Early in the day the rector came into his son's bedroom, and told him and his mother, who was there, the news which he had just heard from the great house. "Hugh has come home," he said, "and is going out yachting for the rest of the summer. They are going to Norway in Jack2 Stuart's yacht. Archie is going with them." Now Archie was known to be a great man in a yacht, cognizant of ropes, well up in booms and spars, very intimate with bolts, and one to whose hands a tiller came as naturally as did the saddle of a steeple-chase horse to the legs of his friend Doodles. "They are going to fish," said the rector.
"But Jack Stuart's yacht is only a river-boat,—or just big enough for Cowes harbour, but nothing more," said Harry, roused in his bed to some excitement by the news.
"I know nothing about Jack Stuart or his boat either," said the rector; "but that's what they told me. He's down here, at any rate, for I saw the servant that came with him."
"What a shame it is," said Mrs. Clavering,—"a scandalous shame."
"You mean his going away?" said the rector.
"Of course I do;—his leaving her here by herself, all alone. He can have no heart;—after losing her child and suffering as she has done. It makes me ashamed of my own name."
"You can't alter him, my dear. He has his good qualities and his bad,—and the bad ones are by far the more conspicuous3."
"I don't know any good qualities he has."
"He does not get into debt. He will not destroy the property. He will leave the family after him as well off as it was before him,—and though he is a hard man, he does nothing actively4 cruel. Think of Lord Ongar, and then you'll remember that there are worse men than Hugh. Not that I like him. I am never comfortable for a moment in his presence. I always feel that he wants to quarrel with me, and that I almost want to quarrel with him."
"I detest5 him," said Harry, from beneath the bedclothes.
"You won't be troubled with him any more this summer, for he means to be off in less than a week."
"And what is she to do?" asked Mrs. Clavering.
"Live here as she has done ever since Julia married. I don't see that it will make much difference to her. He's never with her when he's in England, and I should think she must be more comfortable without him than with him."
"It's a great catch for Archie," said Harry.
"Archie Clavering is a fool," said Mrs. Clavering.
"They say he understands a yacht," said the rector, who then left the room.
The rector's news was all true. Sir Hugh Clavering had come down to the Park, and had announced his intention of going to Norway in Jack Stuart's yacht. Archie also had been invited to join the party. Sir Hugh intended to leave the Thames in about a week, and had not thought it necessary to give his wife any intimation of the fact, till he told her himself of his intention. He took, I think, a delight in being thus over-harsh in his harshness to her. He proved to himself thus not only that he was master, but that he would be master without any let or drawback, without compunctions, and even without excuses for his ill-conduct. There should be no plea put in by him in his absences, that he had only gone to catch a few fish, when his intentions had been other than piscatorial6. He intended to do as he liked now and always,—and he intended that his wife should know that such was his intention. She was now childless, and therefore he had no other terms to keep with her than those which appertained to her necessities for bed and board. There was the house, and she might live in it; and there were the butchers and the bakers7, and other tradesmen to supply her wants. Nay;—there were the old carriage and the old horses at her disposal, if they could be of any service to her. Such were Sir Hugh Clavering's ideas as to the bonds inflicted8 upon him by his marriage vows9.
"I'm going to Norway next week." It was thus Sir Hugh communicated his intention to his wife within five minutes of their first greeting.
"To Norway, Hugh?"
"Yes;—why not to Norway? I and one or two others have got some fishing there. Archie is going too. It will keep him from spending his money;—or rather from spending money which isn't his."
"And for how long will you be gone?"
It was part of Sir Hugh Clavering's theory as to these matters that there should be no lying in the conduct of them. He would not condescend10 to screen any part of his doings by a falsehood;—so he answered this question with exact truth.
"I don't suppose we shall be back before October."
"Not before October?"
"No. We are talking of putting in on the coast of Normandy somewhere; and probably may run down to Brittany. I shall be back, at any rate, for the hunting. As for the partridges, the game has gone so much to the devil here, that they are not worth coming for."
