The Claverings

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CUMBERLY LANE WITHOUT THE MUD.

  Fanny Clavering, while she was inquiring of her brother about histroubles, had not been without troubles of her own. For some dayspast she had been aware,--almost aware,--that Mr. Saul's love was notamong the things that were past. I am not prepared to say that thisconviction on her part was altogether an unalloyed trouble, or thatthere might have been no faint touch of sadness, of silent melancholyabout her, had it been otherwise. But Mr. Saul was undoubtedly atrouble to her; and Mr. Saul with his love in activity would be moretroublesome than Mr. Saul with his love in abeyance. "It would bemadness either in him or in me," Fanny had said to herself veryoften; "he has not a shilling in the world." But she thought nomore in these days of the awkwardness of his gait, or of his rustyclothes, or his abstracted manner; and for his doings as a clergymanher admiration had become very great. Her mother saw something ofall this, and cautioned her; but Fanny's demure manner deceived Mrs.Clavering. "Oh, mamma, of course I know that anything of the kindmust be impossible; and I am sure he does not think of it himself anylonger." When she had said this, Mrs. Clavering had believed thatit was all right. The reader must not suppose that Fanny had been ahypocrite. There had been no hypocrisy in her words to her mother. Atthat moment the conviction that Mr. Saul's love was not among pastevents had not reached her; and as regarded herself, she was quitesincere when she said that anything of the kind must be impossible.

  It will be remembered that Florence Burton had advised Mr. Saulto try again, and that Mr. Saul had resolved that he would doso,--resolving, also, that should he try in vain he must leaveClavering, and seek another home. He was a solemn, earnest,thoughtful man; to whom such a matter as this was a phase of lifevery serious, causing infinite present trouble, nay, causingtribulation, and, to the same extent, capable of causing infinitejoy. From day to day he went about his work, seeing her amidst hisministrations almost daily. And never during these days did he saya word to her of his love,--never since that day in which he hadplainly pleaded his cause in the muddy lane. To no one but FlorenceBurton had he since spoken of it, and Florence had certainly beentrue to her trust; but, notwithstanding all that, Fanny's convictionwas very strong.

  Florence had counselled Mr. Saul to try again, and Mr. Saul wasprepared to make the attempt; but he was a man who allowed himself todo nothing in a hurry. He thought much of the matter before he couldprepare himself to recur to the subject; doubting, sometimes, whetherhe would be right to do so without first speaking to Fanny's father;doubting, afterwards, whether he might not best serve his cause byasking the assistance of Fanny's mother. But he resolved at last thathe would depend on himself alone. As to the rector, if his suit toFanny were a fault against Mr. Clavering as Fanny's father, thatfault had been already committed. But Mr. Saul would not admit tohimself that it was a fault. I fancy that he considered himself tohave, as a gentleman, a right to address himself to any lady withwhom he was thrown into close contact. I fancy that he ignored allwant of worldly preparation,--never for a moment attempting to placehimself on a footing with men who were richer than himself, and, asthe world goes, brighter, but still feeling himself to be in no waylower than they. If any woman so lived as to show that she thoughthis line better than their line, it was open to him to ask such womanto join her lot to his. If he failed, the misfortune was his; andthe misfortune, as he well knew, was one which it was hard to bear.And as to the mother, though he had learned to love Mrs. Claveringdearly,--appreciating her kindness to all those around her, herconduct to her husband, her solicitude in the parish, all her genuinegoodness, still he was averse to trust to her for any part of hissuccess. Though Mr. Saul was no knight, though he had nothingknightly about him, though he was a poor curate in very rusty clothesand with manner strangely unfitted for much communion with the outerworld, still he had a feeling that the spoil which he desired towin should be won by his own spear, and that his triumph would losehalf its glory if it were not achieved by his own prowess. He wasno coward, either in such matter as this or in any other. Whencircumstances demanded that he should speak he could speak his mindfreely, with manly vigour, and sometimes not without a certain manlygrace.

  How did Fanny know that it was coming? She did know it, though he hadsaid nothing to her beyond his usual parish communications. He wasoften with her in the two schools; often returned with her in thesweet spring evenings along the lane that led back to the rectoryfrom Cumberly Green; often inspected with her the little amounts ofparish charities and entries of pence collected from such parents ascould pay. He had never reverted to that other subject. But yet Fannyknew that it was coming, and when she had questioned Harry about histroubles she had been thinking also of her own.

