THE SHEEP RETURNS TO THE FOLD.
Harry Clavering had spoken solemn words to his mother, during his
illness, which both he and she regarded as a promise that Florence
should not be deserted by him. After that promise nothing more was
said between them on the subject for a few days. Mrs. Clavering was
contented that the promise had been made, and Harry himself, in the
weakness consequent upon his illness, was willing enough to accept
the excuse which his illness gave him for postponing any action in
the matter. But the fever had left him, and he was sitting up in his
mother's room, when Florence's letter reached the parsonage,--and,
with the letter, the little parcel which she herself had packed up so
carefully. On the day before that a few words had passed between the
rector and his wife, which will explain the feelings of both of them
in the matter.
"Have you heard," said he,--speaking in a voice hardly above a
whisper, although no third person was in the room,--"that Harry is
again thinking of making Julia his wife?"
"He is not thinking of doing so," said Mrs. Clavering. "They who say
so, 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 as
his future wife. I could not endure to think that it should be so. At
any 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 the
thought that so grand a marriage should not be within his son's
reach. The rector was beginning to be aware that Harry would hardly
make a fortune at the profession which he had chosen, and that a rich
marriage would be an easy way out of all the difficulties which such
a failure promised. The rector was a man who dearly loved easy ways
out of difficulties. But in such matters as these his wife he knew
was imperative and powerful, and he lacked the courage to plead for a
cause that was prudent, but ungenerous.
When Mrs. Clavering received the letter and parcel on the next
morning, Harry Clavering was still in bed. With the delightful
privilege of a convalescent invalid, he was allowed in these days
to get up just when getting up became more comfortable than lying
in bed, and that time did not usually come till eleven o'clock was
past;--but the postman reached the Clavering parsonage by nine. The
letter, as we know, was addressed to Mrs. Clavering herself, as
was also the outer envelope which contained the packet; but the
packet itself was addressed in Florence's clear handwriting to Harry
Clavering, Esq. "That is a large parcel to come by post, mamma," said
Fanny.
"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 said
nothing further, and both husband and daughter perceived that it was
not 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 completed
and removed. Indeed it was necessary that she should study Florence's
letter in her own room before she could speak to him about it. What
the parcel contained she well knew, even before the letter had been
thoroughly read; and I need hardly say that the treasure was sacred
in her hands. When she had finished the perusal of the letter there
was a tear,--a gentle tear, in each eye. She understood it all, and
could fathom the strength and weakness of every word which Florence
had written. But she was such a woman,--exactly such a woman,--as
Cecilia Burton had pictured to herself. Mrs. Clavering was good
enough, great enough, true enough, clever enough to know that Harry's
love for Florence should be sustained, and his fancy for Lady Ongar
overcome. At no time would she have been proud to see her son
prosperous only in the prosperity of a wife's fortune; but she would
have been thoroughly ashamed of him, had he resolved to pursue such
prosperity under his present circumstances.
But her tears,--though they were there in the corners of her
eyes,--were not painful tears. Dear Florence! She was suffering
bitterly now. This very day would be a day of agony to her. There
had been for her, doubtless, many days of agony during the past
month. That the letter was true in all its words Mrs. Clavering did
not doubt. That Florence believed that all was over between her and
Harry, Mrs. Clavering was as sure as Florence had intended that she
should be. But all should not be over, and the days of agony should
soon be at an end. Her boy had promised her, and to her he had always
been true. And she understood, too, the way in which these dangers
had come upon him, and her judgment was not heavy upon her son;--her
gracious boy, who had ever been so good to her! It might be that he
had been less diligent at his work than he should have been,--that
on that account further delay would still be necessary; but Florence
would forgive that, and he had promised that Florence should not be
deserted.
Then she took the parcel in her hands, and considered all its
circumstances,--how precious had once been its contents, and how
precious doubtless they still were, though they had been thus
repudiated! And she thought of the moments,--nay, rather of the
hours,--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 read
morsels of the letters at which she had already forbidden herself
even to look,--till every word had been again seen and weighed, again
caressed and again abjured. She knew how those little trinkets would
have been fondled! How salt had been the tears that had fallen on
them, and how carefully the drops would have been removed. Every fold
in the paper of the two envelopes, with the little morsels of wax
just adequate for their purpose, told of the lingering painful care
with which the work had been done. Ah! the parcel should go back at
once 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 take
pleasure in the touching. She should again read her lover's words
with an enduring delight. Mrs. Clavering understood it all, as though
she also were still a girl with a lover of her own.