"You'll be away four months!"
"I suppose I shall if I don't come back till October." Then he left her, calculating that she would have considered the matter before he returned, and have decided12 that no good could come to her from complaint. She knew his purpose now, and would no doubt reconcile herself to it quickly;—perhaps with a few tears, which would not hurt him if he did not see them.
But this blow was almost more than Lady Clavering could bear,—was more than she could bear in silence. Why she should have grudged13 her husband his trip abroad, seeing that his presence in England could hardly have been a solace14 to her, it is hard to understand. Had he remained in England, he would rarely have been at Clavering Park; and when he was at the Park he would rarely have given her the benefit of his society. When they were together he was usually scolding her, or else sitting in gloomy silence, as though that phase of his life was almost insupportable to him. He was so unusually disagreeable in his intercourse15 with her, that his absence, one would think, must be preferable to his presence. But women can bear anything better than desertion. Cruelty is bad, but neglect is worse than cruelty, and desertion worse even than neglect. To be treated as though she were not in existence, or as though her existence were a nuisance simply to be endured, and, as far as possible, to be forgotten, was more than even Lady Clavering could bear without complaint. When her husband left her, she sat meditating16 how she might turn against her oppressor. She was a woman not apt for fighting,—unlike her sister, who knew well how to use the cudgels in her own behalf; she was timid, not gifted with a full flow of words, prone17 to sink and become dependent; but she,—even she,—with all these deficiencies,—felt that she must make some stand against the outrage18 to which she was now to be subjected.
"Hugh," she said, when next she saw him, "you can't really mean that you are going to leave me from this time till the winter?"
"I said nothing about the winter."
"Well,—till October?"
"I said that I was going, and I usually mean what I say."
"I cannot believe it, Hugh; I cannot bring myself to think that you will be so cruel."
"Look here, Hermy, if you take to calling names I won't stand it."
"And I won't stand it, either. What am I to do? Am I to be here in this dreadful barrack of a house all alone? How would you like it? Would you bear it for one month, let alone four or five? I won't remain here; I tell you that fairly."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't want to go anywhere, but I'll go away somewhere and die;—I will indeed. I'll destroy myself, or something."
"Psha!"
"Yes; of course it's a joke to you. What have I done to deserve this? Have I ever done anything that you told me not? It's all because of Hughy,—my darling,—so it is; and it's cruel of you, and not like a husband; and it's not manly19. It's very cruel. I didn't think anybody would have been so cruel as you are to me." Then she broke down and burst into tears.
"Have you done, Hermy?" said her husband.
"No; I've not done."
"Then go on again," said he.
But in truth she had done, and could only repeat her last accusation20. "You're very, very cruel."
"You said that before."
"And I'll say it again. I'll tell everybody; so I will. I'll tell your uncle at the rectory, and he shall speak to you."
"Look here, Hermy; I can bear a deal of nonsense from you because some women are given to talk nonsense; but if I find you telling tales about me out of this house, and especially to my uncle, or indeed to anybody, I'll let you know what it is to be cruel."
"You can't be worse than you are."
"Don't try me; that's all. And as I suppose you have now said all that you've got to say, if you please we will regard that subject as finished." The poor woman had said all that she could say, and had no further means of carrying on the war. In her thoughts she could do so; in her thoughts she could wander forth21 out of the gloomy house in the night, and perish in the damp and cold, leaving a paper behind her to tell the world that her husband's cruelty had brought her to that pass. Or she would go to Julia and leave him for ever. Julia, she thought, would still receive her. But as to one thing she had certainly made up her mind; she would go with her complaint to Mrs. Clavering at the rectory, let her lord and master show his anger in whatever form he might please.
The next day Sir Hugh himself made her a proposition which somewhat softened22 the aspect of affairs. This he did in his usual voice, with something of a smile on his face, and speaking as though he were altogether oblivious23 of the scenes of yesterday. "I was thinking, Hermy," he said, "that you might have Julia down here while I am away."
