The Claverings

  CHAPTER XIII.

  A VISITOR CALLS AT ONGAR PARK.

  [Illustration.]

  It will be remembered that Harry Clavering, on returning one eveningto his lodgings in Bloomsbury Square, had been much astonished atfinding there the card of Count Pateroff, a man of whom he had onlyheard, up to that moment, as the friend of the late Lord Ongar. Atfirst he had been very angry with Lady Ongar, thinking that she andthis count were in some league together, some league of which hewould greatly disapprove; but his anger had given place to a newinterest when he learned direct from herself that she had not seenthe count, and that she was simply anxious that he, as her friend,should have an interview with the man. He had then become veryeager in the matter, offering to subject himself to any amount ofinconvenience so that he might effect that which Lady Ongar asked ofhim. He was not, however, called upon to endure any special troubleor expense, as he heard nothing more from Count Pateroff till he hadbeen back in London for two or three weeks.

  Lady Ongar's statement to him had been quite true. It had been evenmore than true; for when she had written she had not even hearddirectly from the count. She had learned by letter from anotherperson that Count Pateroff was in London, and had then communicatedthe fact to her friend. This other person was a sister of thecount's, who was now living in London, one Madame Gordeloup,--SophieGordeloup,--a lady whom Harry had found sitting in Lady Ongar's roomwhen last he had seen her in Bolton Street. He had not then heard hername; nor was he aware then, or for some time subsequently, thatCount Pateroff had any relative in London.

  Lady Ongar had been a fortnight in the country before she receivedMadame Gordeloup's letter. In that letter the sister had declaredherself to be most anxious that her brother should see Lady Ongar.The letter had been in French, and had been very eloquent,--moreeloquent in its cause than any letter with the same object could havebeen if written by an Englishwoman in English; and the eloquence wasless offensive than it might, under all concurrent circumstances,have been had it reached Lady Ongar in English. The reader must not,however, suppose that the letter contained a word that was intendedto support a lover's suit. It was very far indeed from that, andspoke of the count simply as a friend; but its eloquence went to showthat nothing that had passed should be construed by Lady Ongar asoffering any bar to a fair friendship. What the world said!--Bah! Didnot she know,--she, Sophie,--and did not her friend know,--her friendJulie,--that the world was a great liar? Was it not even now tellingwicked venomous lies about her friend Julie? Why mind what the worldsaid, seeing that the world could not be brought to speak one word oftruth? The world indeed! Bah!

  But Lady Ongar, though she was not as yet more than half as old asMadame Gordeloup, knew what she was about almost as well as thatlady knew what Sophie Gordeloup was doing. Lady Ongar had knownthe count's sister in France and Italy, having seen much of herin one of those sudden intimacies to which English people aresubject when abroad; and she had been glad to see Madame Gordeloupin London,--much more glad than she would have been had she beenreceived there on her return by a crowd of loving native friends.But not on that account was she prepared to shape her conduct inaccordance with her friend Sophie's advice, and especially notso when that advice had reference to Sophie's brother. She had,therefore, said very little in return to the lady's eloquence,answering the letter on that matter very vaguely; but, having apurpose of her own, had begged that Count Pateroff might be asked tocall upon Harry Clavering. Count Pateroff did not feel himself tocare very much about Harry Clavering, but wishing to do as he wasbidden, did leave his card in Bloomsbury Square.

  And why was Lady Ongar anxious that the young man who was her friendshould see the man who had been her husband's friend, and whose namehad been mixed with her own in so grievous a manner? She had calledHarry her friend, and it might be that she desired to give thisfriend every possible means of testing the truth of that story whichshe herself had told. The reader, perhaps, will hardly have believedin Lady Ongar's friendship;--will, perhaps, have believed neitherthe friendship nor the story. If so, the reader will have done herwrong, and will not have read her character aright. The woman wasnot heartless because she had once, in one great epoch of her life,betrayed her own heart; nor was she altogether false because she hadonce lied; nor altogether vile, because she had once taught herselfthat, for such an one as her, riches were a necessity. It might bethat the punishment of her sin could meet with no remission in thisworld, but not on that account should it be presumed that there wasno place for repentance left to her.

