FLORENCE BURTON PACKS UP A PACKET.
Though nobody had expressed to Florence at Stratton any fear of Harry
Clavering's perfidy, that young lady was not altogether easy in her
mind. Weeks and weeks had passed, and she had not heard from him.
Her mother was manifestly uneasy, and had announced some days before
Florence's departure, her surprise and annoyance in not having heard
from her eldest son. When Florence inquired as to the subject of the
expected letter, her mother put the question aside, saying, with
a little assumed irritability, that of course she liked to get an
answer to her letters when she took the trouble to write them. And
when the day for Florence's journey drew nigh, the old lady became
more and more uneasy,--showing plainly that she wished her daughter
was not going to London. But Florence, as she was quite determined to
go, said nothing to all this. Her father also was uneasy, and neither
of them had for some days named her lover in her hearing. She knew
that there was something wrong, and felt that it was better that she
should go to London and learn the truth.
No female heart was ever less prone to suspicion than the heart of
Florence Burton. Among those with whom she had been most intimate
nothing had occurred to teach her that men could be false, or women
either. When she had heard from Harry Clavering the story of Julia
Brabazon, she had, not making much accusation against the sinner in
speech, put Julia down in the books of her mind as a bold, bad woman
who could forget her sex, and sell her beauty and her womanhood
for money. There might be such a woman here and there, or such a
man. There were murderers in the world,--but the bulk of mankind
is not made subject to murderers. Florence had never considered
the possibility that she herself could become liable to such a
misfortune. And then, when the day came that she was engaged, her
confidence in the man chosen by her was unlimited. Such love as hers
rarely suspects. He with whom she had to do was Harry Clavering, and
therefore she could not be deceived. Moreover she was supported by
a self-respect and a self-confidence which did not at first allow
her to dream that a man who had once loved her would ever wish to
leave her. It was to her as though a sacrament as holy as that of
the church had passed between them, and she could not easily bring
herself to think that that sacrament had been as nothing to Harry
Clavering. But nevertheless there was something wrong, and when she
left her father's house at Stratton, she was well aware that she
must prepare herself for tidings that might be evil. She could bear
anything, she thought, without disgracing herself; but there were
tidings which might send her back to Stratton a broken woman, fit
perhaps to comfort the declining years of her father and mother, but
fit for nothing else.
Her mother watched her closely as she sat at her breakfast that
morning, but much could not be gained by watching Florence Burton
when Florence wished to conceal her thoughts. Many messages were sent
to Theodore, to Cecilia, and to the children, messages to others of
the Burton clan who were in town, but not a word was said of Harry
Clavering. The very absence of his name was enough to make them
all wretched, but Florence bore it as the Spartan boy bore the fox
beneath his tunic. Mrs. Burton could hardly keep herself from a burst
of indignation; but she had been strongly warned by her husband, and
restrained herself till Florence was gone. "If he is playing her
false," said she, as soon as she was alone with her old husband,
"he shall suffer for it, though I have to tear his face with my own
fingers."
"Nonsense, my dear; nonsense."
"It is not nonsense, Mr. Burton. A gentleman, indeed! He is to be
allowed to be dishonest to my girl because he is a gentleman! I wish
there was no such thing as a gentleman;--so I do. Perhaps there would
be more honest men then." It was unendurable to her that a girl of
hers should be so treated.
Immediately on the arrival of the train at the London platform,
Florence espied Cecilia, and in a minute was in her arms. There was a
special tenderness in her sister-in-law's caress, which at once told
Florence that her fears had not been without cause. Who has not felt
the evil tidings conveyed by the exaggerated tenderness of a special
kiss? But while on the platform and among the porters she said
nothing of herself. She asked after Theodore and heard of the railway
confederacy with a shew of delight. "He'd like to make a line from
Hyde Park Corner to the Tower of London," said Florence, with a
smile. Then she asked after the children, and specially for the
baby; but as yet she spoke no word of Harry Clavering. The trunk and
the bag were at last found; and the two ladies were packed into a
cab, and had started. Cecilia, when they were seated, got hold of
Florence's hand, and pressed it warmly. "Dearest," she said, "I am
so glad to have you with us once again." "And now," said Florence,
speaking with a calmness that was almost unnatural, "tell me all the
truth."
