“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.”
“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 bedside 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
