CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD.
Fanny Clavering, while she was inquiring of her brother about his
troubles, had not been without troubles of her own. For some days
past she had been aware,--almost aware,--that Mr. Saul's love was not
among the things that were past. I am not prepared to say that this
conviction on her part was altogether an unalloyed trouble, or that
there might have been no faint touch of sadness, of silent melancholy
about her, had it been otherwise. But Mr. Saul was undoubtedly a
trouble to her; and Mr. Saul with his love in activity would be more
troublesome than Mr. Saul with his love in abeyance. "It would be
madness either in him or in me," Fanny had said to herself very
often; "he has not a shilling in the world." But she thought no
more in these days of the awkwardness of his gait, or of his rusty
clothes, or his abstracted manner; and for his doings as a clergyman
her admiration had become very great. Her mother saw something of
all this, and cautioned her; but Fanny's demure manner deceived Mrs.
Clavering. "Oh, mamma, of course I know that anything of the kind
must be impossible; and I am sure he does not think of it himself any
longer." When she had said this, Mrs. Clavering had believed that
it was all right. The reader must not suppose that Fanny had been a
hypocrite. There had been no hypocrisy in her words to her mother. At
that moment the conviction that Mr. Saul's love was not among past
events had not reached her; and as regarded herself, she was quite
sincere when she said that anything of the kind must be impossible.
It will be remembered that Florence Burton had advised Mr. Saul
to try again, and that Mr. Saul had resolved that he would do
so,--resolving, also, that should he try in vain he must leave
Clavering, and seek another home. He was a solemn, earnest,
thoughtful man; to whom such a matter as this was a phase of life
very serious, causing infinite present trouble, nay, causing
tribulation, and, to the same extent, capable of causing infinite
joy. From day to day he went about his work, seeing her amidst his
ministrations almost daily. And never during these days did he say
a word to her of his love,--never since that day in which he had
plainly pleaded his cause in the muddy lane. To no one but Florence
Burton had he since spoken of it, and Florence had certainly been
true to her trust; but, notwithstanding all that, Fanny's conviction
was very strong.
Florence had counselled Mr. Saul to try again, and Mr. Saul was
prepared to make the attempt; but he was a man who allowed himself to
do nothing in a hurry. He thought much of the matter before he could
prepare himself to recur to the subject; doubting, sometimes, whether
he would be right to do so without first speaking to Fanny's father;
doubting, afterwards, whether he might not best serve his cause by
asking the assistance of Fanny's mother. But he resolved at last that
he would depend on himself alone. As to the rector, if his suit to
Fanny were a fault against Mr. Clavering as Fanny's father, that
fault had been already committed. But Mr. Saul would not admit to
himself that it was a fault. I fancy that he considered himself to
have, as a gentleman, a right to address himself to any lady with
whom he was thrown into close contact. I fancy that he ignored all
want of worldly preparation,--never for a moment attempting to place
himself on a footing with men who were richer than himself, and, as
the world goes, brighter, but still feeling himself to be in no way
lower than they. If any woman so lived as to show that she thought
his line better than their line, it was open to him to ask such woman
to join her lot to his. If he failed, the misfortune was his; and
the misfortune, as he well knew, was one which it was hard to bear.
And as to the mother, though he had learned to love Mrs. Clavering
dearly,--appreciating her kindness to all those around her, her
conduct to her husband, her solicitude in the parish, all her genuine
goodness, still he was averse to trust to her for any part of his
success. Though Mr. Saul was no knight, though he had nothing
knightly about him, though he was a poor curate in very rusty clothes
and with manner strangely unfitted for much communion with the outer
world, still he had a feeling that the spoil which he desired to
win should be won by his own spear, and that his triumph would lose
half its glory if it were not achieved by his own prowess. He was
no coward, either in such matter as this or in any other. When
circumstances demanded that he should speak he could speak his mind
freely, with manly vigour, and sometimes not without a certain manly
grace.
How did Fanny know that it was coming? She did know it, though he had
said nothing to her beyond his usual parish communications. He was
often with her in the two schools; often returned with her in the
sweet spring evenings along the lane that led back to the rectory
from Cumberly Green; often inspected with her the little amounts of
parish charities and entries of pence collected from such parents as
could pay. He had never reverted to that other subject. But yet Fanny
knew that it was coming, and when she had questioned Harry about his
troubles she had been thinking also of her own.
