The Claverings

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XLI.

  THE SHEEP RETURNS TO THE FOLD.

  Harry Clavering had spoken solemn words to his mother, during hisillness, which both he and she regarded as a promise that Florenceshould not be deserted by him. After that promise nothing more wassaid between them on the subject for a few days. Mrs. Clavering wascontented that the promise had been made, and Harry himself, in theweakness consequent upon his illness, was willing enough to acceptthe excuse which his illness gave him for postponing any action inthe matter. But the fever had left him, and he was sitting up in hismother's room, when Florence's letter reached the parsonage,--and,with the letter, the little parcel which she herself had packed up socarefully. On the day before that a few words had passed between therector and his wife, which will explain the feelings of both of themin the matter.

  "Have you heard," said he,--speaking in a voice hardly above awhisper, although no third person was in the room,--"that Harry isagain thinking of making Julia his wife?"

  "He is not thinking of doing so," said Mrs. Clavering. "They who sayso, do him wrong."

  "It would be a great thing for him as regards money."

  "But he is engaged,--and Florence Burton has been received here ashis future wife. I could not endure to think that it should be so. Atany rate, it is not true."

  "I only tell you what I heard," said the rector, gently sighing,partly in obedience to his wife's implied rebuke, and partly at thethought that so grand a marriage should not be within his son'sreach. The rector was beginning to be aware that Harry would hardlymake a fortune at the profession which he had chosen, and that a richmarriage would be an easy way out of all the difficulties which sucha failure promised. The rector was a man who dearly loved easy waysout of difficulties. But in such matters as these his wife he knewwas imperative and powerful, and he lacked the courage to plead for acause that was prudent, but ungenerous.

  When Mrs. Clavering received the letter and parcel on the nextmorning, Harry Clavering was still in bed. With the delightfulprivilege of a convalescent invalid, he was allowed in these daysto get up just when getting up became more comfortable than lyingin bed, and that time did not usually come till eleven o'clock waspast;--but the postman reached the Clavering parsonage by nine. Theletter, as we know, was addressed to Mrs. Clavering herself, aswas also the outer envelope which contained the packet; but thepacket itself was addressed in Florence's clear handwriting to HarryClavering, Esq. "That is a large parcel to come by post, mamma," saidFanny.

  "Yes, my dear; but it is something particular."

  "It's from some tradesman, I suppose?" said the rector.

  "No; it's not from a tradesman," said Mrs. Clavering. But she saidnothing further, and both husband and daughter perceived that it wasnot intended that they should ask further questions.

  Fanny, as usual, had taken her brother his breakfast, and Mrs.Clavering did not go up to him till that ceremony had been completedand removed. Indeed it was necessary that she should study Florence'sletter in her own room before she could speak to him about it. Whatthe parcel contained she well knew, even before the letter had beenthoroughly read; and I need hardly say that the treasure was sacredin her hands. When she had finished the perusal of the letter therewas a tear,--a gentle tear, in each eye. She understood it all, andcould fathom the strength and weakness of every word which Florencehad written. But she was such a woman,--exactly such a woman,--asCecilia Burton had pictured to herself. Mrs. Clavering was goodenough, great enough, true enough, clever enough to know that Harry'slove for Florence should be sustained, and his fancy for Lady Ongarovercome. At no time would she have been proud to see her sonprosperous only in the prosperity of a wife's fortune; but she wouldhave been thoroughly ashamed of him, had he resolved to pursue suchprosperity under his present circumstances.

  But her tears,--though they were there in the corners of hereyes,--were not painful tears. Dear Florence! She was sufferingbitterly now. This very day would be a day of agony to her. Therehad been for her, doubtless, many days of agony during the pastmonth. That the letter was true in all its words Mrs. Clavering didnot doubt. That Florence believed that all was over between her andHarry, Mrs. Clavering was as sure as Florence had intended that sheshould be. But all should not be over, and the days of agony shouldsoon be at an end. Her boy had promised her, and to her he had alwaysbeen true. And she understood, too, the way in which these dangershad come upon him, and her judgment was not heavy upon her son;--hergracious boy, who had ever been so good to her! It might be that hehad been less diligent at his work than he should have been,--thaton that account further delay would still be necessary; but Florencewould forgive that, and he had promised that Florence should not bedeserted.

