The Claverings

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  LADY ONGAR'S REVENGE.

  [Illustration.]

  At last came the night which Harry had fixed for his visit to BoltonStreet. He had looked forward certainly with no pleasure to theinterview, and now that the time for it had come, was disposed tothink that Lady Ongar had been unwise in asking for it. But he hadpromised that he would go, and there was no possible escape.

  He dined that evening in Onslow Crescent, where he was now againestablished with all his old comfort. He had again gone up to thechildren's nursery with Cecilia, had kissed them all in their cots,and made himself quite at home in the establishment. It was with themthere as though there had been no dreadful dream about Lady Ongar. Itwas so altogether with Cecilia and Florence, and even Mr. Burton wasallowing himself to be brought round to a charitable view of Harry'scharacter. Harry on this day had gone to the chambers in the Adelphifor an hour, and walking away with Theodore Burton had declared hisintention of working like a horse. "If you were to say like a man,it would perhaps be better," said Burton. "I must leave you to saythat," answered Harry; "for the present I will content myself withthe horse." Burton was willing to hope, and allowed himself once moreto fall into his old pleasant way of talking about the business asthough there were no other subject under the sun so full of manifoldinterest. He was very keen at the present moment about Metropolitanrailways, and was ridiculing the folly of those who feared that therailway projectors were going too fast. "But we shall never get anythanks," he said. "When the thing has been done, and thanks are ourdue, people will look upon all our work so much as a matter of coursethat it will never occur to them to think that they owe us anything.They will have forgotten all their cautions, and will take what theyget as though it were simply their due. Nothing astonishes me somuch as the fear people feel before a thing is done when I join itwith their want of surprise or admiration afterwards." In this wayeven Theodore Burton had resumed his terms of intimacy with HarryClavering.

  Harry had told both Cecilia and Florence of his intended visit toBolton Street, and they had all become very confidential on thesubject. In most such cases we may suppose that a man does not saymuch to one woman of the love which another woman has acknowledgedfor himself. Nor was Harry Clavering at all disposed to make anysuch boast. But in this case, Lady Ongar herself had told everythingto Mrs. Burton. She had declared her passion, and had declaredalso her intention of making Harry her husband if he would take her.Everything was known, and there was no possibility of sparing LadyOngar's name.

  "If I had been her I would not have asked for such a meeting,"Cecilia said. The three were at this time sitting together, for Mr.Burton rarely joined them in their conversation.

  "I don't know," said Florence. "I do not see why she and Harry shouldnot remain as friends."

  "They might be friends without meeting now," said Cecilia.

  "Hardly. If the awkwardness were not got over at once it would neverbe got over. I almost think she is right, though if I were herI should long to have it over." That was Florence's judgment inthe matter. Harry sat between them, like a sheep as he was, verymeekly,--not without some enjoyment of his sheepdom, but stillfeeling that he was a sheep. At half-past eight he started up, havingalready been told that a cab was waiting for him at the door. Hepressed Cecilia's hand as he went, indicating his feeling that he hadbefore him an affair of some magnitude, and then of course had aword or two to say to Florence in private on the landing. Oh, thosedelicious private words, the need for which comes so often duringthose short halcyon days of one's lifetime! They were so pleasantthat Harry would fain have returned to repeat them after he wasseated in his cab; but the inevitable wheels carried him onwards withcruel velocity, and he was in Bolton Street before the minutes hadsufficed for him to collect his thoughts.

  Harry sat between them, like a sheep as he was, verymeekly.]

  Lady Ongar, when he entered the room, was sitting in her accustomedchair, near a little work-table which she always used, and did notrise to meet him. It was a pretty chair, soft and easy, made witha back for lounging, but with no arms to impede the circles of alady's hoop. Harry knew the chair well and had spoken of its gracefulcomfort in some of his visits to Bolton Street. She was seated therewhen he entered; and though he was not sufficiently experienced inthe secrets of feminine attire to know at once that she had dressedherself with care, he did perceive that she was very charming, notonly by force of her own beauty, but by the aid also of her dress.And yet she was in deep mourning,--in the deepest mourning; nor wasthere anything about her of which complaint might fairly be made bythose who do complain on such subjects. Her dress was high roundher neck, and the cap on her head was indisputably a widow's cap;but enough of her brown hair was to be seen to tell of its richloveliness; and the black dress was so made as to show the fullperfection of her form; and with it all there was that gracefulfeminine brightness that care and money can always give, andwhich will not come without care and money. It might be well, shehad thought, to surrender her income, and become poor and dowdyhereafter, but there could be no reason why Harry Clavering shouldnot be made to know all that he had lost.