It was now the middle of May, and the spring was giving way to the
early summer almost before the spring had itself arrived. It is so, I
think, in these latter years. The sharpness of March prolongs itself
almost through April; and then, while we are still hoping for the
spring, there falls upon us suddenly a bright, dangerous, delicious
gleam of summer. The lane from Cumberly Green was no longer muddy,
and Fanny could go backwards and forwards between the parsonage and
her distant school without that wading for which feminine apparel
is so unsuited. One evening, just as she had finished her work, Mr.
Saul's head appeared at the school-door, and he asked her whether she
were about to return home. As soon as she saw his eye and heard his
voice, she feared that the day was come. She was prepared with no
new answer, and could only give the answer that she had given before.
She had always told herself that it was impossible; and as to all
other questions, about her own heart or such like, she had put such
questions away from her as being unnecessary, and, perhaps, unseemly.
The thing was impossible, and should therefore be put away out of
thought, as a matter completed and at an end. But now the time was
come, and she almost wished that she had been more definite in her
own resolutions.
"Yes, Mr. Saul, I have just done."
"I will walk with you, if you will let me." Then Fanny spoke some
words of experienced wisdom to two or three girls, in order that
she might show to them, to him, and to herself that she was quite
collected. She lingered in the room for a few minutes, and was very
wise and very experienced. "I am quite ready now, Mr. Saul." So
saying, she came forth upon the green lane, and he followed her.
They walked on in silence for a little way, and then he asked her
some question about Florence Burton. Fanny told him that she had
heard from Stratton two days since, and that Florence was well.
"I liked her very much," said Mr. Saul.
"So did we all. She is coming here again in the autumn; so it will
not be very long before you see her again."
"How that may be I cannot tell, but if you see her that will be of
more consequence."
"We shall all see her, of course."
"It was here, in this lane, that I was with her last, and wished her
good-by. She did not tell you of my having parted with her, then?"
"Not especially, that I remember."
"Ah, you would have remembered if she had told you; but she was quite
right not to tell you." Fanny was now a little confused, so that she
could not exactly calculate what all this meant. Mr. Saul walked on
by her side, and for some moments nothing was said. After a while
he recurred again to his parting from Florence. "I asked her advice
on that occasion, and she gave it me clearly,--with a clear purpose
and an assured voice. I like a person who will do that. You are sure
then that you are getting the truth out of your friend, even if it be
a simple negative, or a refusal to give any reply to the question
asked."
"Florence Burton is always clear in what she says."
"I had asked her if she thought that I might venture to hope for a
more favourable answer if I urged my suit to you again."
"She cannot have said yes to that, Mr. Saul; she cannot have done
so!"
"She did not do so. She simply bade me ask yourself. And she was
right. On such a matter there is no one to whom I can with propriety
address myself, but to yourself. Therefore I now ask you the
question. May I venture to have any hope?"
His voice was so solemn, and there was so much of eager seriousness
in his face that Fanny could not bring herself to answer him with
quickness. The answer that was in her mind was in truth this: "How
can you ask me to try to love a man who has but seventy pounds a
year in the world, while I myself have nothing?" But there was
something in his demeanour,--something that was almost grand in its
gravity,--which made it quite impossible that she should speak to
him in that tone. But he, having asked his question, waited for an
answer; and she was well aware that the longer she delayed it, the
weaker became the ground on which she was standing.
"It is quite impossible," she said at last.
"If it really be so,--if you will say again that it is so after
hearing me out to an end, I will desist. In that case I will desist
and leave you,--and leave Clavering."
"Oh, Mr. Saul, do not do that,--for papa's sake, and because of the
parish."
"I would do much for your father, and as to the parish I love it
well. I do not think I can make you understand how well I love it.
It seems to me that I can never again have the same feeling for any
place that I have for this. There is not a house, a field, a green
lane, that is not dear to me. It is like a first love. With some
people a first love will come so strongly that it makes a renewal
of the passion impossible." He did not say that it would be so with
himself, but it seemed to her that he intended that she should so
understand him.
"I do not see why you should leave Clavering," she said.
"If you knew the nature of my regard for yourself, you would see
why it should be so. I do not say that there ought to be any such
necessity. If I were strong there would be no such need. But I am
weak,--weak in this; and I could not hold myself under such control
as is wanted for the work I have to do." When he had spoken of his
love for the place,--for the parish, there had been something of
passion in his language; but now in the words which he spoke of
himself and of his feeling for her, he was calm and reasonable and
tranquil, and talked of his going away from her as he might have
talked had some change of air been declared necessary for his health.
She felt that this was so, and was almost angry with him.
"Of course you must know what will be best for yourself," she said.