  Then she took the parcel in her hands, and considered all itscircumstances,--how precious had once been its contents, and howprecious doubtless they still were, though they had been thusrepudiated! And she thought of the moments,--nay, rather of thehours,--which had been passed in the packing of that little packet.She well understood how a girl would linger over such dear pain,touching the things over and over again, allowing herself to readmorsels of the letters at which she had already forbidden herselfeven to look,--till every word had been again seen and weighed, againcaressed and again abjured. She knew how those little trinkets wouldhave been fondled! How salt had been the tears that had fallen onthem, and how carefully the drops would have been removed. Every foldin the paper of the two envelopes, with the little morsels of waxjust adequate for their purpose, told of the lingering painful carewith which the work had been done. Ah! the parcel should go back atonce with words of love that should put an end to all that pain! She,who had sent these loved things away, should have her letters again,and should touch her little treasures with fingers that should takepleasure in the touching. She should again read her lover's wordswith an enduring delight. Mrs. Clavering understood it all, as thoughshe also were still a girl with a lover of her own.

  Harry was beginning to think that the time had come in which gettingup would be more comfortable than lying in bed, when his motherknocked at his door and entered his room. "I was just going to make amove, mother," he said, having reached that stage of convalescence inwhich some shame comes upon the idler.

  "But I want to speak to you first, my dear," said Mrs. Clavering. "Ihave got a letter for you, or rather a parcel." Harry held out hishand, and taking the packet, at once recognized the writing of theaddress.

  "You know from whom it comes, Harry?"

  "Oh, yes, mother."

  "And do you know what it contains?" Harry, still holding the packet,looked at it, but said nothing. "I know," said his mother; "forshe has written and told me. Will you see her letter to me?" AgainHarry held out his hand, but his mother did not at once give him theletter. "First of all, my dear, let us know that we understand eachother. This dear girl,--to me she is inexpressibly dear,--is to beyour wife?"

  "Yes, mother;--it shall be so."

  The sheep returns to the fold.]

  "That is my own boy! Harry, I have never doubted you;--have neverdoubted that you would be right at last. Now you shall see herletter. But you must remember that she has had cause to make herunhappy."

  "I will remember."

  "Had you not been ill, everything would of course have been all rightbefore now." As to the correctness of this assertion the readerprobably will have doubts of his own. Then she handed him the letter,and sat on his bed-side while he read it. At first he was startled,and made almost indignant at the firmness of the girl's words. Shegave him up as though it were a thing quite decided, and uttered noexpression of her own regret in doing so. There was no soft woman'swail in her words. But there was in them something which made himunconsciously long to get back the thing which he had so nearlythrown away from him. They inspired him with a doubt whether he mightyet succeed, which very doubt greatly increased his desire. As heread the letter for the second time, Julia became less beautifulin his imagination, and the charm of Florence's character became
stronger.

  "Well, dear?" said his mother, when she saw that he had finished thesecond reading of the epistle.

  He hardly knew how to express, even to his mother, all hisfeelings,--the shame that he felt, and with the shame something ofindignation that he should have been so repulsed. And of his love,too, he was afraid to speak. He was willing enough to give therequired assurance, but after that he would have preferred to havebeen left alone. But his mother could not leave him without somefurther word of agreement between them as to the course which theywould pursue.

  "Will you write to her, mother, or shall I?"

  "I shall write, certainly,--by to-day's post. I would not leave heran hour, if I could help it, without an assurance of your unalteredaffection."

  "I could go to town to-morrow, mother;--could I not?"

