WHAT CECILIA BURTON DID FOR HER SISTER-IN-LAW.
[Illustration.]
As soon as Harry Clavering had made his promise to Mr. Burton, and
had declared that he would be in Onslow Crescent that same evening,
he went away from the offices at the Adelphi, feeling it to be quite
impossible that he should recommence his work there at that moment,
even should it ever be within his power to do so. Nor did Burton
expect that he should stay. He understood, from what had passed, much
of Harry's trouble, if not the whole of it; and though he did not
despair on behalf of his sister, he was aware that her lover had
fallen into a difficulty, from which he could not extricate himself
without great suffering and much struggling. But Burton was a man
who, in spite of something cynical on the surface of his character,
believed well of mankind generally, and well also of men as
individuals. Even though Harry had done amiss, he might be saved. And
though Harry's conduct to Florence might have been bad, nay, might
have been false, still, as Burton believed, he was too good to be
cast aside, or spurned out of the way, without some further attempt
to save him.
When Clavering had left him Burton went back to his work, and after
a while succeeded in riveting his mind on the papers before him. It
was a hard struggle with him, but he did it, and did not leave his
business till his usual hour. It was past five when he took down his
hat and his umbrella, and, as I fear, dusted his boots before he
passed out of the office on to the passage. As he went he gave sundry
directions to porters and clerks, as was his wont, and then walked
off intent upon his usual exercise before he should reach his home.
But he had to determine on much with reference to Florence and
Harry before he saw his wife. How was the meeting of the evening to
take place, and in what way should it be commenced? If there were
indispensable cause for his anger, in what way should he show it, and
if necessity for vengeance, how should his sister be avenged? There
is nothing more difficult for a man than the redressing of injuries
done to a woman who is very near to him and very dear to him. The
whole theory of Christian meekness and forgiveness becomes broken to
pieces and falls to the ground, almost as an absurd theory, even at
the idea of such wrong. What man ever forgave an insult to his wife
or an injury to his sister, because he had taught himself that to
forgive trespasses is a religious duty? Without an argument, without
a moment's thought, the man declares to himself that such trespasses
as 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 were
a clergyman, he could in some sort satisfy his craving for revenge
by taking a pistol in his hand, and having a shot at the offender.
That method was doubtless barbarous and unreasonable, but it was
satisfactory and sufficed. But what can he do now? A thoughtful,
prudent, painstaking man, such as was Theodore Burton, feels that it
is not given to him to attack another with his fists, to fly at his
enemy's throat, and carry out his purpose after the manner of dogs.
Such a one has probably something round his heart which tells him
that if so attacked he could defend himself; but he knows that he has
no aptitude for making such onslaught, and is conscious that such
deeds of arms would be unbecoming to him. In many, perhaps in most of
such cases, he may, if he please, have recourse to the laws. But any
aid that the law can give him is altogether distasteful to him. The
name of her that is so dear to him should be kept quiet as the grave
under such misfortune, not blazoned through ten thousand columns
for the amusement of all the crowd. There is nothing left for him
but to spurn the man,--not with his foot but with his thoughts;
and the bitter consciousness that to such spurning the sinner
will be indifferent. The old way was barbarous certainly, and
unreasonable,--but there was a satisfaction in it that has been often
wanting since the use of pistols went out of fashion among us.
All this passed through Burton's mind as he walked home. One would
not have supposed him to be a man eager for bloodshed,--he with a
wife whom he deemed to be perfect, with children who in his eyes
were gracious as young gods, with all his daily work which he loved
as good workers always do; but yet, as he thought of Florence, as
he thought of the possibility of treachery on Harry's part, he
regarded almost with dismay the conclusion to which he was forced
to come,--that there could be no punishment. He might proclaim the
offender to the world as false, and the world would laugh at the
proclaimer, and shake hands with the offender. To sit together with
such 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 instant
thunderbolts, and such sins as this were of such a nature. His
Florence,--pure, good, loving, true, herself totally void of all
suspicion, faultless in heart as well as mind, the flower of that
Burton flock which had prospered so well,--that she should be
sacrificed through the treachery of a man who, at his best, had
scarcely been worthy of her! The thought of this was almost too much
for 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 restrain
himself from foreshadowing the misery that would result from such
baseness, yet he told himself that he would not condemn before
condemnation was necessary. Harry Clavering might not be good enough
for Florence. What man was good enough for Florence? But still, if
married, Harry, he thought, would not make a bad husband. Many a man
who is prone enough to escape from the bonds which he has undertaken
to endure,--to escape from them before they are riveted,--is mild
enough under their endurance, when they are once fastened upon him.