  It was now the middle of May, and the spring was giving way to theearly summer almost before the spring had itself arrived. It is so, Ithink, in these latter years. The sharpness of March prolongs itselfalmost through April; and then, while we are still hoping for thespring, there falls upon us suddenly a bright, dangerous, deliciousgleam of summer. The lane from Cumberly Green was no longer muddy,and Fanny could go backwards and forwards between the parsonage andher distant school without that wading for which feminine apparelis so unsuited. One evening, just as she had finished her work, Mr.Saul's head appeared at the school-door, and he asked her whether shewere about to return home. As soon as she saw his eye and heard hisvoice, she feared that the day was come. She was prepared with nonew answer, and could only give the answer that she had given before.She had always told herself that it was impossible; and as to allother questions, about her own heart or such like, she had put suchquestions away from her as being unnecessary, and, perhaps, unseemly.The thing was impossible, and should therefore be put away out ofthought, as a matter completed and at an end. But now the time wascome, and she almost wished that she had been more definite in herown resolutions.

  "Yes, Mr. Saul, I have just done."

  "I will walk with you, if you will let me." Then Fanny spoke somewords of experienced wisdom to two or three girls, in order thatshe might show to them, to him, and to herself that she was quitecollected. She lingered in the room for a few minutes, and was verywise and very experienced. "I am quite ready now, Mr. Saul." Sosaying, she came forth upon the green lane, and he followed her.

  They walked on in silence for a little way, and then he asked hersome question about Florence Burton. Fanny told him that she hadheard from Stratton two days since, and that Florence was well.

  "I liked her very much," said Mr. Saul.

  "So did we all. She is coming here again in the autumn; so it willnot be very long before you see her again."

  "How that may be I cannot tell, but if you see her that will be ofmore consequence."

  "We shall all see her, of course."

  "It was here, in this lane, that I was with her last, and wished hergood-by. She did not tell you of my having parted with her, then?"

  "Not especially, that I remember."

  "Ah, you would have remembered if she had told you; but she was quiteright not to tell you." Fanny was now a little confused, so that shecould not exactly calculate what all this meant. Mr. Saul walked onby her side, and for some moments nothing was said. After a whilehe recurred again to his parting from Florence. "I asked her adviceon that occasion, and she gave it me clearly,--with a clear purposeand an assured voice. I like a person who will do that. You are surethen that you are getting the truth out of your friend, even if it bea simple negative, or a refusal to give any reply to the questionasked."

  "Florence Burton is always clear in what she says."

  "I had asked her if she thought that I might venture to hope for amore favourable answer if I urged my suit to you again."

  "She cannot have said yes to that, Mr. Saul; she cannot have doneso!"

  "She did not do so. She simply bade me ask yourself. And she wasright. On such a matter there is no one to whom I can with proprietyaddress myself, but to yourself. Therefore I now ask you thequestion
. May I venture to have any hope?"

  His voice was so solemn, and there was so much of eager seriousnessin his face that Fanny could not bring herself to answer him withquickness. The answer that was in her mind was in truth this: "Howcan you ask me to try to love a man who has but seventy pounds ayear in the world, while I myself have nothing?" But there wassomething in his demeanour,--something that was almost grand in itsgravity,--which made it quite impossible that she should speak tohim in that tone. But he, having asked his question, waited for ananswer; and she was well aware that the longer she delayed it, theweaker became the ground on which she was standing.

  "It is quite impossible," she said at last.

  "If it really be so,--if you will say again that it is so afterhearing me out to an end, I will desist. In that case I will desistand leave you,--and leave Clavering."

  "Oh, Mr. Saul, do not do that,--for papa's sake, and because of theparish."

  "I would do much for your father, and as to the parish I love itwell. I do not think I can make you understand how well I love it.It seems to me that I can never again have the same feeling for anyplace that I have for this. There is not a house, a field, a greenlane, that is not dear to me. It is like a first love. With somepeople a first love will come so strongly that it makes a renewalof the passion impossible." He did not say that it would be so withhimself, but it seemed to her that he intended that she should sounderstand him.

  "I do not see why you should leave Clavering," she said.

  "If you knew the nature of my regard for yourself, you would seewhy it should be so. I do not say that there ought to be any suchnecessity. If I were strong there would be no such need. But I amweak,--weak in this; and I could not hold myself under such controlas is wanted for the work I have to do." When he had spoken of hislove for the place,--for the parish, there had been something ofpassion in his language; but now in the words which he spoke ofhimself and of his feeling for her, he was calm and reasonable andtranquil, and talked of his going away from her as he might havetalked had some change of air been declared necessary for his health.She felt that this was so, and was almost angry with him.

  "Of course you must know what will be best for yourself," she said.

