The Claverings

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  WHAT CECILIA BURTON DID FOR HER SISTER-IN-LAW.

  [Illustration.]

  As soon as Harry Clavering had made his promise to Mr. Burton, andhad declared that he would be in Onslow Crescent that same evening,he went away from the offices at the Adelphi, feeling it to be quiteimpossible that he should recommence his work there at that moment,even should it ever be within his power to do so. Nor did Burtonexpect that he should stay. He understood, from what had passed, muchof Harry's trouble, if not the whole of it; and though he did notdespair on behalf of his sister, he was aware that her lover hadfallen into a difficulty, from which he could not extricate himselfwithout great suffering and much struggling. But Burton was a manwho, in spite of something cynical on the surface of his character,believed well of mankind generally, and well also of men asindividuals. Even though Harry had done amiss, he might be saved. Andthough Harry's conduct to Florence might have been bad, nay, mighthave been false, still, as Burton believed, he was too good to becast aside, or spurned out of the way, without some further attemptto save him.

  When Clavering had left him Burton went back to his work, and aftera while succeeded in riveting his mind on the papers before him. Itwas a hard struggle with him, but he did it, and did not leave hisbusiness till his usual hour. It was past five when he took down hishat and his umbrella, and, as I fear, dusted his boots before hepassed out of the office on to the passage. As he went he gave sundrydirections to porters and clerks, as was his wont, and then walkedoff intent upon his usual exercise before he should reach his home.

  But he had to determine on much with reference to Florence andHarry before he saw his wife. How was the meeting of the evening totake place, and in what way should it be commenced? If there wereindispensable cause for his anger, in what way should he show it, andif necessity for vengeance, how should his sister be avenged? Thereis nothing more difficult for a man than the redressing of injuriesdone to a woman who is very near to him and very dear to him. Thewhole theory of Christian meekness and forgiveness becomes broken topieces and falls to the ground, almost as an absurd theory, even atthe idea of such wrong. What man ever forgave an insult to his wifeor an injury to his sister, because he had taught himself that toforgive trespasses is a religious duty? Without an argument, withouta moment's thought, the man declares to himself that such trespassesas those are not included in the general order. But what is he to do?Thirty years since his course was easy, and unless the sinner werea clergyman, he could in some sort satisfy his craving for revengeby taking a pistol in his hand, and having a shot at the offender.That method was doubtless barbarous and unreasonable, but it wassatisfactory and sufficed. But what can he do now? A thoughtful,prudent, painstaking man, such as was Theodore Burton, feels that itis not given to him to attack another with his fists, to fly at hisenemy's throat, and carry out his purpose after the manner of dogs.Such a one has probably something round his heart which tells himthat if so attacked he could defend himself; but he knows that he hasno aptitude for making such onslaught, and is conscious that suchdeeds of arms would be unbecoming to him. In many, perhaps in most ofsuch cases, he may, if he please, have recourse to the laws. But anyaid that the law can give him is altogether distasteful to him. Thename of her that is so dear to him should be kept quiet as the graveunder such misfortune, not blazoned through ten thousand columnsfor the amusement of all the crowd. There is nothing left for himbut to spurn the man,--not with his foot but with his thoughts;and the bitter consciousness that to such spurning the sinnerwill be indifferent. The old way was barbarous certainly, andunreasonable,--but there was a satisfaction in it that has been oftenwanting since the use of pistols went out of fashion among us.

  All this passed through Burton's mind as he walked home. One wouldnot have supposed him to be a man eager for bloodshed,--he with awife whom he deemed to be perfect, with children who in his eyeswere gracious as young gods, with all his daily work which he lovedas good workers always do; but yet, as he thought of Florence, ashe thought of the possibility of treachery on Harry's part, heregarded almost with dismay the conclusion to which he was forcedto come,--that there could be no punishment. He might proclaim theoffender to the world as false, and the world would laugh at theproclaimer, and shake hands with the offender. To sit together withsuch a man on a barrel of powder, or fight him over a handkerchief,seemed to him to be reasonable, nay salutary, under such a grievance.There are sins, he felt, which the gods should punish with instantthunderbolts, and such sins as this were of such a nature. HisFlorence,--pure, good, loving, true, herself totally void of allsuspicion, faultless in heart as well as mind, the flower of thatBurton flock which had prospered so well,--that she should besacrificed through the treachery of a man who, at his best, hadscarcely been worthy of her! The thought of this was almost too muchfor him, and he gnashed his teeth as he went on his way.