All the truth! What a demand it was. And yet Cecilia had expected
that none less would be made upon her. Of course Florence must have
known that there was something wrong. Of course she would ask as to
her lover immediately upon her arrival. "And now tell me all the
truth."
"Oh, Florence!"
"The truth, then, is very bad?" said Florence, gently. "Tell me first
of all whether you have seen him. Is he ill?"
"He was with us on Friday. He is not ill."
"Thank God for that. Has anything happened to him? Has he lost
money?"
"No; I have heard nothing about money."
"Then he is tired of me. Tell me at once, my own one. You know me
so well. You know I can bear it. Don't treat me as though I were a
coward."
"No; it is not that. It is not that he is tired of you. If you had
heard him speak of you on Friday,--that you were the noblest, purest,
dearest, best of women--" This was imprudent on her part; but what
loving woman could at such a moment have endured to be prudent?
"Then what is it?" asked Florence, almost sternly. "Look here,
Cecilia; if it be anything touching himself or his own character, I
will put up with it, in spite of anything my brother may say. Though
he had been a murderer, if that were possible, I would not leave him.
I will never leave him unless he leaves me. Where is he now, at this
moment?"
"He is in town." Mrs. Burton had not received Harry's note, telling
her of his journey to Clavering, before she had left home. Now at
this moment it was waiting for her in Onslow Crescent.
"And am I to see him? Cecilia, why cannot you tell me how it is? In
such a case I should tell you,--should tell you everything at once;
because I know that you are not a coward. Why cannot you do so to
me?"
"You have heard of Lady Ongar?"
"Heard of her;--yes. She treated Harry very badly before her
marriage."
"She has come back to London, a widow."
"I know she has. And Harry has gone back to her! Is that it? Do you
mean to tell me that Harry and Lady Ongar are to be married?"
"No; I cannot say that. I hope it is not so. Indeed, I do not think
it."
"Then what have I to fear? Does she object to his marrying me? What
has she to do between us?"
"She wishes that Harry should come back to her, and Harry has been
unsteady. He has been with her often; and he has been very weak. It
may be all right yet, Flo; it may indeed,--if you can forgive his
weakness."
Something of the truth had now come home to Florence, and she sat
thinking of it long before she spoke again. This widow, she knew, was
very wealthy, and Harry had loved her before he had come to Stratton.
Harry's first love had come back free,--free to wed again, and
able to make the fortune of the man she might love and marry. What
had Florence to give to any man that could be weighed with this?
Lady Ongar was very rich. Florence had already heard all this from
Harry,--was very rich, was clever, and was beautiful; and moreover
she had been Harry's first love. Was it reasonable that she with her
little claims, her puny attractions, should stand in Harry's way when
such a prize as that came across him! And as for his weakness;--might
it not be strength, rather than weakness;--the strength of an old
love which he could not quell, now that the woman was free to take
him? For herself,--had she not known that she had only come second?
As she thought of him with his noble bride and that bride's great
fortune, and of her own insignificance, her low birth, her doubtful
prettiness,--prettiness that had ever been doubtful to herself, of
her few advantages, she told herself that she had no right to stand
upon her claims. "I wish I had known it sooner," she said, in a voice
so soft that Cecilia strained her ears to catch the words. "I wish I
had known it sooner. I would not have come up to be in his way."
"But you will be in no one's way, Flo, unless it be in hers."
"And I will not be in hers," said Florence, speaking somewhat louder,
and raising her head in pride as she spoke. "I will be neither in
hers nor in his. I think I will go back at once."
