“He will feel this,” said the rector.

“Feel it papa!  Of course he will feel it.”

“I do not think he would—­not deeply, that is—­if there were four or five of them.  He is a hard man; the hardest man I ever knew.  Who ever saw him playing with his own child, or with any other?  Who ever heard him say a soft word to his wife?  But he will feel it now, for this child was his heir.  He will be hit hard now, and I pity him.”

Mrs. Clavering went across the park alone, and soon found herself in the poor bereaved mother’s room.  She was sitting by herself; having driven the old house keeper away from her; and there were no traces of tears then on her face, though she had wept plentifully when Mrs. Clavering had been with her in the morning.  But there had come upon her suddenly a look of age, which nothing but such sorrow as this can produce.  Mrs. Clavering was surprised to see that she had dressed herself carefully since the morning, as was her custom to do daily, even when alone; and that she was not in her bedroom, but in a small sitting room which she generally used when Sir Hugh was not at the Park.

“My poor Hermione,” said Mrs. Clavering, coming up to her, and taking her by the hand.

“Yes, I am poor; poor enough.  Why have they troubled you to come across again?”

“Did you not send for me?  But it was quite right, whether you sent or no.  Of course I should come when I heard it.  It cannot be good for you to be all alone.”

“I suppose he will be here to-night?”

“Yes, if he got your message before three o’clock.”

“Oh, he will have received it, and I suppose he will come.  You think he will come, eh?”

“Of course he will come.”

“I do not know.  He does not like coming to the country.”

“He will be sure to come now, Hermione.”

“And who will tell him?  Some one must tell him before he comes to me.  Should there not be some one to tell him?  They have sent another message.”

“Hannah shall be at hand to tell him.”  Hannah was the old housekeeper, who had been in the family when Sir Hugh was born.  “Or, if you wish it, Henry shall come down and remain here.  I am sure he will do so, if it will be a comfort.”

“No; he would, perhaps, be rough to Mr. Clavering.  He is so very hard.  Hannah shall do it.  Will you make her understand?” Mrs. Clavering promised that she would do this, wondering, as she did so, at the wretched, frigid immobility of the unfortunate woman before her.  She knew Lady Clavering well; knew her to be in many things weak, to be worldly, listless, and perhaps somewhat selfish; but she knew also that she had loved her child as mothers always love.  Yet, at this moment, it seemed that she was thinking more of her husband than of the bairn she had lost.  Mrs. Clavering had sat down by her and taken her hand, and was still so sitting in silence when Lady Clavering spoke again.  “I suppose he will turn me out of his house now,” she said.