  But yet he had not given up the man. Though he could not restrainhimself from foreshadowing the misery that would result from suchbaseness, yet he told himself that he would not condemn beforecondemnation was necessary. Harry Clavering might not be good enoughfor Florence. What man was good enough for Florence? But still, ifmarried, Harry, he thought, would not make a bad husband. Many a manwho is prone enough to escape from the bonds which he has undertakento endure,--to escape from them before they are riveted,--is mildenough under their endurance, when they are once fastened upon him.Harry Clavering was not of such a nature that Burton could tellhimself that it would be well that his sister should escape eventhough her way of escape must lie through the fire and water ofoutraged love. That Harry Clavering was a gentleman, that he wasclever, that he was by nature affectionate, soft in manner, tender ofheart, anxious to please, good-tempered, and of high ambition, Burtonknew well; and he partly recognized the fact that Harry had probablyfallen into his present fault more by accident than by design.Clavering was not a skilled and practiced deceiver. At last, as hedrew near to his own door, he resolved on the line of conduct hewould pursue. He would tell his wife everything, and she shouldreceive Harry alone.

  He was weary when he reached home, and was a little cross with hisfatigue. Good man as he was, he was apt to be fretful on the firstmoment of his return to his own house, hot with walking, tired withhis day's labour, and in want of his dinner. His wife understood thiswell, and always bore with him at such moments, coming down to himin the dressing-room behind the back parlour, and ministering tohis wants. I fear he took some advantage of her goodness, knowingthat at such moments he could grumble and scold without danger ofcontradiction. But the institution was established, and Cecilia neverrebelled against its traditional laws. On the present day he hadmuch to say to her, but even that he could not say without some fewsymptoms of petulant weariness.

  "I'm afraid you've had a terrible long day," she said.

  "I don't know what you call terribly long. I find the days terriblyshort. I have had Harry with me, as I told you I should."

  "Well, well. Say in one word, dear, that it is all right,--if it isso."

  "But it is not all right. I wonder what on earth the men do to theboots, that I can never get a pair that do not hurt me in walking."At this moment she was standing over him with his slippers.

  "Will you have a glass of sherry before dinner, dear; you are sotired?"

  "Sherry--no!"

  "And what about Harry? You don't mean to say--"

  "If you'll listen, I'll tell you what I do mean to say." Then hedescribed to her as well as he could, what had really taken placebetween him and Harry Clavering at the office.

  "He cannot mean to be false, if he is coming here," said the wife.

  "He does not mean to be false; but he is one of those men who can befalse without meaning it,--who allow themselves to drift away fromtheir anchors, and to be carried out into seas of misery and trouble,because they are not careful in looking to their tackle. I think thathe may still be held to a right course, and therefore I have beggedhim to come here."

&n
bsp; "I am sure that you are right, Theodore. He is so good and soaffectionate, and he made himself so much one of us!"

  "Yes; too easily by half. That is just the danger. But lookhere, Cissy. I'll tell you what I mean to do. I will not see himmyself;--at any rate, not at first. Probably I had better not see himat all. You shall talk to him."

  "By myself!"

  "Why not? You and he have always been great friends, and he is a manwho can speak more openly to a woman than to another man."

  "And what shall I say as to your absence?"

  "Just the truth. Tell him that I am remaining in the dining-roombecause I think his task will be easier with you in my absence. Hehas got himself into some mess with that woman."

  "With Lady Ongar?"

  "Yes; not that her name was mentioned between us, but I suppose it isso."

  "Horrible woman;--wicked, wretched creature!"

  "I know nothing about that, nor, as I suppose, do you."

  "My dear, you must have heard."

  "But if I had,--and I don't know that I have,--I need not havebelieved. I am told that she married an old man who is now dead, andI suppose she wants a young husband."

  "My dear!"

  "If I were you, Cissy, I would say as little as might be about her.She was an old friend of Harry's--"

  "She jilted him when he was quite a boy; I know that;--long before hehad seen our Florence."

  "And she is connected with him through his cousin. Let her be ever sobad, I should drop that."

  "You can't suppose, Theodore, that I want even to mention her name.I'm told that nobody ever visits her."

  "She needn't be a bit the worse on that account. Whenever I hear thatthere is a woman whom nobody visits, I always feel inclined to go andpay my respects to her."

  "Theodore, how can you say so?"

  "And that, I suppose, is just what Harry has done. If the world andhis wife had visited Lady Ongar, there would not have been all thistrouble now."