Cecilia upon this, ventured to look round at her, and saw that she
was very pale, but that her eyes were dry and her lips pressed close
together. It had not occurred to Mrs. Burton that her sister-in-law
would take it in this way,--that she would express herself as being
willing to give way, and that she would at once surrender her lover
to her rival. The married woman, she who was already happy with a
husband, having enlisted all her sympathies on the side of a marriage
between Florence and Harry Clavering, could by no means bring herself
to agree to this view. No one liked success better than Cecilia
Burton, and to her success would consist in rescuing Harry from Lady
Ongar and securing him for Florence. In fighting this battle she had
found that she would have against her Lady Ongar--of course, and then
her husband, and Harry himself too, as she feared; and now also she
must reckon Florence also among her opponents. But she could not
endure the idea of failing in such a cause. "Oh, Florence, I think
you are so wrong," she said.
"You would feel as I do, if you were in my place."
"But people cannot always judge best when they feel the most. What
you should think of is his happiness."
"So I do;--and of his future career."
"Career! I hate to hear of careers. Men do not want careers, or
should not want them. Could it be good for him to marry a woman who
has been false--who has done as she has, simply because she has made
herself rich by her wickedness? Do you believe so much in riches
yourself?"
"If he loves her best, I will not blame him," said Florence. "He knew
her before he had seen me. He was quite honest and told me all the
story. It is not his fault if he still likes her the best."
When they reached Onslow Crescent, the first half-hour was spent with
the children, as to whom Florence could not but observe that even
from their mouths the name of Harry Clavering was banished. But she
played with Cissy and Sophie, giving them their little presents from
Stratton; and sat with the baby in her lap, kissing his pink feet and
making little soft noises for his behoof, sweetly as she might have
done if no terrible crisis in her own life had now come upon her. Not
a tear as yet had moistened her eyes, and Cecilia was partly aware
that Florence's weeping would be done in secret. "Come up with me
into my own room;--I have something to show you," she said, as the
nurse took the baby at last; and Cissy and Sophie were at the same
time sent away with their brother. "As I came in I got a note from
Harry, but, before you see that, I must show you the letter which
he wrote to me on Friday. He has gone down to Clavering,--on some
business,--for one day." Mrs. Burton, in her heart, could hardly
acquit him of having run out of town at the moment to avoid the
arrival of Florence.
They went upstairs, and the note was, in fact, read before the
letter. "I hope there is nothing wrong at the parsonage," said
Florence.
"You see he says he will be back after one day."
"Perhaps he has gone to tell them,--of this change in his prospects."
"No, dear, no; you do not yet understand his feelings. Read his
letter, and you will know more. If there is to be a change, he is at
any rate too much ashamed of it to speak of it. He does not wish it
himself. It is simply this,--that she has thrown herself in his way,
and he has not known how to avoid her."
Then Florence read the letter very slowly, going over most of the
sentences more than once, and struggling to learn from them what were
really the wishes of the writer. When she came to Harry's exculpation
of Lady Ongar, she believed it thoroughly, and said so,--meeting,
however, a direct contradiction on that point from her sister-in-law.
When she had finished it, she folded it up and gave it back. "Cissy,"
she said, "I know that I ought to go back. I do not want to see him,
and I am glad that he has gone away."
"But you do not mean to give him up?"
"Yes, dearest."
"But you said you would never leave him, unless he left you."
"He has left me."
"No, Florence; not so. Do you not see what he says;--that he knows
you are the only woman that can make him happy?"
"He has not said that; but if he had, it would make no matter.
He understands well how it is. He says that I could not take him
now,--even if he came to me; and I cannot. How could I? What! wish to
marry a man who does not love me, who loves another, when I know that
I am regarded simply as a barrier between them; when by doing so I
should mar his fortunes? Cissy, dear, when you think of it, you will
not wish it."
"Mar his fortunes! It would make them. I do wish it,--and he wishes
it too. I tell you that I had him here, and I know it. Why should you
be sacrificed?"
"What is the meaning of self-denial, if no one can bear to suffer?"
"But he will suffer too,--and all for her caprices! You cannot really
think that her money would do him any good. Who would ever speak to
him again, or even see him? What would the world say of him? Why, his
own father and mother and sisters would disown him, if they are such
as you say they are."