  "Not to-morrow, Harry. It would be foolish. Say on Monday."

  "And you will write to-day?"

  "Certainly."

  "I will send a line also,--just a line."

  "And the parcel?"

  "I have not opened it yet."

  "You know what it contains. Send it back at once, Harry;--at once.If I understand her feelings, she will not be happy till she gets itinto her hands again. We will send Jem over to the post-office, andhave it registered."

  When so much was settled, Mrs. Clavering went away about the affairsof her house, thinking as she did so of the loving words with whichshe would strive to give back happiness to Florence Burton.

  Harry, when he was alone, slowly opened the parcel. He could notresist the temptation of doing this, and of looking again at thethings which she had sent back to him. And he was not without anidea,--perhaps a hope--that there might be with them some shortnote,--some scrap containing a few words for himself. If he hadany such hope he was disappointed. There were his own letters,all scented with lavender from the casket in which they had beenpreserved; there was the rich bracelet which had been given with somelittle ceremony, and the cheap brooch which he had thrown to her asa joke, and which she had sworn that she would value the most of allbecause she could wear it every day; and there was the pencil-casewhich he had fixed on to her watch-chain, while her fingers weretouching his fingers, caressing him for his love while her words wererebuking him for his awkwardness. He remembered it all as the thingslay strewed upon his bed. And he re-read every word of his own words."What a fool a man makes of himself," he said to himself at last,with something of the cheeriness of laughter about his heart. But ashe said so he was quite ready to make himself a fool after the samefashion again,--if only there were not in his way that difficulty ofrecommencing. Had it been possible for him to write again at once inthe old strain,--without any reference to his own conduct during thelast month, he would have begun his fooling without waiting to finishhis dressing.

  "Did you open the parcel?" his mother asked him, some hour or sobefore it was necessary that Jem should be started on his mission.

  "Yes; I thought it best to open it."

  "And have you made it up again?"

  "Not yet, mother."

  "Put this with it, dear." And his mother gave him a little jewel, acupid in mosaic surrounded by tiny diamonds, which he remembered herto wear ever since he had first noticed the things she had worn. "Notfrom me, mind. I give it to you. Come;--will you trust me to packthem?" Then Mrs. Clavering again made up the parcel, and added thetrinket which she had brought with her.

  Harry at last brought himself to write a few words. "Dearest, dearestFlorence,--They will not let me out, or I would go to you at once.My mother has written, and though I have not seen her letter, I knowwhat it contains. Indeed, indeed you may believe it all. May I notventure to return the parcel? I do send it back and implore you tokeep it. I shall be in town, I think, on Monday, and will go toOnslow Crescent,--instantly. Your own, H. C." Then there was scrawleda postscript which was worth all the rest put together,--was betterthan his own note, better than his mother's letter, better than thereturned packet. "I love no one better than you;--no one half sowell,--neither now, nor ever did." These words, whether wholly trueor only partially so, were at least to the point; and were taken byCecilia Burton, when she heard of them, as a confession of faith thatdemanded instant and plenary absolution.

