“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 today’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 tomorrow, mother;—could I not?”
“Not tomorrow, Harry. It would be foolish. Say on Monday.”
“And you will write today?”
“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 reread 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 lookout 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
