CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MAN WHO DUSTED HIS BOOTS WITH HIS HANDKERCHIEF.
When Florence Burton had written three letters to Harry withoutreceiving a word in reply to either of them, she began to beseriously unhappy. The last of these letters, received by him afterthe scene described in the last chapter, he had been afraid to read.It still remained unopened in his pocket. But Florence, though shewas unhappy, was not even yet jealous. Her fears did not lie in thatdirection, nor had she naturally any tendency to such uneasiness.He was ill, she thought; or if not ill in health, then ill at ease.Some trouble afflicted him of which he could not bring himself totell her the facts, and as she thought of this she remembered her ownstubbornness on the subject of their marriage, and blamed herself inthat she was not now with him, to comfort him. If such comfort wouldavail him anything now, she would be stubborn no longer. When thethird letter brought no reply she wrote to her sister-in-law, Mrs.Burton, confessing her uneasiness, and begging for comfort. SurelyCecilia could not but see him occasionally,--or at any rate have thepower of seeing him. Or Theodore might do so,--as of course he wouldbe at the office. If anything ailed him would Cecilia tell her allthe truth? But Cecilia, when she began to fear that something did ailhim, did not find it very easy to tell Florence all the truth.
But there was jealousy at Stratton, though Florence was not jealous.Old Mrs. Burton had become alarmed, and was ready to tear the eyesout of Harry Clavering's head if Harry should be false to herdaughter. This was a misfortune of which, with all her brood, Mrs.Burton had as yet known nothing. No daughter of hers had been misusedby any man, and no son of hers had ever misused any one's daughter.Her children had gone out into the world steadily, prudently, makingno brilliant marriages, but never falling into any mistakes. Sheheard of such misfortunes around her,--that a young lady here hadloved in vain, and that a young lady there had been left to wear thewillow; but such sorrows had never visited her roof, and she wasdisposed to think,--and perhaps to say,--that the fault lay chieflyin the imprudence of mothers. What if at last, when her work in thisline had been so nearly brought to a successful close, misery anddisappointment should come also upon her lamb! In such case Mrs.Burton, we may say, was a ewe who would not see her lamb sufferwithout many bleatings and considerable exercise of her maternalenergies.
And tidings had come to Mrs. Burton which had not as yet been allowedto reach Florence's ears. In the office at the Adelphi was one Mr.Walliker, who had a younger brother now occupying that desk in Mr.Burton's office which had belonged to Harry Clavering. ThroughBob Walliker, Mrs. Burton learned that Harry did not come to theoffice even when it was known that he had returned to London fromClavering;--and she also learned at last that the young men in theoffice were connecting Harry Clavering's name with that of the richand noble widow, Lady Ongar. Then Mrs. Burton wrote to her sonTheodore, as Florence had written to Theodore's wife.
Mrs. Burton, though she had loved Harry dearly, and had perhaps inmany respects liked him better than any of her sons-in-law, had,nevertheless, felt some misgivings from the first. Florence wasbrighter, better educated, and cleverer than her elder sisters, andtherefore when it had come to pass that she was asked in marriageby a man somewhat higher in rank and softer in manners than theywho had married her sisters, there had seemed to be some reasonfor the change;--but Mrs. Burton had felt that it was a ground forapprehension. High rank and soft manners may not always belong to atrue heart. At first she was unwilling to hint this caution even toherself; but at last, as her suspicions grew, she spoke the wordsvery frequently, not only to herself but also to her husband. Why,oh why, had she let into her house any man differing in mode of lifefrom those whom she had known to be honest and good? How would hergray hairs be made to go in sorrow to the grave, if, after all herold prudence and all her old success, her last pet lamb should bereturned to the mother's side, ill-used, maimed, and blighted!
Theodore Burton, when he received his mother's letter, had not seenHarry since his return from Clavering. He had been inclined to bevery angry with him for his long and unannounced absence from theoffice. "He will do no good," he had said to his wife. "He doesnot know what real work means." But his anger turned to disgust asregarded Harry, and almost to despair as regarded his sister, whenHarry had been a week in town and yet had not shown himself at theAdelphi. But at this time Theodore Burton had heard no word of LadyOngar, though the clerks in the office had that name daily in theirmouths. "Cannot you go to him, Theodore?" said his wife. "It isvery easy to say go to him," he replied. "If I made it my businessI could, of course, go to him, and no doubt find him if I wasdetermined to do so;--but what more could I do? I can lead a horse tothe water, but I cannot make him drink." "You could speak to him ofFlorence." "That is such a woman's idea," said the husband. "Whenevery proper incentive to duty and ambition has failed him, he is tobe brought into the right way by the mention of a girl's name!" "MayI see him?" Cecilia urged. "Yes,--if you can catch him; but I do notadvise you to try."