  The trouble which had called Harry down to Clavering remained, Iregret to say, almost in full force now that his prolonged visithad been brought so near its close. Mr. Saul, indeed, had agreedto resign his curacy, and was already on the look-out for similaremployment in some other parish. And since his interview with Fanny'sfather he had never entered the rectory, or spoken to Fanny. Fannyhad promised that there should be no such speaking, and indeed nodanger of that kind was feared. Whatever Mr. Saul might do he woulddo openly,--nay, audaciously. But though there existed this security,nevertheless things as regarded Fanny were very unpleasant. When Mr.Saul had commenced his courtship, she had agreed with her family inalmost ridiculing the idea of such a lover. There had been a feelingwith her as with the others that poor Mr. Saul was to be pitied. Thenshe had come to regard his overtures as matters of grave import,--notindeed avowing to her mother anything so strong as a return of hisaffection, but speaking of his proposal as one to which there wasno other objection than that of a want of money. Now, however, shewent moping about the house as though she were a victim of true love,condemned to run unsmoothly for ever; as though her passion for Mr.Saul were too much for her, and she were waiting in patience tilldeath should relieve her from the cruelty of her parents. She nevercomplained. Such victims never do complain. But she moped and waswretched, and when her mother questioned her, struggling to find outhow strong this feeling might in truth be, Fanny would simply makeher dutiful promises,--promises which were wickedly dutiful,--thatshe would never mention the name of Mr. Saul any more. Mr. Saul inthe meantime went about his parish duties with grim energy, supplyingthe rector's shortcomings without a word. He would have been gladto preach all the sermons and read all the services during thesesix months, had he been allowed to do so. He was constant inthe schools,--more constant than ever in his visitings. He wasvery courteous to Mr. Clavering when the necessities of theirposition brought them together. For all this Mr. Clavering hatedhim,--unjustly. For a man placed as Mr. Saul was placed a line ofconduct exactly level with that previously followed is impossible,and it was better that he should become more energetic in his dutiesthan less so. It will be easily understood that all these thingsinterfered much with the general happiness of the family at therectory at this time.

  The Monday came, and Harry Clavering, now convalescent and simplyinteresting from the remaining effects of his illness, started on hisjourney for London. There had come no further letters from OnslowTerrace to the parsonage, and, indeed, owing to the intervention ofSunday, none could have come unless Florence had written by returnof post. Harry made his journey, beginning it with some promise ofhappiness to himself,--but becoming somewhat uneasy as his train drewnear to London. He had behaved badly, and he knew that in the firstplace he must own that he had done so. To men such a necessity isalways grievous. Women not unfrequently like the task. To confess,submit, and be accepted as confessing and submitting, comes naturallyto the feminine mind. The cry of peccavi sounds soft and pretty whenmade by sweet lips in a loving voice. But a man who can own that hehas done amiss without a pang,--who can so own it to another man,or even to a woman,--is usually but a poor creature. Harry must nowmake such confession, and therefore he became uneasy. And then, forhim, there was another task behind the one which he would be calledupon to perform this evening,--a task which would have nothing ofpleasantness in it to redeem its pain. He must confess not only toFlorence,--where his confession might probably have its reward,--buthe must confess also to Julia. This second confession would, indeed,be a hard task to him. That, however, was to be postponed till themorrow. On this evening he had pledged himself that he would godirect to Onslow Terrace; and this he did as soon after he hadreached his lodgings as was possible. It was past six when he reached
London, and it was not yet eight when, with palpitating heart, heknocked at Mr. Burton's door.

