HARRY CLAVERING'S CONFESSION.
[Illustration.]
Harry Clavering, when he went away from Onslow Crescent, after his
interview with Cecilia Burton, was a wretched, pitiable man. He had
told the truth of himself, as far as he was able to tell it, to a
woman whom he thoroughly esteemed, and having done so was convinced
that she could no longer entertain any respect for him. He had laid
bare to her all his weakness, and for a moment she had spurned him.
It was true that she had again reconciled herself to him, struggling
to save both him and her sister from future misery,--that she had
even condescended to implore him to be gracious to Florence, taking
that which to her mind seemed then to be the surest path to her
object; but not the less did he feel that she must despise him.
Having promised his hand to one woman,--to a woman whom he still
professed that he loved dearly,--he had allowed himself to be cheated
into offering it to another. And he knew that the cheating had been
his own. It was he who had done the evil. Julia, in showing her
affection for him, had tendered her love to a man whom she believed
to be free. He had intended to walk straight. He had not allowed
himself to be enamoured of the wealth possessed by this woman who
had thrown herself at his feet. But he had been so weak that he had
fallen in his own despite.
There is, I suppose, no young man possessed of average talents and
average education, who does not early in life lay out for himself
some career with more or less precision,--some career which is high
in its tendencies and noble in its aspirations, and to which he is
afterwards compelled to compare the circumstances of the life which
he shapes for himself. In doing this he may not attempt, perhaps, to
lay down for himself any prescribed amount of success which he will
endeavour to reach, or even the very pathway by which he will strive
to be successful; but he will tell himself what are the vices which
he will avoid, and what the virtues which he will strive to attain.
Few young men ever did this with more precision than it had been done
by Harry Clavering, and few with more self-confidence. Very early
in life he had been successful,--so successful as to enable him to
emancipate himself not only from his father's absolute control, but
almost also from any interference on his father's part. It had seemed
to be admitted that he was a better man than his father, better than
the other Claverings,--the jewel of the race, the Clavering to whom
the family would in future years look up, not as their actual head,
but as their strongest prop and most assured support. He had said to
himself that he would be an honest, truthful, hard-working man, not
covetous after money, though conscious that a labourer was worthy of
his hire, and conscious also that the better the work done the better
should be his wages. Then he had encountered a blow,--a heavy blow
from a false woman,--and he had boasted to himself that he had borne
it well, as a man should bear all blows. And now, after all these
resolves and all these boastings, he found himself brought by his own
weakness to such a pass that he hardly dared to look in the face any
of his dearest and most intimate friends.
He was not remiss in telling himself all this. He did draw the
comparison ruthlessly between the character which he had intended
to make his own and that which he now had justly earned. He did not
excuse himself. We are told to love others as ourselves, and it is
hard to do so. But I think that we never hate others, never despise
others, as we are sometimes compelled by our own convictions and
self-judgment to hate and to despise ourselves. Harry, as he walked
home on this evening, was lost in disgust at his own conduct. He
could almost have hit his head against the walls, or thrown himself
beneath the waggons as he passed them, so thoroughly was he ashamed
of his own life. Even now, on this evening, he had escaped from
Onslow Crescent,--basely escaped,--without having declared any
purpose. Twice on this day he had escaped, almost by subterfuges;
once from Burton's office, and now again from Cecilia's presence. How
long was this to go on, or how could life be endurable to him under
such circumstances?
In parting from Cecilia, and promising to write at once, and
promising to come again in a few days, he had had some idea in his
head that he would submit his fate to the arbitrament of Lady Ongar.
At any rate he must, he thought, see her, and finally arrange with
her what the fate of both of them should be, before he could make any
definite statement of his purpose in Onslow Crescent. The last tender
of his hand had been made to Julia, and he could not renew his former
promises on Florence's behalf, till he had been absolved by Julia.