Harry Clavering was not of such a nature that Burton could tell
himself that it would be well that his sister should escape even
though her way of escape must lie through the fire and water of
outraged love. That Harry Clavering was a gentleman, that he was
clever, that he was by nature affectionate, soft in manner, tender of
heart, anxious to please, good-tempered, and of high ambition, Burton
knew well; and he partly recognized the fact that Harry had probably
fallen into his present fault more by accident than by design.
Clavering was not a skilled and practiced deceiver. At last, as he
drew near to his own door, he resolved on the line of conduct he
would pursue. He would tell his wife everything, and she should
receive Harry alone.
He was weary when he reached home, and was a little cross with his
fatigue. Good man as he was, he was apt to be fretful on the first
moment of his return to his own house, hot with walking, tired with
his day's labour, and in want of his dinner. His wife understood this
well, and always bore with him at such moments, coming down to him
in the dressing-room behind the back parlour, and ministering to
his wants. I fear he took some advantage of her goodness, knowing
that at such moments he could grumble and scold without danger of
contradiction. But the institution was established, and Cecilia never
rebelled against its traditional laws. On the present day he had
much to say to her, but even that he could not say without some few
symptoms 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 terribly
short. 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 is
so."
"But it is not all right. I wonder what on earth the men do to the
boots, 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 so
tired?"
"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 he
described to her as well as he could, what had really taken place
between 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 be
false without meaning it,--who allow themselves to drift away from
their anchors, and to be carried out into seas of misery and trouble,
because they are not careful in looking to their tackle. I think that
he may still be held to a right course, and therefore I have begged
him to come here."
"I am sure that you are right, Theodore. He is so good and so
affectionate, and he made himself so much one of us!"
"Yes; too easily by half. That is just the danger. But look
here, Cissy. I'll tell you what I mean to do. I will not see him
myself;--at any rate, not at first. Probably I had better not see him
at all. You shall talk to him."
"By myself!"
"Why not? You and he have always been great friends, and he is a man
who 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-room
because I think his task will be easier with you in my absence. He
has got himself into some mess with that woman."
"With Lady Ongar?"
"Yes; not that her name was mentioned between us, but I suppose it is
so."
"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 have
believed. I am told that she married an old man who is now dead, and
I 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 he
had seen our Florence."
"And she is connected with him through his cousin. Let her be ever so
bad, 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 that
there is a woman whom nobody visits, I always feel inclined to go and
pay my respects to her."
"Theodore, how can you say so?"
"And that, I suppose, is just what Harry has done. If the world and
his wife had visited Lady Ongar, there would not have been all this
trouble now."
Mrs. Burton of course undertook the task which her husband assigned
to her, though she did so with much nervous trepidation, and many
fears lest the desired object should be lost through her own
maladroit management. With her, there was at least no doubt as to the
thing to be done,--no hesitation as to the desirability of securing
Harry Clavering for the Burton faction. Everything in her mind was
to be forgiven to Harry, and he was to be received by them all with
open arms and loving caresses, if he would only abandon Lady Ongar
altogether. To secure her lover for Florence, was Mrs. Burton's
single and simple object. She raised no questions now within her
own breast as to whether Harry would make a good husband. Any such
question as that should have been asked and answered before he had
been accepted at Stratton. The thing to be done now was to bring
Harry and Florence together, and,--since such terrible dangers were
intervening,--to make them man and wife with as little further delay
as might be possible. The name of Lady Ongar was odious to her. When
men went astray in matters of love it was within the power of Cecilia
Burton's heart to forgive them; but she could not pardon women that
so sinned. This countess had once jilted Harry, and that was enough
to secure her condemnation. And since that what terrible things had
been said of her! And dear, uncharitable Cecilia Burton was apt to
think, when evil was spoken of women,--of women whom she did not
know,--that there could not be smoke without fire. And now this woman
was a widow with a large fortune, and wanted a husband! What business
had any widow to want a husband? It is so easy for wives to speak
and think after that fashion when they are satisfied with their own
ventures.
It was arranged that when Harry came to the door, Mrs. Burton should
go up alone to the drawing-room and receive him there, remaining
with her husband in the dining-room till he should come. Twice while
sitting downstairs after the cloth was gone she ran upstairs with the
avowed purpose of going into the nursery, but in truth that she might
see that the room was comfortable, that it looked pretty, and that
the chairs were so arranged as to be convenient. The two eldest
children were with them in the parlour, and when she started on
her second errand, Cissy reminded her that baby would be asleep.