  I must take the reader back with me for a few minutes, in orderthat we may see after what fashion the letters from Clavering werereceived by the ladies in Onslow Terrace. On that day Mr. Burton hadbeen required to go out of London by one of the early trains, and hadnot been in the house when the postman came. Nothing had been saidbetween Cecilia and Florence as to their hopes or fears in regard toan answer from Clavering;--nothing at least since that conversationin which Florence had agreed to remain in London for yet a few days;but each of them was very nervous on the matter. Any answer, if sentat once from Clavering, would arrive on this morning; and therefore,when the well-known knock was heard, neither of them was able tomaintain her calmness perfectly. But yet nothing was said, nor dideither of them rise from her seat at the breakfast-table. Presentlythe girl came in with apparently a bundle of letters, which she wasstill sorting when she entered the room. There were two or three forMr. Burton, two for Cecilia, and then two besides the registeredpacket for Florence. For that a receipt was needed, and as Florencehad seen the address and recognized the writing, she was hardly ableto give her signature. As soon as the maid was gone, Cecilia couldkeep her seat no longer. "I know those are from Clavering," she said,rising from her chair, and coming round to the side of the table.Florence instinctively swept the packet into her lap, and, leaningforward, covered the letters with her hands. "Oh, Florence, let ussee them; let us see them at once. If we are to be happy let us knowit." But Florence paused, still leaning over her treasures, andhardly daring to show her burning face. Even yet it might be that shewas rejected. Then Cecilia went back to her seat, and simply lookedat her sister with beseeching eyes. "I think I'll go upstairs,"said Florence. "Are you afraid of me, Flo?" Cecilia answeredreproachfully. "Let me see the outside of them." Then Florencebrought them round the table, and put them into her sister's hands."May I open this one from Mrs. Clavering?" Florence nodded her head.Then the seal was broken, and in one minute the two women were cryingin each other's arms. "I was quite sure of it," said Cecilia, throughher tears,--"perfectly sure. I never doubted it for a moment. Howcould you have talked of going to Stratton?" At last Florence gotherself away up to the window, and gradually mustered courage tobreak the envelope of her lover's letter. It was not at once that sheshowed the postscript to Cecilia, nor at once that the packet wasopened. That last ceremony she did perform in the solitude of herown room. But before the day was over the postscript had been shown,and the added trinket had been exhibited. "I remember it well," saidFlorence. "Mrs. Clavering wore it on her forehead when we dined atLady Clavering's." Mrs. Burton in all this saw something of thegentle persuasion which the mother had used, but of that she saidnothing. That he should be back again, and should have repented, wasenough for her.

  Mr. Burton was again absent when Harry Clavering knocked in personat the door; but on this occasion his absence had been speciallyarranged by him with a view to Harry's comfort. "He won't want tosee me this evening," he had said. "Indeed you'll all get on agreat deal better without me." He therefore had remained away fromhome, and, not being a club man, had dined most uncomfortably at aneating-house. "Are the ladies at home?" Harry asked, when the doorwas opened. Oh, yes; they were at home. There was no danger that theyshould be found out on such an occasion as this. The girl lookedat him pleasantly, calling him by his name as she answered him, asthough she too desired to show him that he had again been taken intofavour,--into her favour as well as that of her mistress.

  He hardly knew what he was doing as he ran up the steps to thedrawing-room. He was afraid of what was to come; but neverthelesshe rushed at his fate as some young soldier rushes at the trenchin which he feels that he may probably fall. So Harry Claveringhurried on, and before he had looked round upon the room which he hadentered, found his fate with Florence on his bosom.

  Alas, alas! I fear that justice was outraged in the welcome thatHarry received on that evening. I have said that he would be calledupon to own his sins, and so much, at least, should have beenrequired of him. But he owned no sin! I have said that a certaindegradation must attend him in that first interview after hisreconciliation. Instead of this the hours that he spent that eveningin Onslow Terrace were hours of one long ovation. He was, as it were,put upon a throne as a king who had returned from his conquest, andthose two women did him honour, almost kneeling at his feet. Ceciliawas almost as tender with him as Florence, pleading to her own falseheart the fact of his illness as his excuse. There was something ofthe pallor of the sick-room left with him,--a slight tenuity in hishands and brightness in his eye which did him yeoman's service. Hadhe been quite robust, Cecilia might have felt that she could notjustify to herself the peculiar softness of her words. After thefirst quarter of an hour he was supremely happy. His awkwardness hadgone, and as he sat with his arm round Florence's waist, he foundthat the little pencil-case had again been attached to her chain, andas he looked down upon her he saw that the cheap brooch was again onher breast. It would have been pretty, could an observer have beenthere, to see the skill with which they both steered clear of anyword or phrase which could be disagreeable to him. One might havethought that it would have been impossible to avoid all touch of arebuke. The very fact that he was forgiven would seem to imply somefault that required pardon. But there was no hint at any fault.The tact of women excels the skill of men; and so perfect was thetact of these women that not a word was said which wounded Harry'sear. He had come again into their fold, and they were rejoiced andshowed their joy. He who had gone astray had repented, and they werebeautifully tender to the repentant sheep.