After that came the two letters for the husband and wife, each ofwhich was shown to the other; and then for the first time did eitherof them receive the idea that Lady Ongar with her fortune might be acause of misery to their sister. "I don't believe a word of it," saidCecilia, whose cheeks were burning, half with shame and half withanger. Harry had been such a pet with her,--had already been takenso closely to her heart as a brother! "I should not have suspectedhim of that kind of baseness," said Theodore, very slowly. "He isnot base," said Cecilia. "He may be idle and foolish, but he is notbase."
"I must at any rate go after him now," said Theodore. "I don'tbelieve this;--I won't believe it. I do not believe it. But if itshould be true--!"
"Oh, Theodore."
"I do not think it is true. It is not the kind of weakness I haveseen in him. He is weak and vain, but I should have said that he wastrue."
"I am sure he is true."
"I think so. I cannot say more than that I think so."
"You will write to your mother?"
"Yes."
"And may I ask Florence to come up? Is it not always better thatpeople should be near to each other when they are engaged?"
"You can ask her, if you like. I doubt whether she will come."
"She will come if she thinks that anything is amiss with him."
Cecilia wrote immediately to Florence, pressing her invitation in thestrongest terms that she could use. "I tell you the whole truth," shesaid. "We have not seen him, and this, of course, has troubled usvery greatly. I feel quite sure he would come to us if you were here;and this, I think, should bring you, if no other consideration doesso. Theodore imagines that he has become simply idle, and that heis ashamed to show himself here because of that. It may be that hehas some trouble with reference to his own home, of which we knownothing. But if he has any such trouble, you ought to be made awareof it, and I feel sure that he would tell you if you were here." Muchmore she said, arguing in the same way, and pressing Florence to cometo London.
Mr. Burton did not at once send a reply to his mother, but he wrotethe following note to Harry:--
Adelphi ----, May, 186--.
MY DEAR CLAVERING,--I have been sorry to notice your continued absence from the office, and both Cecilia and I have been very sorry that you have discontinued coming to us. But I should not have written to you on this matter, not wishing to interfere in your own concerns, had I not desired to see you specially with reference to my sister. As I have that to say to you concerning her which I can hardly write, will you make an appointment with me here, or at my house? Or, if you cannot do that, will you say when I shall find you at home? If you will come and dine with us we shall like that best, and leave you to name an early day: to-morrow, or the next day, or the day after.
Very truly yours,
THEODORE BURTON.
When Cecilia's letter reached Stratton, and another post camewithout any letter from Harry, poor Florence's heart sank low in herbosom. "Well, my
dear," said Mrs. Burton, who watched her daughteranxiously while she was reading the letter. Mrs. Burton had nottold Florence of her own letter to her son; and now, having herselfreceived no answer, looked to obtain some reply from that which herdaughter-in-law had sent.
"Cecilia wants me to go to London," said Florence.
"Is there anything the matter that you should go just now?"
"Not exactly the matter, mamma; but you can see the letter."
Mrs. Burton read it slowly, and felt sure that much was the matter.She knew that Cecilia would have written in that strain only underthe influence of some great alarm. At first she was disposed tothink that she herself would go to London. She was eager to know thetruth,--eager to utter her loud maternal bleatings if any wrong werethreatened to her lamb. Florence might go with her, but she longedherself to be on the field of action. She felt that she could almostannihilate any man by her words and looks who would dare to ill-treata girl of hers.
"Well, mamma;--what do you think?"
"I don't know yet, my dear. I will speak to your papa before dinner."But as Mrs. Burton had been usually autocratic in the management ofher own daughters, Florence was aware that her mother simply requireda little time before she made up her mind. "It is not that I want togo to London--for the pleasure of it, mamma."
"I know that, my dear."
"Nor yet merely to see him!--though of course I do long to see him!"
"Of course you do;--why shouldn't you?"
"But Cecilia is so very prudent, and she thinks that it will bebetter. And she would not have pressed it, unless Theodore hadthought so too!"