  Mrs. Burton of course undertook the task which her husband assignedto her, though she did so with much nervous trepidation, and manyfears lest the desired object should be lost through her ownmaladroit management. With her, there was at least no doubt as to thething to be done,--no hesitation as to the desirability of securingHarry Clavering for the Burton faction. Everything in her mind wasto be forgiven to Harry, and he was to be received by them all withopen arms and loving caresses, if he would only abandon Lady Ongaraltogether. To secure her lover for Florence, was Mrs. Burton'ssingle and simple object. She raised no questions now within herown breast as to whether Harry would make a good husband. Any suchquestion as that should have been asked and answered before he hadbeen accepted at Stratton. The thing to be done now was to bringHarry and Florence together, and,--since such terrible dangers wereintervening,--to make them man and wife with as little further delayas might be possible. The name of Lady Ongar was odious to her. Whenmen went astray in matters of love it was within the power of CeciliaBurton's heart to forgive them; but she could not pardon women thatso sinned. This countess had once jilted Harry, and that was enoughto secure her condemnation. And since that what terrible things hadbeen said of her! And dear, uncharitable Cecilia Burton was apt tothink, when evil was spoken of women,--of women whom she did notknow,--that there could not be smoke without fire. And now this womanwas a widow with a large fortune, and wanted a husband! What businesshad any widow to want a husband? It is so easy for wives to speakand think after that fashion when they are satisfied with their ownventures.

  It was arranged that when Harry came to the door, Mrs. Burton shouldgo up alone to the drawing-room and receive him there, remainingwith her husband in the dining-room till he should come. Twice whilesitting downstairs after the cloth was gone she ran upstairs with theavowed purpose of going into the nursery, but in truth that she mightsee that the room was comfortable, that it looked pretty, and thatthe chairs were so arranged as to be convenient. The two eldestchildren were with them in the parlour, and when she started onher second errand, Cissy reminded her that baby would be asleep.Theodore, who understood the little manoeuvre, smiled but saidnothing, and his wife, who in such matters was resolute, went andmade her further little changes in the furniture. At last therecame the knock at the door,--the expected knock, a knock which toldsomething of the hesitating unhappy mind of him who had rapped, andMrs. Burton started on her business. "Tell him just simply why youare there alone," said her husband.

  "Is it Harry Clavering?" Cissy asked, "and mayn't I go?"

  "It is Harry Clavering," her father said, "and you may not go.Indeed, it is time you went somewhere else."

  It was Harry Clavering. He had not spent a pleasant day since he hadleft Mr. Beilby's offices in the morning, and, now that he had cometo Onslow Crescent, he did not expect to spend a pleasant evening.When I declare that as yet he had not come to any firm resolution, Ifear that he will be held as being too weak for the role of hero evenin such pages as these. Perhaps no terms have been so injurious tothe profession of the novelist as those two words, hero and heroine.In spite of the latitude which is allowed to the writer in puttinghis own interpretation upon these words, something heroic is stillexpected; whereas, if he attempt to paint from Nature, how littlethat is heroic should he describe! How many young men, subjected tothe temptations which had befallen Harry Clavering,--how many youngmen whom you, delicate reader, number among your friends,--would havecome out from them unscathed? A man, you say, delicate reader, a trueman can love but one woman,--but one at a time. So you say, and areso convinced; but no conviction was ever more false. When a true manhas loved with all his heart and all his soul,--does he cease tolove,--does he cleanse his heart of that passion when circumstancesrun against him, and he is forced to turn elsewhere for his life'scompanion? Or is he untrue as a lover in that he does not waste hislife in desolation, because he has been disappointed? Or does his oldlove perish and die away, because another has crept into his heart?No; the first love, if that was true, is ever there; and should sheand he meet after many years, though their heads be gray and theircheeks wrinkled, there will still be a touch of the old passion astheir hands meet for a moment. Methinks that love never dies, unlessit be murdered by downright ill-usage. It may be so murdered, buteven ill-usage will more often fail than succeed in that enterprise.How, then, could Harry fail to love the woman whom he had lovedfirst, when she returned to him still young, still beautiful, andtold him, with all her charms and all her flattery, how her heartstood towards him?