This may at any rate be pleaded on his behalf,--that in all the
workings of his mind at this time there was very little of personal
vanity. Very personally vain he had been when Julia Brabazon,--the
beautiful and noble-born Julia,--had first confessed at Clavering
that she loved him; but that vanity had been speedily knocked on its
head by her conduct to him. Men when they are jilted can hardly be
vain of the conquest which has led to such a result. Since that there
had been no vanity of that sort. His love to Florence had been open,
honest, and satisfactory, but he had not considered himself to have
achieved a wonderful triumph at Stratton. And when he found that
Lord Ongar's widow still loved him,--that he was still regarded with
affection by the woman who had formerly wounded him,--there was too
much of pain, almost of tragedy, in his position, to admit of vanity.
He would say to himself that, as far as he knew his own heart, he
thought he loved Julia the best; but, nevertheless, he thoroughly
wished that she had not returned from Italy, or that he had not seen
her when she had so returned.
He had promised to write, and that he would do this very night. He
had failed to make Cecilia Burton understand what he intended to do,
having, indeed, hardly himself resolved; but before he went to bed
he would both resolve and explain to her his resolution. Immediately,
therefore, on his return home he sat down at his desk with the pen in
his hand and the paper before him.
At last the words came. I can hardly say that they were the product
of any fixed resolve made before he commenced the writing. I think
that his mind worked more fully when the pen was in his hands than
it had done during the hour through which he sat listless, doing
nothing, struggling to have a will of his own, but failing. The
letter when it was written was as follows:--
Bloomsbury Square, May, 186--.
DEAREST MRS. BURTON,--I said that I would write to-morrow,
but I am writing now, immediately on my return home.
Whatever else you may think of me, pray be sure of this,
that I am most anxious to make you know and understand my
own position at any rate as well as I do myself. I tried
to explain it to you when I was with you this evening, but
I fear that I failed; and when Mr. Burton came in I could
not say anything further.
I know that I have behaved very badly to your
sister,--very badly, even though she should never become
aware that I have done so. Not that that is possible, for
if she were to be my wife to-morrow I should tell her
everything. But badly as you must think of me, I have
never for a moment had a premeditated intention to deceive
her. I believe you do know on what terms I had stood with
Miss Brabazon before her marriage, and that when she
married, whatever my feelings might be, there was no
self-accusation. And after that you know all that took
place between me and Florence till the return of Lord
Ongar's widow. Up to that time everything had been fair
between us. I had told Florence of my former attachment,
and she probably thought but little of it. Such things are
so common with men! Some change happens as had happened
with me, and a man's second love is often stronger and
more worthy of a woman's acceptance than the first. At any
rate, she knew it, and there was, so far, an end of it.
And you understood, also, how very anxious I was to avoid
delay in our marriage. No one knows that better than
you,--not even Florence,--for I have talked it over with
you so often; and you will remember how I have begged you
to assist me. I don't blame my darling Florence. She was
doing what she deemed best; but oh, if she had only been
guided by what you once said to her!
Then Lord Ongar's widow returned; and dear Mrs. Burton,
though I fear you think ill of her, you must remember that
as far as you know, or I, she has done nothing wrong, has
been in no respect false, since her marriage. As to her
early conduct to me, she did what many women have done,
but what no woman should do. But how can I blame her,
knowing how terrible has been my own weakness! But as to
her conduct since her marriage, I implore you to believe
with me that she has been sinned against grievously, and
has not sinned. Well; as you know, I met her. It was
hardly unnatural that I should do so, as we are connected.
But whether natural or unnatural, foolish or wise, I went
to her often. I thought at first that she must know of
my engagement as her sister knew it well, and had met
Florence. But she did not know it; and so, having none
near her that she could love, hardly a friend but myself,
grievously wronged by the world and her own relatives,
thinking that with her wealth she could make some amends
to me for her former injury, she--. Dear Mrs. Burton, I
think you will understand it now, and will see that she at
least is free from blame.
I am not defending myself; of course all this should have
been without effect on me. But I had loved her so dearly!
I do love her still so dearly! Love like that does not
die. When she left me it was natural that I should seek
some one else to love. When she returned to me,--when I
found that in spite of her faults she had loved me through
it all, I--I yielded and became false and a traitor.
