The Claverings II

THE CLAVERINGS

had been told, and he was preparing to leave her. “Certainly, if she will come to me.”

“I will make no promise,” said Mrs. Clavering, “but I will see.” Then she went up stairs to the room where the girls were sitting, and the sacrificial lamb was sent down into the draw- ing-room. “I suppose, if you say so, mamma —”

“I think, my dear, that you had better see him. You will meet then more comfortably afterward.” So Fanny went into the drawing-room, and Mr. Saul was sent to her there. What passed between them all readers of these pages will understand. Few young ladies, I fear, will envy Fanny Clavering her lover; but they will remember that Love will still be lord of all, and they will acknowledge that he had done much to deserve the success in life which had come in his way.

It was long before the old rector could reconcile himself either to the new rector or his new son-in-law. Mrs. Clavering had now so warmly taken up Fanny’s part, and had so completely assumed a mother’s interest in her coming marriage, that Mr. Clavering, or Sir Henry, as we may now call him, had found himself obliged to abstain from repeating to her the wonder with which he still regarded his daughter’s choice. But to Harry he could still be eloquent on the subject. “Of course it’s all right now,” ho said. “He’s a very good young man, and nobody would work harder in the parish. I always thought I was very lucky to have such an assistant; but, upon my word, I can not understand Fanny — I can not, indeed.”

“She has been taken by the religious side of her character,” said Harry.

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“Yes, of course. And no doubt it is very gratifying to me to see that she thinks so much of religion. It should be the first consideration with all of us at all times. But she has never been used to men like Mr. Saul.”

“Nobody can deny that he is a gentleman.”

“Yes, he is a gentleman; God forbid that I should say he was not, especially now that he is going to marry your sister. But — I don’t know whether you quite understand what I mean.”

“I think I do. He isn’t quite one of our sort.”

“How on earth she can ever have brought herself to look at him in that light?”

“There’s no accounting for tastes, sir. And, after all, as he’s to have the living, there will be nothing to regret.”

“No, nothing to regret. I suppose he’ll be up at the other house occasionally? I never could make anything of him when he dined at the rectory; perhaps he’ll be better there. Perhaps, when he’s married, he’ll get into the way of drinking a glass of wine like any body else. Dear Fanny, I hope she’ll be happy. That’s every thing.” In answer to this, Harry took upon himself to assure his father that Fanny would be happy; and then they changed the conversation, and discussed the alterations which they would make in reference to the preservation of pheasants.

Mr. Saul and Fanny remained long together on that occasion, and when they parted he went off about his work, not saying a word to any other person in the house, and she betook herself as fast as her feet could carry her to her own room.

She said not a word either to her mother, or to her sister. or to Florence as to what had passed at that interview; but,

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when she was first seen by any of them, she was very grave in her demeanor, and very silent. When her father congratulated her, which he did with as much cordiality as he was able to assume, she kissed him, and thanked him for his care and kindness; but even this she did almost solemnly. “Ah! I see how it is to be,” said the old rector to his wife. “There are to be no more cakes and ale in the parish.” Then his wife reminded him of what he himself had said of the change which would take place in Mr. Saul’s ways when he should have a lot of children running about his feet. “Then I can only hope that they’ll begin to run about very soon,” said the old rector.

To her sister, Mary Fielding, Fanny said little or nothing of her coming marriage, but to Florence, who, as regarded that event, was in the same position as herself, she frequently did express her feelings, declaring how awful to her was the responsibility of the thing she was about to do. “Of course that’s quite true,” said Florence, “but it doesn’t make one doubt that one is right to marry.”

“I don’t know,” said Fanny. “When I think of it, it almost makes me doubt.”

“Then, if I were Mr. Saul, I would not let you think of it at all.”

“Ah! that shows that you do not understand him. He would be the first to advise me to hesitate if he thought that — that — that — I don’t know that I can quite express what I mean.” “Under those circumstances Mr. Saul won’t think that — that —”

“Oh, Florence, it is too serious for laughing — it is, indeed.” Then Florence also hoped that a time might come, and that

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shortly, in which Mr. Saul might moderate his views, though she did not express herself exactly as the rector had done.