  "Well, Harry," she said, as he stepped up to her and took her offeredhand. "I am glad that you have come that I may congratulate you.Better late than never; eh, Harry?"

  How was he to answer her when she spoke to him in this strain? "Ihope it is not too late," he said, hardly knowing what the words werewhich were coming from his mouth.

  "Nay; that is for you to say. I can do it heartily, Harry, if youmean that. And why not? Why should I not wish you happy? I havealways liked you,--have always wished for your happiness. You believethat I am sincere when I congratulate you;--do you not?"

  "Oh, yes; you are always sincere."

  "I have always been so to you. As to any sincerity beyond that weneed say nothing now. I have always been your good friend,--to thebest of my ability. Ah, Harry; you do not know how much I havethought of your welfare; how much I do think of it. But never mindthat. Tell me something now of this Florence Burton of yours. Is shetall?" I believe that Lady Ongar, when she asked this question, knewwell that Florence was short of stature.

  "No; she is not tall," said Harry.

  "What,--a little beauty? Upon the whole I think I agree with yourtaste. The most lovely women that I have ever seen have been small,bright, and perfect in their proportions. It is very rare that a tallwoman has a perfect figure." Julia's own figure was quite perfect."Do you remember Constance Vane? Nothing ever exceeded her beauty."Now Constance Vane,--she at least who had in those days beenConstance Vane, but who now was the stout mother of two or threechildren,--had been a waxen doll of a girl, whom Harry had known, buthad neither liked nor admired. But she was highly bred, and belongedto the cream of English fashion; she had possessed a complexion aspure in its tints as are the interior leaves of a blush rose,--andshe had never had a thought in her head, and hardly ever a word onher lips. She and Florence Burton were as poles asunder in theirdifferences. Harry felt this at once, and had an indistinct notionthat Lady Ongar was as well aware of the fact as was he himself. "Sheis not a bit like Constance Vane," he said.

  "Then what is she like? If she is more beautiful than what Miss Vaneused to be, she must be lovely indeed."

  "She has no pretensions of that kind," said Harry, almost sulkily.

  "I have heard that she was so very beautiful!" Lady Ongar had neverheard a word about Florence's beauty;--not a word. She knew nothingpersonally of Florence beyond what Mrs. Burton had told her. But whowill not forgive her the little deceit that was necessary to herlittle revenge?

  "I don't know how to describe her," said Harry. "I hope the time maysoon come when you will see her, and be able to judge for yourself."

  "I hope so too. It shall not be my fault if I do not like her."

  "I do not think you can fail to like her. She is very clever, andthat will go further with you than mere beauty. Not but what I thinkher very,--very pretty."

  "
Ah,--I understand. She reads a great deal, and that sort of thing.Yes; that is very nice. But I shouldn't have thought that thatwould have taken you. You used not to care much for talent andlearning,--not in women I mean."

  "I don't know about that," said Harry, looking very foolish.

  "But a contrast is what you men always like. Of course I ought notto say that, but you will know of what I am thinking. A clever,highly-educated woman like Miss Burton will be a much bettercompanion to you than I could have been. You see I am very frank,Harry." She wished to make him talk freely about himself, his futuredays, and his past days, while he was simply anxious to say on thesesubjects as little as possible. Poor woman! The excitement of havinga passion which she might indulge was over with her,--at any rate forthe present. She had played her game and had lost wofully; but beforeshe retired altogether from the gaming-table she could not keepherself from longing for a last throw of the dice.

  "These things, I fear, go very much by chance," said Harry.