Theodore, who understood the little manoeuvre, smiled but said
nothing, and his wife, who in such matters was resolute, went and
made her further little changes in the furniture. At last there
came the knock at the door,--the expected knock, a knock which told
something of the hesitating unhappy mind of him who had rapped, and
Mrs. Burton started on her business. "Tell him just simply why you
are 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 had
left Mr. Beilby's offices in the morning, and, now that he had come
to 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, I
fear that he will be held as being too weak for the rôle of hero even
in such pages as these. Perhaps no terms have been so injurious to
the profession of the novelist as those two words, hero and heroine.
In spite of the latitude which is allowed to the writer in putting
his own interpretation upon these words, something heroic is still
expected; whereas, if he attempt to paint from Nature, how little
that is heroic should he describe! How many young men, subjected to
the temptations which had befallen Harry Clavering,--how many young
men whom you, delicate reader, number among your friends,--would have
come out from them unscathed? A man, you say, delicate reader, a true
man can love but one woman,--but one at a time. So you say, and are
so convinced; but no conviction was ever more false. When a true man
has loved with all his heart and all his soul,--does he cease to
love,--does he cleanse his heart of that passion when circumstances
run against him, and he is forced to turn elsewhere for his life's
companion? Or is he untrue as a lover in that he does not waste his
life in desolation, because he has been disappointed? Or does his old
love perish and die away, because another has crept into his heart?
No; the first love, if that was true, is ever there; and should she
and he meet after many years, though their heads be gray and their
cheeks wrinkled, there will still be a touch of the old passion as
their hands meet for a moment. Methinks that love never dies, unless
it be murdered by downright ill-usage. It may be so murdered, but
even ill-usage will more often fail than succeed in that enterprise.
How, then, could Harry fail to love the woman whom he had loved
first, when she returned to him still young, still beautiful, and
told him, with all her charms and all her flattery, how her heart
stood 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's
feeling to the woman whom he is to marry should be this:--that not
from love only, but from chivalry, from manhood, and from duty, he
will be prepared always, and at all hazards, to defend her from every
misadventure, to struggle ever that she may be happy, to see that no
wind blows upon her with needless severity, that no ravening wolf
of a misery shall come near her, that her path be swept clean for
her,--as clean as may be, and that her roof-tree be made firm upon a
rock. There is much of this which is quite independent of love,--much
of it that may be done without love. This is devotion, and it is this
which a man owes to the woman who has once promised to be his wife,
and has not forfeited her right. Doubtless Harry Clavering should
have remembered this at the first moment of his weakness in Lady
Ongar's drawing-room. Doubtless he should have known at once that
his duty to Florence made it necessary that he should declare his
engagement,--even though, in doing so, he might have seemed to
caution Lady Ongar on that point on which no woman can endure a
caution. But the fault was hers, and the caution was needed. No doubt
he should not have returned to Bolton Street. He should not have
cozened himself by trusting himself to her assurances of friendship;
he should have kept warm his love for the woman to whom his hand was
owed, not suffering himself to make comparisons to her injury. He
should have been chivalric, manly, full of high duty. He should have
been all this, and full also of love, and then he would have been a
hero. But men as I see them are not often heroic.
As he entered the room he saw Mrs. Burton at once, and then looked
round quickly for her husband. "Harry," said she, "I am so glad to
see you once again," and she gave him her hand, and smiled on him
with that sweet look which used to make him feel that it was pleasant
to 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 little
talk together. He said you would like it best so; but perhaps I ought
not to tell you that."
"I do like it best so,--much best. I can speak to you as I could
hardly 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 be
here on Monday. You will come and see her then; or perhaps you will
go with me and meet her at the station?"
"Burton said that she was coming, but I did not understand that it
was so soon."
"You do not think it too soon, Harry; do you?"
"No," said Harry, but his tone belied his assertion. At any rate
he had not pretended to display any of a lover's rapture at this
prospect 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 trouble
that you can tell to a friend such as I am?"
"It is very hard to tell. Oh, Mrs. Burton, I am broken-hearted. For
the 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 have
not known how to hold myself. I could not bring myself to write to
Florence."