I say that I love her still; but I know well that Florence
is far the nobler woman of the two. Florence never
could have done what she did. In nature, in mind, in
acquirement, in heart, Florence is the better. The man who
marries Florence must be happy if any woman can make a man
happy. Of her of whom I am now speaking, I know well that
I cannot say that. How then, you will ask, can I be fool
enough, having had such a choice, to doubt between the
two! How is it that man doubts between vice and virtue,
between honour and dishonour, between heaven and hell?
But all this is nothing to you. I do not know whether
Florence would take me now. I am well aware that I have no
right to expect that she should. But if I understood you
aright this evening, she, as yet, has heard nothing of all
this. What must she think of me for not writing to her!
But I could not bring myself to write in a false spirit;
and how could I tell her all that I have now told to you?
I know that you wish that our engagement should go on.
Dear Mrs. Burton, I love you so dearly for wishing it! Mr.
Burton, when he shall have heard everything, will, I fear,
think differently. For me, I feel that I must see Lady
Ongar before I can again go to your house, and I write now
chiefly to tell you that this is what I have determined to
do. I believe she is now away, in the Isle of Wight, but
I will see her as soon as she returns. After that I will
either come to Onslow Crescent or send. Florence will be
with you then. She of course must know everything, and you
have my permission to show this letter to her if you think
well to do so.--Most sincerely and affectionately yours,
HARRY CLAVERING.
This he delivered himself the next morning at the door in Onslow
Crescent, taking care not to be there till after Theodore Burton
should have gone from home. He left a card also, so that it might
be known, not only that he had brought it himself, but that he had
intended Mrs. Burton to be aware of that fact. Then he went and
wandered about, and passed his day in misery, as such men do when
they are thoroughly discontented with their own conduct. This was
the Saturday on which Lady Ongar returned with her Sophie from the
Isle of Wight; but of that premature return Harry knew nothing, and
therefore allowed the Sunday to pass by without going to Bolton
Street. On the Monday morning he received a letter from home which
made it necessary,--or induced him to suppose it to be necessary,
that he should go home to Clavering, at any rate for one day. This he
did on the Monday, sending a line to Mrs. Burton to say whither he
was gone, and that he should be back by Wednesday night or Thursday
morning,--and imploring her to give his love to Florence, if she
would venture to do so. Mrs. Burton would know what must be his first
business in London on his return, and she might be sure he would come
or send to Onslow Crescent as soon as that was over.
Harry's letter,--the former and longer letter, Cecilia had read over,
till she nearly knew it by heart, before her husband's return. She
well understood that he would be very hard upon Harry. He had been
inclined to forgive Clavering for what had been remiss,--to forgive
the silence, the absence from the office, and the want of courtesy
to his wife, till Harry had confessed his sin;--but he could not
endure that his sister should seek the hand of a man who had declared
himself to be in doubt whether he would take it, or that any one
should seek it for her, in her ignorance of all the truth. His wife,
on the other hand, simply looked to Florence's comfort and happiness.
That Florence should not suffer the pang of having been deceived and
rejected was all in all to Cecilia. "Of course she must know it some
day," the wife had pleaded to her husband. "He is not the man to
keep anything secret. But if she is told when he has returned to her,
and is good to her, the happiness of the return will cure the other
misery." But Burton would not submit to this. "To be comfortable at
present is not everything," he said. "If the man be so miserably weak
that he does not even now know his own mind, Florence had better take
her punishment, and be quit of him."
Cecilia had narrated to him with passable fidelity what had occurred
upstairs, while he was sitting alone in the dining-room. That she,
in her anger, had at one moment spurned Harry Clavering, and that
in the next she had knelt to him, imploring him to come back to
Florence,--those two little incidents she did not tell to her
husband. Harry's adventures with Lady Ongar, as far as she knew them,
she described accurately. "I can't make any apology for him; upon my
life I can't," said Burton. "If I know what it is for a man to behave
ill, falsely, like a knave in such matters, he is so behaving." So
Theodore Burton spoke as he took his candle to go away to his work;
but his wife had induced him to promise that he would not write to
Stratton or take any other step in the matter till they had waited
twenty-four hours for Harry's promised letter.
