ibe Mrs. Clavering in language too highly eulogistic were
I to lead the reader to believe that she was altogether averse to such
advantages as would accrue to her son from a marriage so brilliant as
that which he might now make with the grandly dowered widow of the late
earl. Mrs. Clavering by no means despised worldly goods; and she had,
moreover, an idea that her highly gifted son was better adapted to the
spending than to the making of money. It had come to be believed at the
rectory that though Harry had worked very hard at college--as is the
case with many highly born young gentlemen--and though he would,
undoubtedly, continue to work hard if he were thrown among congenial
occupations--such as politics and the like--nevertheless, he would never
excel greatly in any drudgery that would be necessary for the making of
money. There had been something to be proud of in this, but there had,
of course, been more to regret. But now if Harry were to marry Lady
Ongar, all trouble on that score would be over. But poor Florence! When
Mrs. Clavering allowed herself to think of the matter, she knew that
Florence's claims should be held as paramount. And when she thought
further and thought seriously, she knew also that Harry's honor and
Harry's happiness demanded that he should be true to the girl to whom
his hand had been promised. And, then, was not Lady Ongar's name
tainted? It might be that she had suffered cruel ill-usage in this. It
might be that no such taint had been deserved. Mrs. Clavering could
plead the injured woman's cause when speaking of it without any close
reference to her own belongings; but it would have been very grievous to
her, even had there been no Florence Burton in the case, that her son
should make his fortune by marrying a woman as to whose character the
world was in doubt.

She came to him late in the evening when his sister and father had just
left him, and sitting with her hand upon his, spoke one word, which
perhaps had more weight with Harry than any word that had yet been
spoken. "Have you slept, dear?" she said.

"A little before my father came in."

"My darling," she said, "you will be true to Florence; will you not?"
Then there was a pause. "My own Harry, tell me that you will be true
when your truth is due."

"I will, mother," he said.

"My own boy; my darling boy; my own true gentleman!" Harry felt that he
did not deserve the praise; but praise undeserved, though it may be
satire in