"Yes; I know now what I must do, if such is to be your answer. I have
made up my mind as to that. I cannot remain at Clavering, if I am
told that I may never hope that you will become my wife."
"But, Mr. Saul--"
"Well; I am listening. But before you speak, remember how
all-important your words will be to me."
"No; they cannot be all-important."
"As regards my present happiness and rest in this world they will
be so. Of course I know that nothing you can say or do will hurt me
beyond that. But you might help me even to that further and greater
bliss. You might help me too in that,--as I also might help you."
"But, Mr. Saul--" she began again, and then, feeling that she must go
on, she forced herself to utter words which at the time she felt to
be commonplace. "People cannot marry without an income. Mr. Fielding
did not think of such a thing till he had a living assured to him."
"But, independently of that, might I hope?" She ventured for an
instant to glance at his face, and saw that his eyes were glistening
with a wonderful brightness.
"How can I answer you further? Is not that reason enough why such a
thing should not be even discussed?"
"No, Miss Clavering, it is not reason enough. If you were to tell
me that you could never love me,--me, personally,--that you could
never regard me with affection, that would be reason why I should
desist;--why I should abandon all my hope here, and go away from
Clavering for ever. Nothing else can be reason enough. My being poor
ought not to make you throw me aside if you loved me. If it were so
that you loved me, I think you would owe it me to say so, let me be
ever so poor."
"I do not like you the less because you are poor."
"But do you like me at all? Can you bring yourself to love me? Would
you make the effort if I had such an income as you thought necessary?
If I had such riches, could you teach yourself to regard me as him
whom you were to love better than all the world beside? I call upon
you to answer me that question truly; and if you tell me that it
could be so, I will not despair, and I will not go away."
As he said this they came to a turn in the road which brought the
parsonage gate within their view. Fanny knew that she would leave him
there and go in alone, but she knew also that she must say something
further to him before she could thus escape. She did not wish to give
him an assurance of her positive indifference to him,--and still less
did she wish to tell him that he might hope. It could not be possible
that such an engagement should be approved by her father, nor could
she bring herself to think that she could be quite contented with
a lover such as Mr. Saul. When he had first proposed to her she
had almost ridiculed his proposition in her heart. Even now there
was something in it that was almost ridiculous;--and yet there was
something in it also that touched her as being sublime. The man was
honest, good, and true,--perhaps the best and truest man that she had
ever known. She could not bring herself to say to him any word that
should banish him for ever from the place he loved so well.
"If you knew your own heart well enough to answer me, you should do
so," he went on to say. "If you do not, say so, and I will be content
to wait your own time."
"It would be better, Mr. Saul, that you should not think of this any
more."
"No, Miss Clavering; that would not be better,--not for me; for it
would prove me to be utterly heartless. I am not heartless. I love
you dearly. I will not say that I cannot live without you; but it is
my one great hope as regards this world, that I should have you at
some future day as my own. It may be that I am too prone to hope; but
surely, if that were altogether beyond hope, you would have found
words to tell me so by this time." They had now come to the gateway,
and he paused as she put her trembling hand upon the latch.
"I cannot say more to you now," she said.
"Then let it be so. But, Miss Clavering, I shall not leave this place
till you have said more than that. And I will speak the truth to you,
even though it may offend you. I have more of hope now than I have
ever had before,--more hope that you may possibly learn to love me.
In a few days I will ask you again whether I may be allowed to speak
upon the subject to your father. Now I will say farewell, and may God
bless you; and remember this,--that my only earthly wish and ambition
is in your hands." Then he went on his way towards his own lodgings,
and she entered the parsonage garden by herself.
What should she now do, and how should she carry herself? She would
have gone to her mother at once, were it not that she could not
resolve what words she would speak to her mother. When her mother
should ask her how she regarded the man, in what way should she
answer that question? She could not tell herself that she loved Mr.
Saul; and yet, if she surely did not love him,--if such love were
impossible,--why had she not said as much to him? We, however, may
declare that that inclination to ridicule his passion, to think
of him as a man who had no right to love, was gone for ever. She
conceded to him clearly that right, and knew that he had exercised it
well. She knew that he was good and true, and honest, and recognized
in him also manly courage and spirited resolution. She would not tell
herself that it was impossible that she should love him.
She went up at last to her room doubting, unhappy, and ill at ease.
To have such a secret long kept from her mother would make her life
unendurable to her. But she felt that, in speaking to her mother,
only one aspect of the affair would be possible. Even though she
loved him, how could she marry a curate whose only income was seventy
pounds a year?