Harry was beginning to think that the time had come in which getting
up would be more comfortable than lying in bed, when his mother
knocked at his door and entered his room. "I was just going to make a
move, mother," he said, having reached that stage of convalescence in
which some shame comes upon the idler.
"But I want to speak to you first, my dear," said Mrs. Clavering. "I
have got a letter for you, or rather a parcel." Harry held out his
hand, and taking the packet, at once recognized the writing of the
address.
"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; "for
she has written and told me. Will you see her letter to me?" Again
Harry held out his hand, but his mother did not at once give him the
letter. "First of all, my dear, let us know that we understand each
other. This dear girl,--to me she is inexpressibly dear,--is to be
your wife?"
"Yes, mother;--it shall be so."
[Illustration: The sheep returns to the fold.]
"That is my own boy! Harry, I have never doubted you;--have never
doubted that you would be right at last. Now you shall see her
letter. But you must remember that she has had cause to make her
unhappy."
"I will remember."
"Had you not been ill, everything would of course have been all right
before now." As to the correctness of this assertion the reader
probably 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. She
gave him up as though it were a thing quite decided, and uttered no
expression of her own regret in doing so. There was no soft woman's
wail in her words. But there was in them something which made him
unconsciously long to get back the thing which he had so nearly
thrown away from him. They inspired him with a doubt whether he might
yet succeed, which very doubt greatly increased his desire. As he
read the letter for the second time, Julia became less beautiful
in his imagination, and the charm of Florence's character became
stronger.
"Well, dear?" said his mother, when she saw that he had finished the
second reading of the epistle.
He hardly knew how to express, even to his mother, all his
feelings,--the shame that he felt, and with the shame something of
indignation that he should have been so repulsed. And of his love,
too, he was afraid to speak. He was willing enough to give the
required assurance, but after that he would have preferred to have
been left alone. But his mother could not leave him without some
further word of agreement between them as to the course which they
would pursue.
"Will you write to her, mother, or shall I?"
"I shall write, certainly,--by to-day's post. I would not leave her
an hour, if I could help it, without an assurance of your unaltered
affection."
"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 it
into her hands again. We will send Jem over to the post-office, and
have it registered."
When so much was settled, Mrs. Clavering went away about the affairs
of her house, thinking as she did so of the loving words with which
she would strive to give back happiness to Florence Burton.
Harry, when he was alone, slowly opened the parcel. He could not
resist the temptation of doing this, and of looking again at the
things which she had sent back to him. And he was not without an
idea,--perhaps a hope--that there might be with them some short
note,--some scrap containing a few words for himself. If he had
any such hope he was disappointed. There were his own letters,
all scented with lavender from the casket in which they had been
preserved; there was the rich bracelet which had been given with some
little ceremony, and the cheap brooch which he had thrown to her as
a joke, and which she had sworn that she would value the most of all
because she could wear it every day; and there was the pencil-case
which he had fixed on to her watch-chain, while her fingers were
touching his fingers, caressing him for his love while her words were
rebuking him for his awkwardness. He remembered it all as the things
lay 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 as
he said so he was quite ready to make himself a fool after the same
fashion again,--if only there were not in his way that difficulty of
recommencing. Had it been possible for him to write again at once in
the old strain,--without any reference to his own conduct during the
last month, he would have begun his fooling without waiting to finish
his dressing.
"Did you open the parcel?" his mother asked him, some hour or so
before 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, a
cupid in mosaic surrounded by tiny diamonds, which he remembered her
to wear ever since he had first noticed the things she had worn. "Not
from me, mind. I give it to you. Come;--will you trust me to pack
them?" Then Mrs. Clavering again made up the parcel, and added the
trinket which she had brought with her.