  "You do not mean me to suppose that you are taking Miss Burton bychance. That would be as uncomplimentary to her as to yourself."

  "Chance, at any rate, has been very good to me in this instance."

  "Of that I am sure. Do not suppose that I am doubting that. It isnot only the paradise that you have gained, but the pandemoniumthat you have escaped!" Then she laughed slightly, but the laughterwas uneasy, and made her angry with herself. She had especiallydetermined to be at ease during this meeting, and was conscious thatany falling off in that respect on her part would put into his handsthe power which she was desirous of exercising.

  "You are determined to rebuke me, I see," said he. "If you choose todo so, I am prepared to bear it. My defence, if I have a defence, isone that I cannot use."

  "And what would be your defence?"

  "I have said that I cannot use it."

  "As if I did not understand it all! What you mean to say isthis,--that when your good stars sent you in the way of FlorenceBurton, you had been ill-treated by her who would have made yourpandemonium for you, and that she therefore,--she who came first andbehaved so badly--can have no right to find fault with you in thatyou have obeyed your good stars and done so well for yourself. Thatis what you call your defence. It would be perfect, Harry,--perfect,if you had only whispered to me a word of Miss Burton when I firstsaw you after my return home. It is odd to me that you should nothave written to me and told me when I was abroad with my husband.It would have comforted me to have known that the wound which I hadgiven had been cured;--that is, if there was a wound."

  "You know that there was a wound."

  "At any rate, it was not mortal. But when are such wounds mortal?When are they more than skin-deep?"

  "I can say nothing as to that now."

  "No, Harry; of course you can say nothing. Why should you be madeto say anything? You are fortunate and happy, and have all that youwant. I have nothing that I want."

  There was a reality in the tone of sorrow in which this was spokenwhich melted him at once;--and the more so in that there was so muchin her grief which could not but be flattering to his vanity. "Do notsay that, Lady Ongar," he exclaimed.

  "But I do say it. What have I got in the world that is worth having?My possessions are ever so many thousands a year,--and a damagedname."

  "I deny that. I deny it altogether. I do not think that there is onewho knows of your story who believes ill of you."

  "I could tell you of one, Harry, who thinks very ill of me;--nay, oftwo; and they are both in this room. Do you remember how you used toteach me that terribly conceited bit of Latin,--Nil conscire sibi? Doyou suppose that I can boast that I never grow pale as I think of myown fault? I am thinking of it always, and my heart is ever becomingpaler and paler. And as to the treatment of others;--I wish I couldmake you know what I suffered when I was fool enough to go to thatplace in Surrey. The coachman who drives me no doubt thinks that Ipoisoned my husband, and the servant who let you in just now supposesme to be an abandoned woman because you are here."

  "You will be angry with me, perhaps, if I say that these feelings aremorbid and will die away. They show the weakness which has come fromthe ill-usage you have suffered."

  "You are right in part, no doubt. I shall become hardened to it all,and shall fall into some endurable mode of life in time. But I canlook forward to nothing. What future have I? Was there ever any oneso utterly friendless as I am? Your kind cousin has done that forme;--and yet he came here to me the other day, smiling and talking asthough he were sure that I should be delighted by his condescension.I do not think that he will ever come again."

  "I did not know you had seen him."

  "Yes; I saw him;--but I did not find much relief from his visit. Wewon't mind that, however. We can talk about something better thanHugh Clavering during the few minutes that we have together;--can wenot? And so Miss Burton is very learned and very clever?"

  "I did not quite say that."

  "But I know she is. What a comfort that will be to you! I am notclever, and I never should have become learned. Oh, dear! I had butone merit, Harry;--I was fond of you."

  "And how did you show it?" He did not speak these words, because hewould not triumph over her, nor was he willing to express that regreton his own part which these words would have implied;--but it wasimpossible for him to avoid a thought of them. He remained silent,therefore, taking up some toy from the table into his hands, asthough that would occupy his attention.