  As she walked alone through the shrubberies at Ongar Park she thoughtmuch of those other paths at Clavering, and of the walks in whichshe had not been alone; and she thought of that interview in thegarden when she had explained to Harry,--as she had then thought sosuccessfully,--that they two, each being poor, were not fit to loveand marry each other. She had brooded over all that, too, during thelong hours of her sad journey home to England. She was thinking ofit still when she had met him, and had been so cold to him on theplatform of the railway station, when she had sent him away angrybecause she had seemed to slight him. She had thought of it as shehad sat in her London room, telling him the terrible tale of hermarried life, while her eyes were fixed on his and her head wasresting on her hands. Even then, at that moment, she was askingherself whether he believed her story, or whether, within his breast,he was saying that she was vile and false. She knew that she had beenfalse to him, and that he must have despised her when, with her easyphilosophy, she had made the best of her own mercenary perfidy. Hehad called her a jilt to her face, and she had been able to receivethe accusation with a smile. Would he now call her something worse,and with a louder voice, within his own bosom? And if she couldconvince him that to that accusation she was not fairly subject,might the old thing come back again? Would he walk with her again,and look into her eyes as though he only wanted her commands to showhimself ready to be her slave? She was a widow, and had seen manythings, but even now she had not reached her six-and-twentieth year.

  The apples at her rich country-seat had quickly become ashes betweenher teeth, but something of the juice of the fruit might yet reachher palate if he would come and sit with her at the table. As shecomplained to herself of the coldness of the world, she thought thatshe would not care how cold might be all the world if there might bebut one whom she could love, and who would love her. And him she hadloved. To him, in old days,--in days which now seemed to her to bevery old,--she had made confession of her love. Old as were thosedays, it could not be but he should still remember them. She hadloved him, and him only. To none other had she ever pretended love.From none other had love been offered to her. Between her and thatwretched being to whom she had sold herself, who had been half deadbefore she had seen him, there had been no pretence of love. ButHarry Clavering she had loved. Harry Clavering was a man, with allthose qualities which she valued, and also with those foibles whichsaved him from being too perfect for so slight a creature as herself.Harry had been offended to the quick, and had called her a jilt; butyet it might be possible that he would return to her.

  It should not be supposed that since her return to England she hadhad one settled, definite object before her eyes with regard tothis renewal of her love. There had been times in which she hadthought that she would go on with the life which she had preparedfor herself, and that she would make herself contented, if not happy,with the price which had been paid to her. And there were othertimes, in which her spirits sank low within her, and she told herselfthat no contentment was any longer possible to her. She looked atherself in the glass, and found herself to be old and haggard. Harry,she said, was the last man in the world to sell himself for wealth,when there was no love remaining. Harry would never do as shehad done with herself! Not for all the wealth that woman everinherited,--so she told herself,--would he link himself to one whohad made herself vile and tainted among women! In this, I think, shedid him no more than justice, though it may be that in some othermatters she rated his character
too highly. Of Florence Burton shehad as yet heard nothing, though had she heard of her, it may wellbe that she would not on that account have desisted. Such being herthoughts and her hopes, she had written to Harry, begging him to seethis man who had followed her,--she knew not why,--from Italy; andhad told the sister simply that she could not do as she was asked,because she was away from London, alone in a country house.

  And quite alone she was sitting one morning, counting up her misery,feeling that the apples were, in truth, ashes, when a servant came toher, telling her that there was a gentleman in the hall desirous ofseeing her. The man had the visitor's card in his hand, but beforeshe could read the name, the blood had mounted into her face as shetold herself that it was Harry Clavering. There was joy for a momentat her heart; but she must not show it,--not as yet. She had beenbut four months a widow, and he should not have come to her inthe country. She must see him and in some way make him understandthis,--but she would be very gentle with him. Then her eye fell uponthe card, and she saw, with grievous disappointment, that it borethe name of Count Pateroff. No;--she was not going to be caught inthat way. Let the result be what it might, she would not let SophieGordeloup, or Sophie's brother, get the better of her by such a ruseas that! "Tell the gentleman, with my compliments," she said, as shehanded back the card, "that I regret it greatly, but I can see noone now." Then the servant went away, and she sat wondering whetherthe count would be able to make his way into her presence. She feltrather than knew that she had some reason to fear him. All that hadbeen told of him and of her had been false. No accusation broughtagainst her had contained one spark of truth. But there had beenthings between Lord Ongar and this man which she would not care tohave told openly in England. And though, in his conduct to her,he had been customarily courteous, and on one occasion had beengenerous, still she feared him. She would much rather that he shouldhave remained in Italy. And though, when all alone in Bolton Street,she had in her desolation welcomed his sister Sophie, she would havepreferred that Sophie should not have come to her, claiming to renewtheir friendship. But with the count she would hold no communion now,even though he should find his way into the room.