"But why not? You do not mean that you are false to Florence. You
cannot mean that. Harry, say at once that it is not so, and I
will promise you her forgiveness, Theodore's forgiveness, all our
forgiveness for anything else. Oh, Harry, say anything but that." In
answer to this Harry Clavering had nothing to say, but sat with his
head 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, I
believe 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 the
history of the present days. He described to her how he had loved
Julia Brabazon, and how his love had been treated by her; how he had
sworn to himself, when he knew that she had in truth become that
lord's wife, that for her sake he would keep himself from loving any
other woman. Then he spoke of his first days at Stratton and of his
early acquaintance with Florence, and told her how different had been
his second love,--how it had grown gradually and with no check to his
confidence, till he felt sure that the sweet girl who was so often
near him would, if he could win her, be to him a source of joy for
all his life. "And so she shall," said Cecilia, with tears running
down 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 in
Onslow Crescent, how he had joyed in calling her Cecilia, and having
her infants in his arms, as though they were already partly belonging
to him. And he told her how he had met the young widow at the
station, having employed himself on her behalf at her sister's
instance; and how cold she had been to him, offending him by her
silence and sombre pride. "False woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Burton. "Oh,
Cecilia, do not abuse her,--do not say a word till you know all." "I
know 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 been
almost forced on her by the mode of her return, with no other friend
to meet her. "She has deserved no friend," said Mrs. Burton. "You
wrong her," said Harry; "you do not know her. If any woman has been
ever sinned against, it is she." "But was she not false from the very
first,--false, that she might become rich by marrying a man that she
did not love? Will you speak up for her after that? Oh, Harry, think
of it."
"I will speak up for her," said Harry; and now it seemed for the
first time that something of his old boldness had returned to him. "I
will speak up for her, although she did as you say, because she has
suffered as few women have been made to suffer, and because she has
repented in ashes as few women are called on to repent." And now as
he warmed with his feeling for her, he uttered his words faster and
with less of shame in his voice. He described how he had gone again
and again to Bolton Street, thinking no evil, till--till--till
something of the old feeling had come back upon him. He meant to be
true in his story, but I doubt whether he told all the truth. How
could he tell it all? How could he confess that the blaze of the
woman's womanhood, the flame of her beauty, and the fire engendered
by her mingled rank and suffering, had singed him and burned him
up, 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 you
to her love of money?"
"Mrs. Burton, if you do not understand it now, I do not know that I
can tell you more. Florence alone in this matter is altogether good.
Lady Ongar has been wrong, and I have been wrong. I sometimes think
that 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 to
you."
"No, Harry; you have not told me all. Have you told that--woman that
she should be your wife?" To this question he made no immediate
answer, and she repeated it. "Tell me; have you told her you would
marry 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. "I
do not wonder that you cannot speak," she said. "Oh, Florence,--oh,
my darling; my lost, broken-hearted angel!" Then she turned away her
face and wept.
"Cecilia," he said, attempting to approach her with his hand, without
rising from his chair.
"No, sir; when I desired you to call me so, it was because I thought
you were to be a brother. I did not think that there could be a thing
so weak as you. Perhaps you had better go now, lest you should meet
my 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, and
even in her own misery she was stricken by the wretchedness of his
countenance. Suddenly she rose quickly from her chair, and coming
close to him, threw herself on her knees before him. "Harry," she
said, "Harry; it is not yet too late. Be our own Harry again; our
dearest 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 a
one as our Florence? Is she noble, and good, and pure and spotless as
Florence is? Will she love you with such love as Florence's? Will she
believe in you as Florence believes? Yes, Harry, she believes yet.
She knows nothing of this, and shall know nothing, if you will only
say that you will be true. No one shall know, and I will remember it
only to remember your goodness afterwards. Think of it, Harry; there
can be no falseness to one who has been so false to you. Harry, you
will not destroy us all at one blow?"
Never before was man so supplicated to take into his arms youth and
beauty and feminine purity! And in truth he would have yielded, as
indeed, what man would not have yielded,--had not Mrs. Burton been
interrupted in her prayers. The step of her husband was heard upon
the stairs, and she, rising from her knees, whispered quickly, "Do
not 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 came
in.
"Why did you leave us, then, so long?" said Mrs. Burton, trying
to smile, though the signs of tears were, as she well knew, plain
enough.
"I thought you would have sent for me."
"Burton," said Harry, "I take it kindly of you that you allowed me to
see your wife alone."
"Women always understand these things best," said he.
"And you will come again to-morrow, Harry, and answer me my
question?"
"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 to
me, 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 will
go now, and of course you will tell Burton everything that I have
said. Good night." They both took his hand, and Cecilia pressed it
as she looked with beseeching eyes into his face. What would she not
have done to secure the happiness of the sister whom she loved? On
this occasion she had descended low that she might do much.