The letter came before the twenty-four hours were expired, and
Burton, on his return home on the Saturday, found himself called upon
to read and pass judgment upon Harry's confession. "What right has he
to speak of her as his darling Florence," he exclaimed, "while he is
confessing his own knavery?"
"But if she is his darling--?" pleaded his wife.
"Trash! But the word from him in such a letter is simply an
additional insult. And what does he know about this woman who has
come back? He vouches for her, but what can he know of her? Just what
she tells him. He is simply a fool."
"But you cannot dislike him for believing her word."
"Cecilia," said he, holding down the letter as he spoke,--"you are so
carried away by your love for Florence, and your fear lest a marriage
which has been once talked of should not take place, that you shut
your eyes to this man's true character. Can you believe any good of
a man who tells you to your face that he is engaged to two women at
once?"
"I think I can," said Cecilia, hardly venturing to express so
dangerous an opinion above her breath.
"And what would you think of a woman who did so?"
"Ah, that is so different! I cannot explain it, but you know that it
is different."
"I know that you would forgive a man anything, and a woman nothing."
To this she submitted in silence, having probably heard the reproof
before, and he went on to finish the letter. "Not defending himself!"
he exclaimed,--"then why does he not defend himself? When a man tells
me that he does not, or cannot defend himself, I know that he is a
sorry fellow, without a spark of spirit."
"I don't think that of Harry. Surely that letter shows a spirit."
"Such a one as I should be ashamed to see in a dog. No man should
ever be in a position in which he cannot defend himself. No man, at
any rate, should admit himself to be so placed. Wish that he should
go on with his engagement! I do not wish it at all. I am sorry for
Florence. She will suffer terribly. But the loss of such a lover as
that is infinitely a lesser loss than would be the gain of such a
husband. You had better write to Florence, and tell her not to come."
"Oh, Theodore!"
"That is my advice."
"But there is no post between this and Monday," said Cecilia
temporizing.
"Send her a message by the wires."
"You cannot explain this by a telegram, Theodore. Besides, why should
she not come? Her coming can do no harm. If you were to tell your
mother now of all this, it would prevent the possibility of things
ever being right."
"Things,--that is, this thing, never will be right," said he.
"But let us see. She will be here on Monday, and if you think it best
you can tell her everything. Indeed, she must be told when she is
here, for I could not keep it from her. I could not smile and talk to
her about him and make her think that it is all right."
"Not you! I should be very sorry if you could."
"But I think I could make her understand that she should not decide
upon breaking with him altogether."
"And I think I could make her understand that she ought to do so."
"But you wouldn't do that, Theodore?"
"I would if I thought it my duty."
"But at any rate, she must come, and we can talk of that to-morrow."
As to Florence's coming, Burton had given way, beaten, apparently,
by that argument about the post. On the Sunday very little was said
about Harry Clavering. Cecilia studiously avoided the subject, and
Burton had not so far decided on dropping Harry altogether, as to
make him anxious to express any such decision. After all, such
dropping or not dropping must be the work of Florence herself. On the
Monday morning Cecilia had a further triumph. On that day her husband
was very fully engaged,--having to meet a synod of contractors,
surveyors, and engineers, to discuss which of the remaining
thoroughfares of London should not be knocked down by the coming
railways,--and he could not absent himself from the Adelphi. It was,
therefore, arranged that Mrs. Burton should go to the Paddington
Station to meet her sister-in-law. She therefore would have the first
word with Florence, and the earliest opportunity of impressing the
new-comer with her own ideas. "Of course, you must say something to
her of this man," said her husband, "but the less you say the better.
After all she must be left to judge for herself." In all matters
such as this,--in all affairs of tact, of social intercourse, and
of conduct between man and man, or man and woman, Mr. Burton was
apt to be eloquent in his domestic discussion, and sometimes almost
severe;--but the final arrangement of them was generally left to his
wife. He enunciated principles of strategy,--much, no doubt, to her
benefit; but she actually fought the battles.