"I thought Theodore would have written to me!"
"But he writes so seldom."
"I expected a letter from him now, as I had written to him."
"About Harry, do you mean?"
"Well;--yes. I did not mention it, as I was aware I might make youuneasy. But I saw that you were unhappy at not hearing from him."
"Oh, mamma, do let me go."
"Of course you shall go if you wish it;--but let me speak to papabefore anything is quite decided."
Mrs. Burton did speak to her husband, and it was arranged thatFlorence should go up to Onslow Crescent. But Mrs. Burton, thoughshe had been always autocratic about her unmarried daughters, hadnever been autocratic about herself. When she hinted that she alsomight go, she saw that the scheme was not approved, and she at onceabandoned it. "It would look as if we were all afraid," said Mr.Burton, "and after all what does it come to?--a young gentleman doesnot write to his sweetheart for two or three weeks. I used to thinkmyself the best lover in the world if I wrote once a month."
"There was no penny post then, Mr. Burton."
"And I often wish there was none now," said Mr. Burton. That matterwas therefore decided, and Florence wrote back to her sister-in-law,saying that she would go up to London on the third day from that. Inthe meantime, Harry Clavering and Theodore Burton had met.
Has it ever been the lot of any unmarried male reader of these pagesto pass three or four days in London, without anything to do,--tohave to get through them by himself,--and to have that burden onhis shoulder, with the additional burden of some terrible, wearingmisery, away from which there seems to be no road, and out of whichthere is apparently no escape? That was Harry Clavering's conditionfor some few days after the evening which he last passed in thecompany of Lady Ongar,--and I will ask any such unmarried manwhether, in such a plight, there was for him any other alternativebut to wish himself dead? In such a condition, a man can simply walkthe streets by himself, and declare to himself that everything isbad, and rotten, and vile, and worthless. He wishes himself dead, andcalculates the different advantages of prussic acid and pistols. Hemay the while take his meals very punctually at his club, may smokehis cigars, and drink his bitter beer, or brandy-and-water;--but heis all the time wishing himself dead, and making that calculation asto the best way of achieving that desirable result. Such was HarryClavering's condition now. As for his office, the doors of that placewere absolutely closed against him, by the presence of TheodoreBurton. When he attempted to read he could not understand a word,or sit for ten minutes with a book in his hand. No occupation waspossible to him. He longed to go again to Bolton Street, but he didnot even do that. If there, he could act only as though Florence hadbeen deserted for ever;--and if he so acted he would be infamous forlife. And yet he had sworn to Julia that such was his intention. Hehardly dared to ask himself which of the two he loved. The misery ofit all had become so heavy upon him, that he could take no pleasurein the thought of his love. It must always be all regret, all sorrow,and all remorse. Then there came upon him the letter from TheodoreBurton, and he knew that it was necessary that he should see thewriter.
Nothing could be more disagreeable than such an interview, but hecould not allow himself to be guilty of the cowardice of decliningit. Of a personal quarrel with Burton he was not afraid. He felt,indeed, that he might almost find relief in the capability of beinghimself angry with any one. But he must positively make up his mindbefore such an interview. He must devote himself either to Florenceor to Julia;--and he did not know how to abandon the one or theother. He had allowed himself to be so governed by impulse that hehad pledged himself to Lady Ongar, and had sworn to her that he wouldbe entirely hers. She, it is true, had not taken him altogetherat his word, but not the less did he know,--did he think that heknew,--that she looked for the performance of his promise. And shehad been the first that he had sworn to love!
In his dilemma he did at last go to Bolton Street, and there foundthat Lady Ongar had left town for three or four days. The servantsaid that she had gone, he believed, to the Isle of Wight; and thatMadame Gordeloup had gone with her. She was to be back in town earlyin the following week. This was on a Thursday, and he was aware thathe could not postpone his interview with Burton till after Julia'sreturn. So he went to his club, and nailing himself as it were tothe writing-table, made an appointment for the following morning. Hewould be with Burton at the Adelphi at twelve o'clock. He had beenin trouble, he said, and that trouble had kept him from the officeand from Onslow Crescent. Having written this, he sent it off, andthen played billiards and smoked and dined, played more billiardsand smoked and drank till the usual hours of the night had come.He was not a man who liked such things. He had not become what hewas by passing his earlier years after this fashion. But his miseryrequired excitement,--and billiards with tobacco were better than thedesolation of solitude.