Harry at last brought himself to write a few words. "Dearest, dearest
Florence,--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 know
what it contains. Indeed, indeed you may believe it all. May I not
venture to return the parcel? I do send it back and implore you to
keep it. I shall be in town, I think, on Monday, and will go to
Onslow Crescent,--instantly. Your own, H. C." Then there was scrawled
a postscript which was worth all the rest put together,--was better
than his own note, better than his mother's letter, better than the
returned packet. "I love no one better than you;--no one half so
well,--neither now, nor ever did." These words, whether wholly true
or only partially so, were at least to the point; and were taken by
Cecilia Burton, when she heard of them, as a confession of faith that
demanded instant and plenary absolution.
The trouble which had called Harry down to Clavering remained, I
regret to say, almost in full force now that his prolonged visit
had been brought so near its close. Mr. Saul, indeed, had agreed
to resign his curacy, and was already on the look-out for similar
employment in some other parish. And since his interview with Fanny's
father he had never entered the rectory, or spoken to Fanny. Fanny
had promised that there should be no such speaking, and indeed no
danger of that kind was feared. Whatever Mr. Saul might do he would
do 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 in
almost ridiculing the idea of such a lover. There had been a feeling
with her as with the others that poor Mr. Saul was to be pitied. Then
she had come to regard his overtures as matters of grave import,--not
indeed avowing to her mother anything so strong as a return of his
affection, but speaking of his proposal as one to which there was
no other objection than that of a want of money. Now, however, she
went 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 till
death should relieve her from the cruelty of her parents. She never
complained. Such victims never do complain. But she moped and was
wretched, and when her mother questioned her, struggling to find out
how strong this feeling might in truth be, Fanny would simply make
her dutiful promises,--promises which were wickedly dutiful,--that
she would never mention the name of Mr. Saul any more. Mr. Saul in
the meantime went about his parish duties with grim energy, supplying
the rector's shortcomings without a word. He would have been glad
to preach all the sermons and read all the services during these
six months, had he been allowed to do so. He was constant in
the schools,--more constant than ever in his visitings. He was
very courteous to Mr. Clavering when the necessities of their
position brought them together. For all this Mr. Clavering hated
him,--unjustly. For a man placed as Mr. Saul was placed a line of
conduct exactly level with that previously followed is impossible,
and it was better that he should become more energetic in his duties
than less so. It will be easily understood that all these things
interfered much with the general happiness of the family at the
rectory at this time.
The Monday came, and Harry Clavering, now convalescent and simply
interesting from the remaining effects of his illness, started on his
journey for London. There had come no further letters from Onslow
Terrace to the parsonage, and, indeed, owing to the intervention of
Sunday, none could have come unless Florence had written by return
of post. Harry made his journey, beginning it with some promise of
happiness to himself,--but becoming somewhat uneasy as his train drew
near to London. He had behaved badly, and he knew that in the first
place he must own that he had done so. To men such a necessity is
always grievous. Women not unfrequently like the task. To confess,
submit, and be accepted as confessing and submitting, comes naturally
to the feminine mind. The cry of peccavi sounds soft and pretty when
made by sweet lips in a loving voice. But a man who can own that he
has 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 now
make such confession, and therefore he became uneasy. And then, for
him, there was another task behind the one which he would be called
upon to perform this evening,--a task which would have nothing of
pleasantness in it to redeem its pain. He must confess not only to
Florence,--where his confession might probably have its reward,--but
he must confess also to Julia. This second confession would, indeed,
be a hard task to him. That, however, was to be postponed till the
morrow. On this evening he had pledged himself that he would go
direct to Onslow Terrace; and this he did as soon after he had
reached his lodgings as was possible. It was past six when he reached
London, and it was not yet eight when, with palpitating heart, he
knocked at Mr. Burton's door.