  A few minutes passed before the servant returned, and then he broughta note with him. As the door opened Lady Ongar rose, ready to leavethe room by another passage; but she took the note and read it. Itwas as follows:--"I cannot understand why you should refuse to seeme, and I feel aggrieved. My present purpose is to say a few words toyou on private matters connected with papers that belonged to LordOngar. I still hope that you will admit me.--P." Having read thesewords while standing, she made an effort to think what might bethe best course for her to follow. As for Lord Ongar's papers, shedid not believe in the plea. Lord Ongar could have had no papersinteresting to her in such a manner as to make her desirous of seeingthis man or of hearing of them in private. Lord Ongar, though she hadnursed him to the hour of his death, earning her price, had been herbitterest enemy; and though there had been something about this countthat she had respected, she had known him to be a man of intrigue andafraid of no falsehoods in his intrigues,--a dangerous man, who mightperhaps now and again do a generous thing, but one who would expectpayment for his generosity. Besides, had he not been named openlyas her lover? She wrote to him, therefore, as follows:--"Lady Ongarpresents her compliments to Count Pateroff, and finds it to be outof her power to see him at present." This answer the visitor tookand walked away from the front door without showing any disgustto the servant, either by his demeanour or in his countenance. Onthat evening she received from him a long letter, written at theneighbouring inn, expostulating with her as to her conduct towardshim, and saying in the last line, that it was "impossible now thatthey should be strangers to each other." "Impossible that we shouldbe strangers," she said almost out loud. "Why impossible? I know nosuch impossibility." After that she carefully burned both the letterand the note.

  She remained at Ongar Park something over six weeks, and then, aboutthe beginning of May, she went back to London. No one had been to seeher, except Mr. Sturm, the clergyman of the parish; and he, thoughsomething almost approaching to an intimacy had sprung up betweenthem, had never yet spoken to her of his wife. She was not quitesure whether her rank might not deter him,--whether under suchcircumstances as those now in question, the ordinary social ruleswere not ordinarily broken,--whether a countess should not call on aclergyman's wife first, although the countess might be the stranger;but she did not dare to do as she would have done, had no blightattached itself to her name. She gave, therefore, no hint; she saidno word of Mrs. Sturm, though her heart was longing for a kind wordfrom some woman's mouth. But she allowed herself to feel no angeragainst the husband, and went through her parish work, thanking himfor his assistance.

  Of Mr. Giles she had seen very little, and since her misfortune withEnoch Gubby, she had made no further attempt to interfere with thewages of the persons employed. Into the houses of some of the poorshe had made her way, but she fancied that they were not glad tosee her. They might, perhaps, have all heard of her reputation,and Gubby's daughter may have congratulated herself that there wasanother in the parish as bad as herself, or perhaps, happily, worse.The owner of all the wealth around strove to make Mrs. Button becomea messenger of charity between herself and some of the poor; but Mrs.Button altogether declined the employment, although, as her mistresshad ascertained, she herself performed her own little missions ofcharity with zeal. Before the fortnight was over, Lady Ongar was sickof her house and her park, utterly disregardful of her horses andoxen, and unmindful even of the pleasant stream which in these springdays rippled softly at the bottom of her gardens.

  She had undertaken to be back in London early in May, by appointmentwith her lawyer, and had unfortunately communicated the fact toMadame Gordeloup. Four or five days before she was due in BoltonStreet, her mindful Sophie, with unerring memory, wrote to her,declaring her readiness to do all and anything that the most diligentfriendship could prompt. Should she meet her dear Julie at thestation in London? Should she bring any special carriage? Shouldshe order any special dinner in Bolton Street? She herself would ofcourse come to Bolton Street, if not allowed to be present at thestation. It was still chilly in the evenings, and she would havefires lit. Might she suggest a roast fowl and some bread sauce, andperhaps a sweetbread,--and just one glass of champagne? And might sheshare the banquet? There was not a word in the note about the tooobtrusive brother, either as to the offence committed by him, or theoffence felt by him.

  The little Franco-Polish woman was there in Bolton Street, ofcourse,--for Lady Ongar had not dared to refuse her. A little, dry,bright woman she was, with quick eyes, and thin lips, and small nose,and mean forehead, and scanty hair drawn back quite tightly from herface and head; very dry, but still almost pretty with her quicknessand her brightness. She was fifty, was Sophie Gordeloup, but she hadso managed her years that she was as active on her limbs as mostwomen are at twenty-five. And the chicken, and the bread-sauce, andthe sweetbread, and the champagne were there, all very good of theirkind; for Sophie Gordeloup liked such things to be good, and knew howto indulge her own appetite, and to coax that of another person.

  Some little satisfaction Lady Ongar received from the fact that shewas not alone; but the satisfaction was not satisfactory. When Sophiehad left her at ten o'clock, running off by herself to her lodgingsin Mount Street, Lady Ongar, after but one moment's thought, sat downand wrote a note to Harry Clavering.

  DEAR HARRY,--I am back in town. Pray come and see me to-morrow evening. Yours ever,

  J. O.