“When did he die?” asked the father.

“It was past four, I think.”  Then there was again silence, and Lady Clavering went up to her husband and stood close by his shoulder.  At last she ventured to put her hand upon him.  With all her own misery heavy upon her, she was chiefly thinking at this moment how she might soothe him.  She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and by degrees she moved it softly to his breast.  Then he raised his own hand, and with it moved hers from his person.  He did it gently; but what was the use of such nonsense as that?

“The Lord giveth,” said the wife, “and the Lord taketh away.”  Hearing this, Sir Hugh made with his head a gesture of impatience.  “Blessed be the name of the Lord,” continued Lady Clavering.  Her voice was low and almost trembling, and she repeated the words as though they were a task which she had set herself.

“That’s all very well in its way,” said he, “but what’s the special use of it now?  I hate twaddle.  One must bear one’s misfortune as one best can.  I don’t believe that kind of thing ever makes it lighter.”

“They say it does, Hugh.”

“Ah, they say!  Have they ever tried?  If you have been living up to that kind of thing all your life, it may be very well; that is as well at one time as another.  But it won’t give me back my boy.”

“No, Hugh, he will never come back again; but we may think that he’s in heaven.”

“If that is enough for you, let it be so.  But don’t talk to me of it.  I don’t like it.  It doesn’t suit me.  I had only one, and he has gone.  It is always the way.”  He spoke of the child as having been his—­not his and hers.  She felt this, and understood the want of affection which it conveyed; but she said nothing of it.

“Oh, Hugh, what could we do?  It was not our fault.”

“Who is talking of any fault?  I have said nothing as to fault.  He was always poor and sickly.  The Claverings generally have been so strong.  Look at myself and Archie, and my sisters.  Well, it cannot be helped.  Thinking of it will not bring him back again.  You had better tell some one to get me something to eat.  I came away, of course, without any dinner.”

She herself had eaten nothing since the morning, but she neither spoke nor thought of that.  She rang the bell, and going out into the passage, gave the servant the order on the stairs.  “It is no good my staying here,” he said.  “I will go and dress.  It is the best not to think of such things—­much the best.  People call that heartless, of course; but then people are fools.  If I were to sit still, and think of it for a week together, what good could I do?”

“But how not to think of it?  That is the thing.”

“Women are different, I suppose.  I will dress, and then go down to the breakfast-room.  Tell Saunders to get me a bottle of champagne.  You will be better also if you will take a glass of wine.”

It was the first word he had spoken which showed any care for her, and she was grateful for it.  As he arose to go, she came close to him again, and put her hand very gently on his arm.  “Hugh,” she said, “will you not see him?”