  But it is not to be thought that I excuse him altogether. A man,though he may love many, should be devoted only to one. The man'sfeeling to the woman whom he is to marry should be this:--that notfrom love only, but from chivalry, from manhood, and from duty, hewill be prepared always, and at all hazards, to defend her from everymisadventure, to struggle ever that she may be happy, to see that nowind blows upon her with needless severity, that no ravening wolfof a misery shall come near her, that her path be swept clean forher,--as clean as may be, and that her roof-tree be made firm upon arock. There is much of this which is quite independent of love,--muchof it that may be done without love. This is devotion, and it is thiswhich a man owes to the woman who has once promised to be his wife,and has not forfeited her right. Doubtless Harry Clavering shouldhave remembered this at the first moment of his weakness in LadyOngar's drawing-room. Doubtless he should have known at once thathis duty to Florence made it necessary that he should declare hisengagement,--even though, in doing so, he might have seemed tocaution Lady Ongar on that point on which no woman can endure acaution. But the fault was hers, and the caution was needed. No doubthe should not have returned to Bolton Street. He should not havecozened himself by trusting himself to her assurances of friendship;he should have kept warm his love for the woman to whom his hand wasowed, not suffering himself to make comparisons to her injury. Heshould have been chivalric, manly, full of high duty. He should havebeen all this, and full also of love, and then he would have been ahero. But men
as I see them are not often heroic.

  As he entered the room he saw Mrs. Burton at once, and then lookedround quickly for her husband. "Harry," said she, "I am so glad tosee you once again," and she gave him her hand, and smiled on himwith that sweet look which used to make him feel that it was pleasantto be near her. He took her hand and muttered some word of greeting,and then looked round again for Mr. Burton. "Theodore is not here,"she said; "he thought it better that you and I should have a littletalk together. He said you would like it best so; but perhaps I oughtnot to tell you that."

  "I do like it best so,--much best. I can speak to you as I couldhardly speak to him."

  "What is it, Harry, that ails you? What has kept you away from us?Why do you leave poor Flo so long without writing to her? She will behere on Monday. You will come and see her then; or perhaps you willgo with me and meet her at the station?"

  "Burton said that she was coming, but I did not understand that itwas so soon."

  "You do not think it too soon, Harry; do you?"

  "No," said Harry, but his tone belied his assertion. At any ratehe had not pretended to display any of a lover's rapture at thisprospect of seeing the lady whom he loved.

  "Sit down, Harry. Why do you stand like that and look so comfortless?Theodore says that you have some trouble at heart. Is it a troublethat you can tell to a friend such as I am?"

  "It is very hard to tell. Oh, Mrs. Burton, I am broken-hearted. Forthe last two weeks I have wished that I might die."

  "Do not say that, Harry; that would be wicked."

  "Wicked or not, it is true. I have been so wretched that I havenot known how to hold myself. I could not bring myself to write toFlorence."

  "But why not? You do not mean that you are false to Florence. Youcannot mean that. Harry, say at once that it is not so, and Iwill promise you her forgiveness, Theodore's forgiveness, all ourforgiveness for anything else. Oh, Harry, say anything but that." Inanswer to this Harry Clavering had nothing to say, but sat with hishead resting on his arm and his face turned away from her. "Speak,Harry; if you are a man, say something. Is it so? If it be so, Ibelieve that you will have killed her. Why do you not speak to me?Harry Clavering, tell me what is the truth."

  Then he told her all his story, not looking her once in the face,not changing his voice, suppressing his emotion till he came to thehistory of the present days. He described to her how he had lovedJulia Brabazon, and how his love had been treated by her; how he hadsworn to himself, when he knew that she had in truth become thatlord's wife, that for her sake he would keep himself from loving anyother woman. Then he spoke of his first days at Stratton and of hisearly acquaintance with Florence, and told her how different had beenhis second love,--how it had grown gradually and with no check to hisconfidence, till he felt sure that the sweet girl who was so oftennear him would, if he could win her, be to him a source of joy forall his life. "And so she shall," said Cecilia, with tears runningdown her cheeks; "she shall do so yet." And he went on with his tale,saying how pleasant it had been for him to find himself at home inOnslow Crescent, how he had joyed in calling her Cecilia, and havingher infants in his arms, as though they were already partly belongingto him. And he told her how he had met the young widow at thestation, having employed himself on her behalf at her sister'sinstance; and how cold she had been to him, offending him by hersilence and sombre pride. "False woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton. "Oh,Cecilia, do not abuse her,--do not say a word till you know all." "Iknow that she is false," said Mrs. Burton, with vehement indignation."She is not false," said Harry; "if there be falsehood, it is mine."Then he went on, and said how different she was when next he saw her.How then he understood that her solemn and haughty manner had beenalmost forced on her by the mode of her return, with no other friendto meet her. "She has deserved no friend," said Mrs. Burton. "Youwrong her," said Harry; "you do not know her. If any woman has beenever sinned against, it is she." "But was she not false from the veryfirst,--false, that she might become rich by marrying a man that shedid not love? Will you speak up for her after that? Oh, Harry, thinkof it."

