed, I do," saidHarry. "Then I'll give you a bottle of port," said Burton, and sosaying he left the room.

  "I'm very glad you have come to-day," said Jones, with much gravity."He never gives me any of that
when I'm alone with him; and he never,by any means, brings it out for company."

  "You don't mean to accuse him of drinking it alone, Tom?" said hissister, laughing.

  "I don't know when he drinks it; I only know when he doesn't."

  The wine was decanted with as much care as had been given to theconcoction of the gravy, and the clearness of the dark liquid wasscrutinized with an eye that was full of anxious care. "Now, Cissy,what do you think of that? She knows a glass of good wine when shegets it, as well as you do, Harry; in spite of her contempt for theduck."

  As they sipped the old port they sat round the dining-room fire, andHarry Clavering was forced to own to himself that he had never beenmore comfortable.

  "Ah," said Burton, stretching out his slippered feet, "why can't itall be after-dinner, instead of that weary room at the Adelphi?"

  "And all old port?" said Jones.

  "Yes, and all old port. You are not such an ass as to suppose that aman in suggesting to himself a continuance of pleasure suggests tohimself also the evils which are supposed to accompany such pleasure.If I took much of the stuff I should get cross and sick, and make abeast of myself; but then what a pity it is that it should be so."

  "You wouldn't like much of it, I think," said his wife.

  "That is it," said he. "We are driven to work because work neverpalls on us, whereas pleasure always does. What a wonderful schemeit is when one looks at it all. No man can follow pleasure longcontinually. When a man strives to do so, he turns his pleasure atonce into business, and works at that. Come, Harry, we mustn't haveanother bottle, as Jones would go to sleep among the type." Then theyall went upstairs together. Harry, before he went away, was takenagain up into the nursery, and there kissed the two little girls intheir cots. When he was outside the nursery door, on the top of thestairs, Mrs. Burton took him by the hand. "You'll come to us often,"said she, "and make yourself at home here, will you not?" Harrycould not but say that he would. Indeed he did so without hesitation,almost with eagerness, for he had liked her and had liked herhouse. "We think of you, you know," she continued, "quite as one ofourselves. How could it be otherwise when Flo is the dearest to us ofall beyond our own?"

  "It makes me so happy to hear you say so," said he.

  "Then come here and talk about her. I want Theodore to feel that youare his brother; it will be so important to you in the business thatit should be so." After that he went away, and as he walked backalong Piccadilly, and then up through the regions of St. Giles tohis home in Bloomsbury Square, he satisfied himself that the lifeof Onslow Crescent was a better manner of life than that which waslikely to prevail in Bolton Street.

  When he was gone his character was of course discussed between thehusband and wife in Onslow Crescent. "What do you think of him?" saidthe husband.

  "I like him so much! He is so much nicer than you told me,--so muchpleasanter and easier; and I have no doubt he is as clever, though Idon't think he shows that at once."

  "He is clever enough; there's no doubt about that."

  "And did you not think he was pleasant?"

  "Yes; he was pleasant here. He is one of those men who get on bestwith women. You'll make much more of him for awhile than I shall.He'll gossip with you and sit idling with you for the hour together,if you'll let him. There's nothing wrong about him, and he'd likenothing better than that."

  "You don't believe that he's idle by disposition? Think of all thathe has done already."

  "That's just what is most against him. He might do very well with usif he had not got that confounded fellowship; but having got that, hethinks the hard work of life is pretty well over with him."

  "I don't suppose he can be so foolish as that, Theodore."

  "I know well what such men are, and I know the evil that is doneto them by the cramming they endure. They learn many names ofthings,--high-sounding names, and they come to understand a greatdeal about words. It is a knowledge that requires no experienceand very little real thought. But it demands much memory; and whenthey have loaded themselves in this way, they think that they areinstructed in all things. After all, what can they do that is of realuse to mankind? What can they create?"

  "I suppose they are of use."

  "I don't know it. A man will tell you, or pretend to tell you,--forthe chances are ten to one that he is wrong,--what sort of lingo wasspoken in some particular island or province six hundred years beforeChrist. What good will that do any one, even if he were right? Andthen see the effect upon the men themselves! At four-and-twenty ayoung fellow has achieved some wonderful success, and calls himselfby some outlandish and conceited name--a double first, or somethingof the kind. Then he thinks he has completed everything, and is toovain to learn anything afterwards. The truth is, that at twenty-fourno man has done more than acquire the rudiments of his education. Thesystem is bad from beginning to end. All that competition makes falseand imperfect growth. Come, I'll go to bed."

  What would Harry have said if he had heard all this from the man whodusted his boots with his handkerchief?