I must take the reader back with me for a few minutes, in order
that we may see after what fashion the letters from Clavering were
received by the ladies in Onslow Terrace. On that day Mr. Burton had
been required to go out of London by one of the early trains, and had
not been in the house when the postman came. Nothing had been said
between Cecilia and Florence as to their hopes or fears in regard to
an answer from Clavering;--nothing at least since that conversation
in 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 sent
at once from Clavering, would arrive on this morning; and therefore,
when the well-known knock was heard, neither of them was able to
maintain her calmness perfectly. But yet nothing was said, nor did
either of them rise from her seat at the breakfast-table. Presently
the girl came in with apparently a bundle of letters, which she was
still sorting when she entered the room. There were two or three for
Mr. Burton, two for Cecilia, and then two besides the registered
packet for Florence. For that a receipt was needed, and as Florence
had seen the address and recognized the writing, she was hardly able
to give her signature. As soon as the maid was gone, Cecilia could
keep 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, leaning
forward, covered the letters with her hands. "Oh, Florence, let us
see them; let us see them at once. If we are to be happy let us know
it." But Florence paused, still leaning over her treasures, and
hardly daring to show her burning face. Even yet it might be that she
was rejected. Then Cecilia went back to her seat, and simply looked
at her sister with beseeching eyes. "I think I'll go upstairs,"
said Florence. "Are you afraid of me, Flo?" Cecilia answered
reproachfully. "Let me see the outside of them." Then Florence
brought 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 crying
in each other's arms. "I was quite sure of it," said Cecilia, through
her tears,--"perfectly sure. I never doubted it for a moment. How
could you have talked of going to Stratton?" At last Florence got
herself away up to the window, and gradually mustered courage to
break the envelope of her lover's letter. It was not at once that she
showed the postscript to Cecilia, nor at once that the packet was
opened. That last ceremony she did perform in the solitude of her
own room. But before the day was over the postscript had been shown,
and the added trinket had been exhibited. "I remember it well," said
Florence. "Mrs. Clavering wore it on her forehead when we dined at
Lady Clavering's." Mrs. Burton in all this saw something of the
gentle persuasion which the mother had used, but of that she said
nothing. That he should be back again, and should have repented, was
enough for her.
Mr. Burton was again absent when Harry Clavering knocked in person
at the door; but on this occasion his absence had been specially
arranged by him with a view to Harry's comfort. "He won't want to
see me this evening," he had said. "Indeed you'll all get on a
great deal better without me." He therefore had remained away from
home, and, not being a club man, had dined most uncomfortably at an
eating-house. "Are the ladies at home?" Harry asked, when the door
was opened. Oh, yes; they were at home. There was no danger that they
should be found out on such an occasion as this. The girl looked
at him pleasantly, calling him by his name as she answered him, as
though she too desired to show him that he had again been taken into
favour,--into her favour as well as that of her mistress.
He hardly knew what he was doing as he ran up the steps to the
drawing-room. He was afraid of what was to come; but nevertheless
he rushed at his fate as some young soldier rushes at the trench
in which he feels that he may probably fall. So Harry Clavering
hurried on, and before he had looked round upon the room which he had
entered, found his fate with Florence on his bosom.
Alas, alas! I fear that justice was outraged in the welcome that
Harry received on that evening. I have said that he would be called
upon to own his sins, and so much, at least, should have been
required of him. But he owned no sin! I have said that a certain
degradation must attend him in that first interview after his
reconciliation. Instead of this the hours that he spent that evening
in 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, and
those two women did him honour, almost kneeling at his feet. Cecilia
was almost as tender with him as Florence, pleading to her own false
heart the fact of his illness as his excuse. There was something of
the pallor of the sick-room left with him,--a slight tenuity in his
hands and brightness in his eye which did him yeoman's service. Had
he been quite robust, Cecilia might have felt that she could not
justify to herself the peculiar softness of her words. After the
first quarter of an hour he was supremely happy. His awkwardness had
gone, and as he sat with his arm round Florence's waist, he found
that the little pencil-case had again been attached to her chain, and
as he looked down upon her he saw that the cheap brooch was again on
her breast. It would have been pretty, could an observer have been
there, to see the skill with which they both steered clear of any
word or phrase which could be disagreeable to him. One might have
thought that it would have been impossible to avoid all touch of a
rebuke. The very fact that he was forgiven would seem to imply some
fault that required pardon. But there was no hint at any fault.
The tact of women excels the skill of men; and so perfect was the
tact of these women that not a word was said which wounded Harry's
ear. He had come again into their fold, and they were rejoiced and
showed their joy. He who had gone astray had repented, and they were
beautifully tender to the repentant sheep.