  "I will speak up for her," said Harry; and now it seemed for thefirst time that something of his old boldness had returned to him. "Iwill speak up for her, although she did as you say, because she hassuffered as few women have been made to suffer, and because she hasrepented in ashes as few women are called on to repent." And now ashe warmed with his feeling for her, he uttered his words faster andwith less of shame in his voice. He described how he had gone againand again to Bolton Street, thinking no evil, till--till--tillsomething of the old feeling had come back upon him. He meant to betrue in his story, but I doubt whether he told all the truth. Howcould he tell it all? How could he confess that the blaze of thewoman's womanhood, the flame of her beauty, and the fire engenderedby her mingled rank and suffering, had singed him and burned himup, poor moth that he was? "And then at last I learned," said he,"that--that she had loved me more than I had believed."

  "And is Florence to suffer because she has postponed her love of youto her love of money?"

  "Mrs. Burton, if you do not understand it now, I do not know that Ican tell you more. Florence alone in this matter is altogether good.Lady Ongar has been wrong, and I have been wrong. I sometimes thinkthat Florence is too good for me."

  "It is for her to say that, if it be necessary."

  "I have told you all now, and you will know why I have not come toyou."

  "No, Harry; you have not told me all. Have you told that--woman thatshe should be your wife?" To this question he made no immediateanswer, and she repeated it. "Tell me; have you told her you wouldmarry her?"

  "I did tell her so."

  "And you will keep your word to her?" Harry, as he heard the words,was struck with awe that there should be such vehemence, such anger,in the voice of so gentle a woman as Cecilia Burton. "Answer me, sir,do you mean to marry this--countess?" But still he made no answer. "Ido not wonder that you cannot speak," she said. "Oh, Florence,--oh,my darling; my lost, broken-hearted angel!" Then she turned away herface and wept.

  "Cecilia," he said, attempting to approach her with his hand, withoutrising from his chair.

  "No, sir; when I desired you to call me so, it was because I thoughtyou were to be a brother. I did not think that there could be a thingso weak as you. Perhaps you had better go now, lest you should meetmy husband in his wrath, and he should spurn you."

  But Harry Clavering still sat in his chair, motionless,--motionless,and without a word. After a while he turned his face towards her, andeven in her own misery she was stricken by the wretchedness of hiscountenance. Suddenly she rose quickly from her chair, and comingclose to him, threw herself on her knees before him. "Harry," shesaid, "Harry; it is not yet too late. Be our own Harry again; ourdearest Harry. Say that it shall be so. What is this woman to you?What has she done for you, that for her you should throw aside such aone as our Florence? Is she noble, and good, and pure and spotless asFlorence is? Will she love you with such love as Florence's? Will shebelieve in you as Florence believes? Yes, Harry, she believes yet.She knows nothing of this, and shall know nothing, if you will onlysay that you will be true. No one shall know, and I will remember itonly to remember your goodness afterwards. Think of it, Harry; therecan be no falseness to one who has been so false to you. Harry, youwill not destroy us all at one blow?"

  Never before was man so supplicated to take into his arms youth andbeauty and feminine purity! And in truth he would have yielded, asindeed, what man would not have yielded,--had not Mrs. Burton beeninterrupted in her prayers. The step of her husband was heard uponthe stairs, and she, rising from her knees, whispered quickly, "Donot tell him that it is settled. Let me tell him when you are gone."

  "You two have been a long time together," said Theodore, as he camein.

  "Why did you leave us, then, so long?" said Mrs. Burton, tryingto smile, though the signs of tears were, as she well knew, plainenough.

  "I thought you would have sent for me."


  "Burton," said Harry, "I take it kindly of you that you allowed me tosee your wife alone."

  "Women always understand these things best," said he.

  "And you will come again to-morrow, Harry, and answer me myquestion?"

  "Not to-morrow."

  "Florence will be here on Monday."

  "And why should he not come when Florence is here?" asked Theodore,in an angry tone.

  "Of course he will come, but I want to see him again first. Do I not,Harry?"

  "I hate mysteries," said Burton.

  "There shall be no mystery," said his wife. "Why did you send him tome, but that there are some things difficult to discuss among three?Will you come to-morrow, Harry?"

  "Not to-morrow; but I will write to-morrow,--early to-morrow. I willgo now, and of course you will tell Burton everything that I havesaid. Good night." They both took his hand, and Cecilia pressed itas she looked with beseeching eyes into his face. What would she nothave done to secure the happiness of the sister whom she loved? Onthis occasion she had descended low that she might do much.