"Have Julia here?"
"Yes; why not? She'll come, I'm sure, when she knows that my back is turned."
"I've never thought about asking her,—at least not lately."
"No; of course. But you might as well do so now. It seems that she never goes to Ongar Park, and, as far as I can learn, never will. I'm going to see her myself."
"You going to see her?"
"Yes; Lord Ongar's people want to know whether she can be induced to give up the place; that is, to sell her interest in it. I have promised to see her. Do you write her a letter first, and tell her that I want to see her; and ask her also to come here as soon as she can leave London."
"But wouldn't the lawyers do it better than you?"
"Well;—one would think so; but I am commissioned to make her a kind of apology from the whole Courton family. They fancy they've been hard upon her; and, by George, I believe they have. I may be able to say a word for myself too. If she isn't a fool she'll put her anger in her pocket, and come down to you."
Lady Clavering liked the idea of having her sister with her, but she was not quite meek24 enough to receive the permission now given her as full compensation for the injury done. She said that she would do as he had bidden her, and then went back to her own grievances25. "I don't suppose Julia, even if she would come for a little time, would find it very pleasant to live in such a place as this, all alone."
"She wouldn't be all alone when you are with her," said Hugh, gruffly, and then again went out, leaving his wife to become used to her misfortune by degrees.
It was not surprising that Lady Clavering should dislike her solitude27 at Clavering Park house, nor surprising that Sir Hugh should find the place disagreeable. The house was a large, square, stone building, with none of the prettinesses of modern country-houses about it. The gardens were away from the house, and the cold desolate28 flat park came up close around the windows. The rooms were large and lofty,—very excellent for the purpose of a large household, but with nothing of that snug29, pretty comfort which solitude requires for its solace. The furniture was old and heavy, and the hangings were dark in colour. Lady Clavering when alone there,—and she generally was alone,—never entered the rooms on the ground-floor. Nor did she ever pass through the wilderness30 of a hall by which the front-door was to be reached. Throughout more than half her days she never came downstairs at all; but when she did so, preparatory to being dragged about the parish lanes in the old family carriage, she was let out at a small side-door; and so it came to pass that during the absences of the lord of the mansion31, the shutters32 were not even moved from any of the lower windows. Under such circumstances there can be no wonder that Lady Clavering regarded the place as a prison. "I wish you could come upon it unawares, and see how gloomy it is," she said to him. "I don't think you'd stand it alone for two days, let alone all your life."
"I'll shut it up altogether if you like," said he.
"And where am I to go?" she asked.
"You can go to Moor33 Hall if you please." Now Moor Hall was a small house, standing34 on a small property belonging to Sir Hugh, in that part of Devonshire which lies north of Dartmoor, somewhere near the Holsworthy region, and which is perhaps as ugly, as desolate, and as remote as any part of England. Lady Clavering had heard much of Moor Hall, and dreaded36 it as the heroine, made to live in the big grim castle low down among the Apennines, dreads37 the smaller and grimmer castle which is known to exist somewhere higher up in the mountains.
"Why couldn't I go to Brighton?" said Lady Clavering boldly.
"Because I don't choose it," said Sir Hugh. After that she did go to the rectory, and told Mrs. Clavering all her troubles. She had written to her sister, having, however, delayed the doing of this for two or three days, and she had not at this time received an answer from Lady Ongar. Nor did she hear from her sister till after Sir Hugh had left her. It was on the day before his departure that she went to the rectory, finding herself driven to this act of rebellion by his threat of Moor Hall. "I will never go there unless I am dragged there by force," she said to Mrs. Clavering.
"I don't think he means that," said Mrs. Clavering. "He only wants to make you understand that you'd better remain at the Park."
"But if you knew what a house it is to be all alone in!"
"Dear Hermione, I do know! But you must come to us oftener, and let us endeavour to make it better for you."