Florence would not argue it further, but went to her room, and
remained there alone till Cecilia came to tell her that her brother
had returned. What weeping there may have been there, need not be
told. Indeed, as I think, there was not much, for Florence was a
girl whose education had not brought her into the way of hysterical
sensations. The Burtons were an active, energetic people who
sympathized with each other in labour and success,--and in endurance
also; but who had little sympathy to express for the weaknesses of
grief. When her children had stumbled in their play, bruising their
little noses, and barking their little shins, Mrs. Burton, the elder,
had been wont to bid them rise, asking them what their legs were for,
if they could not stand. So they had dried their own little eyes with
their own little fists, and had learned to understand that the rubs
of the world were to be borne in silence. This rub that had come to
Florence was of grave import, and had gone deeper than the outward
skin; but still the old lesson had its effect.
Florence rose from the bed on which she was lying, and prepared to
come down. "Do not commit yourself to him, as to anything," said
Cecilia.
"I understand what that means," Florence answered. "He thinks as I
do. But never mind. He will not say much, and I shall say less. It is
bad to talk of this to any man,--even to a brother."
Burton also received his sister with that exceptional affection which
declares pity for some overwhelming misfortune. He kissed her lips,
which was rare with him, for he would generally but just touch her
forehead, and he put his hand behind her waist and partly embraced
her. "Did Cissy manage to find you at the station?"
"Oh, yes;--easily."
"Theodore thinks that a woman is no good for any such purpose as
that," said Cecilia. "It is a wonder to him, no doubt, that we are
not now wandering about London in search of each other,--and of him."
"I think she would have got home quicker if I could have been there,"
said Burton.
"We were in a cab in one minute;--weren't we, Florence? The
difference would have been that you would have given a porter
sixpence,--and I gave him a shilling, having bespoken him before."
"And Theodore's time was worth the sixpence, I suppose," said
Florence.
"That depends," said Cecilia. "How did the synod go on?"
"The synod made an ass of itself;--as synods always do. It is
necessary to get a lot of men together, for the show of the
thing,--otherwise the world will not believe. That is the meaning of
committees. But the real work must always be done by one or two men.
Come;--I'll go and get ready for dinner."
The subject,--the one real subject, had thus been altogether avoided
at this first meeting with the man of the house, and the evening
passed without any allusion to it. Much was made of the children,
and much was said of the old people at home; but still there was
a consciousness over them all that the one matter of importance
was being kept in the background. They were all thinking of Harry
Clavering, but no one mentioned his name. They all knew that they
were unhappy and heavy-hearted through his fault, but no one blamed
him. He had been received in that house with open arms, had been
warmed in their bosom, and had stung them; but though they were all
smarting from the sting, they uttered no complaint. Burton had made
up his mind that it would be better to pass over the matter thus in
silence,--to say nothing further of Harry Clavering. A misfortune
had come upon them. They must bear it, and go on as before. Harry
had been admitted into the London office on the footing of a paid
clerk,--on the same footing, indeed, as Burton himself, though with
a much smaller salary and inferior work. This position had been
accorded to him of course through the Burton interest, and it was
understood that if he chose to make himself useful, he could rise
in the business as Theodore had risen. But he could only do so as
one of the Burtons. For the last three months he had declined to
take his salary, alleging that private affairs had kept him away
from the office. It was to the hands of Theodore Burton himself that
such matters came for management, and therefore there had been no
necessity for further explanation. Harry Clavering would of course
leave the house, and there would be an end of him in the records of
the Burton family. He would have come and made his mark,--a terrible
mark, and would have passed on. Those whom he had bruised by his
cruelty, and knocked over by his treachery, must get to their feet
again as best they could, and say as little as might be of their
fall. There are knaves in this world, and no one can suppose that
he has a special right to be exempted from their knavery because he
himself is honest. It is on the honest that the knaves prey. That
was Burton's theory in this matter. He would learn from Cecilia
how Florence was bearing herself; but to Florence herself he would
say little or nothing if she bore with patience and dignity, as he
believed she would, the calamity which had befallen her.
