Julia Brabazon
The gardens of Clavering Park were removed some three
hundred yards from the large, square, sombre-looking
stone mansion which was the country-house of Sir Hugh
Clavering, the eleventh baronet of that name; and
in these gardens, which had but little of beauty to
recommend them, I will introduce my readers to two
of the personages with whom I wish to make them acquainted
in the following story. It was now the end of
August, and the parterres, beds, and bits of lawn were
dry, disfigured, and almost ugly, from the effects
of a long drought. In gardens to which care and
labor are given abundantly, flower-beds will be pretty,
and grass will be green, let the weather be what it
may; but care and labor were but scantily bestowed
on the Clavering Gardens, and everything was yellow,
adust, harsh, and dry. Over the burnt turf toward
a gate that led to the house, a lady was walking,
and by her side there walked a gentleman.
“You are going in, then, Miss Brabazon,”
said the gentleman, and it was very manifest from
his tone that he intended to convey some deep reproach
in his words.
“Of course I am going in,” said the lady.
“You asked me to walk with you, and I refused.
You have now waylaid me, and therefore I shall escape—unless
I am prevented by violence.” As she spoke
she stood still for a moment, and looked into his
face with a smile which seemed to indicate that if
such violence were used, within rational bounds, she
would not feel herself driven to great danger.
But though she might be inclined to be playful, he
was by no means in that mood. “And why
did you refuse me when I asked you?” said he.
“For two reasons, partly because I thought it
better to avoid any conversation with you.”
“That is civil to an old friend.”
“But chiefly”—and now as she
spoke she drew herself up, and dismissed the smile
from her face, and allowed her eyes to fall upon the
ground—“but chiefly because I thought
that Lord Ongar would prefer that I should not roam
alone about Clavering Park with any young gentleman
while I am down here; and that he might specially object
to my roaming with you, were he to know that you and
I were—old acquaintances. Now I have
been very frank, Mr. Clavering, and I think that that
ought to be enough.”
“You are afraid of him already, then?”
“I am afraid of offending any one whom I love,
and especially any one to whom I owe any duty.”
“Enough! Indeed it is not. From what
you know of me, do you think it likely that that will
be enough?” He was now standing in front of her,
between her and the gate, and she made no effort to
leave him.
“And what is it you want? I suppose you
do not mean to fight Lord Ongar, and that if you did
you would not come to me.”
“Fight him! No; I have no quarrel with
him. Fighting him would do no good.”