"But how can I do that? How can I come to his uncle's house, just because my own husband has made my own home so wretched that I cannot bear it. I'm ashamed to do that. I ought not to be telling you all this, of course. I don't know what he'd do if he knew it; but it is so hard to bear it all without telling some one."
"My poor dear!"
"I sometimes think I'll ask Mr. Clavering to speak to him, and to tell him at once that I will not submit to it any longer. Of course he would be mad with rage, but if he were to kill me I should like it better than having to go on in this way. I'm sure he is only waiting for me to die."
Mrs. Clavering said all that she could to comfort the poor woman, but there was not much that she could say. She had strongly advocated the plan of having Lady Ongar at the Park, thinking perhaps that Harry would be more safe while that lady was at Clavering, than he might perhaps be if she remained in London. But Mrs. Clavering doubted much whether Lady Ongar would consent to make such a visit. She regarded Lady Ongar as a hard, worldly, pleasure-seeking woman,—sinned against perhaps in much, but also sinning in much herself,—to whom the desolation of the Park would be even more unendurable than it was to the elder sister. But of this, of course, she said nothing. Lady Clavering left her, somewhat quieted, if not comforted; and went back to pass her last evening with her husband.
"Upon second thought, I'll go by the first train," he said, as he saw her for a moment before she went up to dress. "I shall have to be off from here a little after six, but I don't mind that in summer." Thus she was to be deprived of such gratification as there might have been in breakfasting with him on the last morning! It might be hard to say in what that gratification would have consisted. She must by this time have learned that his presence gave her none of the pleasures usually expected from society. He slighted her in everything. He rarely vouchsafed38 to her those little attentions which all women expect from all gentlemen. If he handed her a plate, or cut for her a morsel39 of bread from the loaf, he showed by his manner and by his brow that the doing so was a nuisance to him. At their meals he rarely spoke40 to her,—having always at breakfast a paper or a book before him, and at dinner devoting his attention to a dog at his feet. Why should she have felt herself cruelly ill-used in this matter of his last breakfast,—so cruelly ill-used that she wept afresh over it as she dressed herself,—seeing that she would lose so little? Because she loved the man;—loved him, though she now thought that she hated him. We very rarely, I fancy, love those whose love we have not either possessed41 or expected,—or at any rate for whose love we have not hoped; but when it has once existed, ill-usage will seldom destroy it. Angry as she was with the man, ready as she was to complain of him, to rebel against him,—perhaps to separate herself from him for ever, nevertheless she found it to be a cruel grievance26 that she should not sit at table with him on the morning of his going. "Jackson shall bring me a cup of coffee as I'm dressing," he said, "and I'll breakfast at the club." She knew that there was no reason for this, except that breakfasting at his club was more agreeable to him than breakfasting with his wife.
She had got rid of her tears before she came down to dinner, but still she was melancholy42 and almost lachrymose43. This was the last night, and she felt that something special ought to be said; but she did not know what she expected, or what it was that she herself wished to say. I think that she was longing35 for an opportunity to forgive him,—only that he would not be forgiven. If he would have spoken one soft word to her, she would have accepted that one word as an apology; but no such word came. He sat opposite to her at dinner, drinking his wine and feeding his dog; but he was no more gracious to her at this dinner than he had been on any former day. She sat there pretending to eat, speaking a dull word now and then, to which his answer was a monosyllable, looking out at him from under her eyes, through the candlelight, to see whether any feeling was moving him; and then having pretended to eat a couple of strawberries she left him to himself. Still, however, this was not the last. There would come some moment for an embrace,—for some cold half-embrace, in which he would be forced to utter something of a farewell.