On the following morning he did not breakfast till near eleven. Whyshould he get up as long as it was possible to obtain the reliefwhich was to be had from dozing? As far as possible he would notthink of the matter till he had put his hat upon his head to goto the Adelphi. But the time for taking his hat soon came; and hestarted on his short journey. But even as he walked, he could notthink of it. He was purposeless, as a ship without a rudder, tellinghimself that he could only go as the winds might direct him. Howhe did hate himself for his one weakness! And yet he hardly madean effort to overcome it. On one point only did he seem to have aresolve. If Burton attempted to use with him anything like a threathe would instantly resent it.
Punctually at twelve he walked into the outer office, and was toldthat Mr. Burton was in his room.
"Halloa, Clavering," said Walliker, who was standing with his back tothe fire, "I thought we had lost you for good and all. And here youare come back again!"
Harry had always disliked this man, and now hated him worse thanever. "Yes; I am here," said he, "for a few minutes; but I believeI need not trouble you."
"All right, old fellow," said Walliker; and then Harry passed throughinto the inner room.
"I am very glad to see you, Harry," said Burton, rising and givinghis hand cordially to Clavering. "And I am sorry to hear that youhave been in trouble. Is it anything in which we can help you?"
"I hope,--Mrs. Burton is well," said Harry, hesitating.
"Pretty well."
"And the children?"
/>
"Quite well. They say you are a very bad fellow not to go and seethem."
"I believe I am a bad fellow," said Harry.
"Sit down, Harry. It will be best to come at the point at once;--willit not? Is there anything wrong between you and Florence?"
"What do you mean by wrong?"
"I should call it very wrong,--hideously wrong, if after all thathas passed between you, there should now be any doubt as to youraffection for each other. If such doubt were now to arise with her,I should almost disown my sister."
"You will never have to blush for her."
"I think not. I thank God that hitherto there have been no suchblushes among us. And I hope, Harry, that my heart may never haveto bleed for her. Come, Harry, let me tell you all at once like anhonest man. I hate subterfuges and secrets. A report has reached theold people at home,--not Florence, mind,--that you are untrue toFlorence, and are passing your time with that lady who is the sisterof your cousin's wife."
"What right have they to ask how I pass my time?"
"Do not be unjust, Harry. If you simply tell me that your visitsto that lady imply no evil to my sister, I, knowing you to bea gentleman, will take your word for all that it can mean." Hepaused, and Harry hesitated and could not answer. "Nay, dearfriend,--brother, as we both of us have thought you,--come once moreto Onslow Crescent and kiss the bairns, and kiss Cecilia, too, andsit with us at our table, and talk as you used to do, and I will askno further question;--nor will she. Then you will come back here toyour work, and your trouble will be gone, and your mind will be atease; and, Harry, one of the best girls that ever gave her heart intoa man's keeping will be there to worship you, and to swear when yourback is turned that any one who says a word against you shall be nobrother and no sister and no friend of hers."
And this was the man who had dusted his boots with hispocket-handkerchief, and whom Harry had regarded as being on thataccount hardly fit to be his friend! He knew that the man was noble,and good, and generous, and true;--and knew also that in all thatBurton said he simply did his duty as a brother. But not on thataccount was it the easier for him to reply.
"Say that you will come to us this evening," said Burton. "Even ifyou have an engagement, put it off."
"I have none," said Harry.
"Then say that you will come to us, and all will be well."
Harry understood of course that his compliance with this invitationwould be taken as implying that all was right. It would be so easy toaccept the invitation, and any other answer was so difficult! But yethe would not bring himself to tell the lie.
"Burton," he said, "I am in trouble."
"What is the trouble?" The man's voice was now changed, and so wasthe glance of his eye. There was no expression of anger,--none asyet; but the sweetness of his countenance was gone,--a sweetness thatwas unusual to him, but which still was at his command when he neededit.
"I cannot tell you all here. If you will let me come to you thisevening I will tell you everything,--to you and to Cecilia too. Willyou let me come?"
"Certainly. Will you dine with us?"
"No;--after dinner; when the children are in bed." Then he went,leaving on the mind of Theodore Burton an impression that thoughsomething was much amiss, his mother had been wrong in her fearsrespecting Lady Ongar.
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