Nor would the brother have spoken a word during the evening on the subject that was so near to all their hearts had not Florence led the way. When they were at tea, and when Cecilia had already made up her mind that there was to be no further discussion that night, Florence suddenly broke forth.
“Theodore,” she said, “I have been thinking much about it, and I believe I had better go home, to Stratton, tomorrow.”
“Oh, no,” said Cecilia, eagerly.
“I believe it will be better that I should,” continued Florence. “I suppose it is very weak in me to own it; but I am unhappy, and, like the wounded bird, I feel that it will be well that I should hide myself.”
Cecilia was at her feet in a moment. “Dearest Flo,” she said. “Is not this your home as well as Stratton?”
“When I am able to be happy it is. Those who have light hearts may have more homes than one; but it is not so with those whose hearts are heavy. I think it will be best for me to go.”
“You shall do exactly as you please,” said her brother. “In such a matter I will not try to persuade you. I only wish that we could tend to comfort you.”
“You do comfort me. If I know that you think I am doing right, that will comfort me more than anything. Absolute and immediate comfort is not to be had when one is sorrowful.”
“No, indeed,” said her brother. “Sorrow should not be killed too quickly. I always think that those who are impervious to grief must be impervious also to happiness. If you have feelings capable of the one, you must have them capable also of the other!”
“You should wait, at any rate, till you get an answer from Mrs. Clavering,” said Cecilia.
“I do not know that she has any answer to send to me.”
“Oh, yes; she must answer you, if you will think of it. If she accepts what you have said—”
“She cannot but accept it.”
“Then she must reply to you. There is something which you have asked her to send to you; and I think you should wait, at any rate, till it reaches you here. Mind I do not think her answer will be of that nature; but it is clear that you should wait for it whatever it may be.” Then Florence, with the concurrence of her brother’s opinion, consented to remain in London for a few days, expecting the answer which would be sent by Mrs. Clavering;—and after that no further discussion took place as to her trouble.
XLI
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,