But he must write to his mother. The old people at Stratton must not
be left in the dark as to what was going on. He must write to his
mother, unless he could learn from his wife that Florence herself had
communicated to them at home the fact of Harry's iniquity. But he
asked no question as to this on the first night, and on the following
morning he went off, having simply been told that Florence had seen
Harry's letter, that she knew all, and that she was carrying herself
like an angel.
"Not like an angel that hopes?" said Theodore.
"Let her alone for a day or two," said Cecilia. "Of course she must
have a few days to think of it. I need hardly tell you that you will
never have to be ashamed of your sister."
The Tuesday and the Wednesday passed by, and though Cecilia and
Florence when together discussed the matter, no change was made in
the wishes or thoughts of either of them. Florence, now that she was
in town, had consented to remain till after Harry should return, on
the understanding that she should not be called upon to see him. He
was to be told that she forgave him altogether,--that his troth was
returned to him and that he was free, but that in such circumstances
a meeting between them could be of no avail. And then a little packet
was made up, which was to be given to him. How was it that Florence
had brought with her all his presents and all his letters? But there
they were in her box upstairs, and sitting by herself, with weary
fingers, she packed them, and left them packed under lock and key,
addressed by herself to Harry Clavering, Esq. Oh, the misery of
packing such a parcel! The feeling with which a woman does it
is never encountered by a man. He chucks the things together in
wrath,--the lock of hair, the letters in the pretty Italian hand
that have taken so much happy care in the writing, the jewelled
shirt-studs, which were first put in by the fingers that gave them.
They are thrown together, and given to some other woman to deliver.
But the girl lingers over her torture. She reads the letters again.
She thinks of the moments of bliss which each little toy has given.
She is loth to part with everything. She would fain keep some one
thing,--the smallest of them all. She doubts,--till a feeling of
maidenly reserve constrains her at last, and the coveted trifle, with
careful, painstaking fingers, is put with the rest, and the parcel is
made complete, and the address is written with precision.
[Illustration: Florence Burton makes up a packet.]
"Of course I cannot see him," said Florence. "You will hand to him
what I have to send to him; and you must ask him, if he has kept any
of my letters, to return them." She said nothing of the shirt-studs,
but he would understand that. As for the lock of hair,--doubtless it
had been burned.
Cecilia said but little in answer to this. She would not as yet look
upon the matter as Florence looked at it, and as Theodore did also.
Harry was to be back in town on Thursday morning. He could not,
probably, be seen or heard of on that day, because of his visit to
Lady Ongar. It was absolutely necessary that he should see Lady Ongar
before he could come to Onslow Terrace, with possibility of becoming
once more the old Harry Clavering whom they were all to love. But
Mrs. Burton would by no means give up all hope. It was useless to say
anything to Florence, but she still hoped that good might come.
And then, as she thought of it all, a project came into her head.
Alas, and alas! Was she not too late with her project? Why had she
not thought of it on the Tuesday or early on the Wednesday, when it
might possibly have been executed? But it was a project which she
must have kept secret from her husband, of which he would by no means
have approved; and as she remembered this, she told herself that
perhaps it was as well that things should take their own course
without such interference as she had contemplated.
On the Thursday morning there came to her a letter in a strange hand.
It was from Clavering,--from Harry's mother. Mrs. Clavering wrote,
as she said, at her son's request, to say that he was confined to
his bed, and could not be in London as soon as he expected. Mrs.
Burton was not to suppose that he was really ill, and none of the
family were to be frightened. From this Mrs. Burton learned that Mrs.
Clavering knew nothing of Harry's apostasy. The letter went on to
say that Harry would write as soon as he himself was able, and would
probably be in London early next week,--at any rate before the end
of it. He was a little feverish, but there was no cause for alarm.
Florence, of course, could only listen and turn pale. Now at any rate
she must remain in London.
Mrs. Burton's project might, after all, be feasible; but then what if
her husband should really be angry with her? That was a misfortune
which never yet had come upon her.