  "But what a fool I am to talk of it;--am I not? And I am worsethan a fool. I was thinking of you when I stood up in church to bemarried;--thinking of that offer of your little savings. I used tothink of you at every harsh word that I endured;--of your modes oflife when I sat through those terrible nights by that poor creature'sbed;--of you when I knew that the last day was coming. I thought ofyou always, Harry, when I counted up my gains. I never count themup now. Ah, how I thought of you when I came to this house in thecarriage which you had provided for me, when I had left you at thestation almost without speaking a word to you! I should have beenmore gracious had I not had you in my thoughts throughout my wholejourney home from Florence. And after that I had some comfort inbelieving that the price of my shame might make you rich withoutshame. Oh, Harry, I have been disappointed! You will never understandwhat I felt when first that evil woman told me of Miss Burton."

  "Oh, Julia, what am I to say?"

  "You can say nothing; but I wonder that you had not told me."

  "How could I tell you? Would it not have seemed that I was vainenough to have thought of putting you on your guard?"

  "And why not? But never mind. Do not suppose that I am rebuking you.As I said in my letter, we are quits now, and there is no place forscolding on either side. We are quits now; but I am punished and youare rewarded."

  Of course he could not answer this. Of course he was hard pressedfor words. Of course he could neither acknowledge that he had beenrewarded, nor assert that a share of the punishment of which shespoke had fallen upon him also. This was the revenge with which shehad intended to attack him. That she should think that he had intruth been punished and not rewarded, was very natural. Had he beenless quick in forgetting her after her marriage, he would have hadhis reward without any punishment. If such were her thoughts, whoshall quarrel with her on that account?

  "I have been very frank with you," she continued. "Indeed, why shouldI not be so? People talk of a lady's secret, but my secret has beenno secret from you? That I was made to tell it under,--under,--what Iwill call an error,--was your fault; and it is that that has made usquits."

  "I know that I have behaved badly to you."

  "But then unfortunately you know also that I had deserved badtreatment. Well; we will say no more about it. I have been verycandid with you, but then I have injured no one by my candour. Youhave not said a word to me in reply; but then your tongue is tiedby your duty to Miss Burton,--your duty and your love together, ofcourse. It is all as it should be, and now I will have done.
When areyou to be married, Harry?"

  "No time has been fixed. I am a very poor man, you know."

  "Alas, alas,--yes. When mischief is done, how badly all the thingsturn out. You are poor and I am rich, and yet we cannot help eachother."

  "I fear not."

  "Unless I could adopt Miss Burton, and be a sort of mother to her.You would shrink, however, from any such guardianship on my part. Butyou are clever, Harry, and can work when you please, and will makeyour way. If Miss Burton keeps you waiting now by any prudent fear onher part, I shall not think so well of her as I am inclined to do."

  "The Burtons are all prudent people."

  "Tell her, from me, with my love,--not to be too prudent. I thoughtto be prudent, and see what has come of it."

  "I will tell her what you say."

  "Do, please; and, Harry, look here. Will she accept a little presentfrom me? You, at any rate, for my sake, will ask her to do so. Giveher this,--it is only a trifle,"--and she put her hand on a smalljeweller's box, which was close to her arm upon the table, "and tellher,--of course she knows all our story, Harry?"

  "Yes; she knows it all."

  "Tell her that she whom you have rejected sends it with her kindestwishes to her whom you have taken."

  "No; I will not tell her that."

  "Why not? It is all true. I have not poisoned the little ring, as theladies would have done some centuries since. They were grander thenthan we are now, and perhaps hardly worse, though more cruel. Youwill bid her take it,--will you not?"

  "I am sure she will take it without bidding on my part."

  "And tell her not to write me any thanks. She and I will bothunderstand that that had better be omitted. If, when I shall see herat some future time as your wife, it shall be on her finger, I shallknow that I am thanked." Then Harry rose to go. "I did not mean bythat to turn you out, but perhaps it may be as well. I have no moreto say,--and as for you, you cannot but wish that the penance shouldbe over." Then he pressed her hand, and with some muttered farewell,bade her adieu. Again she did not rise from her chair, but nodding athim with a sweet smile, let him go without another word.