Immediately after this Florence went back to Stratton in order that she might pass what remained to her of her freedom with her mother and father, and that she might prepare herself for her wedding. The affair with her was so much hurried that she had hardly time to give her mind those considerations which were weighing so heavily on Fanny’s mind. It was felt by all the Burtons, especially by Cecilia, that there was need for extension of their views in regard to millinery, seeing that Florence was to marry the eldest son and heir of a baronet. And old Mrs. Burton was awed almost into acquiescence by the reflections which came upon her when she thought of the breakfast, and of the presence of Sir Henry Clavering. She at once summoned her daughter-in-law from Ramsgate to her assistance, and felt that all her experience, gathered from the wedding breakfasts of so many elder daughters, would hardly carry her through the difficulties of the present occasion.

The two widowed sisters were still at the great house when Sir Henry Clavering, with Harry and Fanny, went to Stratton, but they left it on the following day. The father and son went up together to bid them farewell, on the eve of their departure, and to press upon them, over and over again, the fact that they were still to regard the Claverings of Clavering Park as their nearest relations and friends. The eldest sister simply cried when this was said to her — cried easily with plenteous tears, till the weeds which enveloped her seemed to be damp from the ever-running fountain. Hitherto to weep had

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been her only refuge; but I think that even this had already become preferable to her former life. Lady Ongar assured Sir Henry, or Mr. Clavering, as he was still called till after their departure, that she would always remember and accept his kindness. “And you will come to us?” said he. “Certainly; when I can make Hermy come. She will be better when the Summer is here. And then after that, we will think about it.” On this occasion she seemed to be quite cheerful herself, and bade Harry farewell with all the frank affection of an old friend.

“I have given up the house in Bolton Street,” she said to him.

“And where do you mean to live?”

“Anywhere; just as it may suit Hermy. What difference does it make? We are going to Tenby now, and though Tenby seems to me to have as few attractions as any place I ever knew, I dare say we shall stay there, simply because we shall be there. That consideration weighs most with such old women as we. Good-by, Harry.”

“Good-by, Julia. I hope I may yet see you — you and Hermy, happy before long.”

“I don’t know much about happiness, Harry. There comes a dream of it sometimes — such as you have got now. But I will answer for this — you shall never hear of my being downhearted — at least not on my own account,” she added, in a whisper. “Poor Hermy may sometimes drag me down; but I will do my best. And, Harry, tell your wife I shall write to her occasionally — once a year, or something like that, so that she need not be afraid. Good-by, Harry.” “Good-by, Julia.” And so they parted.

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Immediately on her arrival at Tenby, Lady Ongar communicated to Mr. Turnbull her intention of giving back to the Courton family not only the place called Ongar Park, but also the whole of her income with the exception of eight hundred a year, so that in that respect she might be equal to her sister. This brought Mr. Turnbull down to Tenby, and there was interview after interview between the countess and the lawyer. The proposition, however, was made to the Courtons, and was absolutely refused by them. Ongar Park was accepted on behalf of the mother of the present earl; but as regarded the money, the widow of the late earl was assured by the elder surviving brother that no one doubted her right to it, or would be a party to accepting it from her. “Then,” said Lady Ongar, “it will accumulate in my hands, and I can leave it as I please in my will.”

“As to that, no one can control you,” said her brother-in- law, who went to Tenby to see her; “but you must not be angry if I advise you not to make any such resolution. Such hoards never have good results.” This good result, however, did come from the effort which the poor broken-spirited woman was making — an intimacy, and at last a close friendship, was formed between her and the relatives of her deceased lord.

And now my story is done. My readers will easily understand what would be the future life of Harry Clavering and his wife after the completion of that tour in Italy and the birth of the heir, the preparations for which made the tour somewhat shorter than Harry had intended. His father, of course, gave up to him the shooting, and the farming of the home

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