  "Yes; I know now what I must do, if such is to be your answer. I havemade up my mind as to that. I cannot remain at Clavering, if I amtold that I may never hope that you will become my wife."

  "But, Mr. Saul--"

  "Well; I am listening. But before you speak, remember howall-important your words will be to me."

  "No; they cannot be all-important."

  "As regards my present happiness and rest in this world they willbe so. Of course I know that nothing you can say or do will hurt mebeyond that. But you might help me even to that further and greaterbliss. You might help me too in that,--as I also might help you."

  "But, Mr. Saul--" she began again, and then, feeling that she must goon, she forced herself to utter words which at the time she felt tobe commonplace. "People cannot marry without an income. Mr. Fieldingdid not think of such a thing till he had a living assured to him."

  "But, independently of that, might I hope?" She ventured for aninstant to glance at his face, and saw that his eyes were glisteningwith a wonderful brightness.

  "How can I answer you further? Is not that reason enough why such athing should not be even discussed?"

  "No, Miss Clavering, it is not reason enough. If you were to tellme that you could never love me,--me, personally,--that you couldnever regard me with affection, that would be reason why I shoulddesist;--why I should abandon all my hope here, and go away fromClavering for ever. Nothing else can be reason enough. My being poorought not to make you throw me aside if you loved me. If it were sothat you loved me, I think you would owe it me to say so, let me beever so poor."

  "I do not like you the less because you are poor."

  "But do you like me at all? Can you bring yourself to love me? Wouldyou make the effort if I had such an income as you thought necessary?If I had such riches, could you teach yourself to regard me as himwhom you were to love better than all the world beside? I call uponyou to answer me that question truly; and if you tell me that itcould be so, I will not despair, and I will not go away."

  As he said this they came to a turn in the road which brought theparsonage gate within their view. Fanny knew that she would leave himthere and go in alone, but she knew also that she must say somethingfurther to him before she could thus escape. She did not wish to givehim an assurance of her positive indifference to him,--and still lessdid she wish to tell him that he might hope. It could not be possiblethat such an engagement should be approved by her father, nor couldshe bring herself to think that she could be quite contented witha lover such as Mr. Saul. When he had first proposed to her shehad almost ridiculed his proposition in her heart. Even now therewas something in it that was almost ridiculous;--and yet there wassomething in it also that touched her as being sublime. The man washonest, good, and true,--perhaps the best and truest man that she hadever known. She could not bring herself to say to him any word thatshould banish him for ever from the place he loved so well.

  "If you knew your own heart well enough to answer me, you should doso," he went on to say. "If you do not, say so, and I will be contentto wait your own time."

  "It would be better, Mr. Saul, that you should not think of this anymore."

  "No, Miss Clavering; that would not be better,--not for me; for itwould prove me to be utterly heartless. I am not heartless. I loveyou dearly. I will not say that I cannot live without you; but it ismy one great hope as regards this world, that I should have you atsome future day as my own. It may be that I am too prone to hope; butsurely, if that were altogether beyond hope, you would have foundwords to tell me so by this time." They had now come to the gateway,and he paused as she put her trembling hand upon the latch.

  "I cannot say more to you now," she said.

  "Then let it be so. But, Miss Clavering, I shall not leave this placetill you have said more than that. And I will speak the truth to you,even though it may offend you. I have more of hope now than I haveever had before,--more hope that you may possibly learn to love me.In a few days I will ask you again whether I may be allowed to speakupon the subject to your father. Now I will say farewell, and may Godbless you; and remember this,--that my only earthly wish and ambitionis in your hands." Then he went on his way towards his own lodgings,and she entered the parsonage garden by herself.

  What should she now do, and how should she carry herself? She wouldhave gone to her mother at once, were it not that she could notresolve what words she would speak to her mother. When her mothershould ask her how she regarded the man, in what way should sheanswer that question? She could not tell herself that she loved Mr.Saul; and yet, if she surely did not love him,--if such love wereimpossible,--why had she not said as much to him? We, however, maydeclare that that inclination to ridicule his passion, to thinkof him as a man who had no right to love, was gone for ever. Sheconceded to him clearly that right, and knew that he had exercised itwell. She knew that he was good and true, and honest, and recognizedin him also manly courage and spirited resolution. She would not tellherself that it was impossible that she should love him.

  She went up at last to her room doubting, unhappy, and ill at ease.To have such a secret long kept from her mother would make her lifeunendurable to her. But she felt that, in speaking to her mother,only one aspect of the affair would be possible. Even though sheloved him, how could she marry a curate whose only income was seventypounds a year?