He, when he was left alone, first turned his mind to the subject of Jack Stuart and his yacht. He had on that day received a letter from a noble friend,—a friend so noble that he was able to take liberties even with Sir Hugh Clavering,—in which his noble friend had told him that he was a fool to trust himself on so long an expedition in Jack Stuart's little boat. Jack, the noble friend said, knew nothing of the matter, and as for the masters who were hired for the sailing of such crafts, their only object was to keep out as long as possible, with an eye to their wages and perquisites44. It might be all very well for Jack Stuart, who had nothing in the world to lose but his life and his yacht; but his noble friend thought that any such venture on the part of Sir Hugh was simply tomfoolery. But Sir Hugh was an obstinate45 man, and none of the Claverings were easily made afraid by personal danger. Jack Stuart might know nothing about the management of a boat, but Archie did. And as for the smallness of the craft,—he knew of a smaller craft which had been out on the Norway coast during the whole of the last season. So he drove that thought away from his mind, with no strong feelings of gratitude46 towards his noble friend.
And then for a few moments he thought of his own home. What had his wife done for him, that he should put himself out of his way to do much for her? She had brought him no money. She had added nothing either by her wit, beauty, or rank to his position in the world. She had given him no heir. What had he received from her that he should endure her commonplace conversation, and washed-out, dowdy47 prettinesses? Perhaps some momentary48 feeling of compassion49, some twang of conscience, came across his heart, as he thought of it all; but if so he checked it instantly, in accordance with the teachings of his whole life. He had made his reflections on all these things, and had tutored his mind to certain resolutions, and would not allow himself to be carried away by any womanly softness. She had her house, her carriage, her bed, her board, and her clothes; and seeing how very little she herself had contributed to the common fund, her husband determined50 that in having those things she had all that she had a right to claim. Then he drank a glass of sherry, and went into the drawing-room with that hard smile upon his face, which he was accustomed to wear when he intended to signify to his wife that she might as well make the best of existing things, and not cause unnecessary trouble, by giving herself airs or assuming that she was unhappy.
He had his cup of coffee, and she had her cup of tea, and she made one or two little attempts at saying something special,—something that might lead to a word or two as to their parting; but he was careful and crafty51, and she was awkward and timid,—and she failed. He had hardly been there an hour, when looking at his watch he declared that it was ten o'clock, and that he would go to bed. Well; perhaps it might be best to bring it to an end, and to go through this embrace, and have done with it! Any tender word that was to be spoken on either side, it was now clear to her, must be spoken in that last farewell. There was a tear in her eye as she rose to kiss him; but the tear was not there of her own good will, and she strove to get rid of it without his seeing it. As he spoke he also rose, and having lit for himself a bed-candle was ready to go. "Good-by, Hermy," he said, submitting himself, with the candle in his hand, to the inevitable52 embrace.
"Good-by, Hugh; and God bless you," she said, putting her arms round his neck. "Pray,—pray take care of yourself."
"All right," he said. His position with the candle was awkward, and he wished that it might be over.
Husband and wife.
Husband and wife.
Click to ENLARGE
But she had a word prepared which she was determined to utter,—poor weak creature that she was. She still had her arm round his shoulders, so that he could not escape without shaking her off, and her forehead was almost resting on his bosom53. "Hugh," she said, "you must not be angry with me for what I said to you."
"Very well," said he;—"I won't."
"And, Hugh," said she; "of course I can't like your going."
"Oh, yes, you will," said he.
"No;—I can't like it; but, Hugh, I will not think ill of it any more. Only be here as much as you can when you come home."
"All right," said he; then he kissed her forehead and escaped from her, and went his way, telling himself, as he went, that she was a fool.
That was the last he saw of her,—before his yachting commenced; but she,—poor fool,—was up by times in the morning, and, peeping out between her curtains as the early summer sun glanced upon her eyelids54, saw him come forth from the porch and descend11 the great steps, and get into his dog-cart and drive himself away. Then, when the sound of the gig could be no longer heard, and when her eyes could no longer catch the last expiring speck55 of his hat, the poor fool took herself to bed again and cried herself to sleep.
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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piscatorial
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| adj.鱼的；渔业的 | |
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7
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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