The Claverings

go upstairs,” said Florence. “Are you afraid of me, Flo?” Cecilia answered reproachfully. “Let me see the outside of them.” Then Florence brought them round the table, and put them into her sister’s hands. “May I open this one from Mrs. Clavering?” Florence nodded her head. Then the seal was broken, and in one minute the two women were crying in each other’s arms. “I was quite sure of it,” said Cecilia, through her tears⁠—“perfectly sure. I never doubted it for a moment. How could you have talked of going to Stratton?” At last Florence got herself away up to the window, and gradually mustered courage to break the envelope of her lover’s letter. It was not at once that she showed the postscript to Cecilia, nor at once that the packet was opened. That last ceremony she did perform in the solitude of her own room. But before the day was over the postscript had been shown, and the added trinket had been exhibited. “I remember it well,” said Florence. “Mrs. Clavering wore it on her forehead when we dined at Lady Clavering’s.” Mrs. Burton in all this saw something of the gentle persuasion which the mother had used, but of that she said nothing. That he should be back again, and should have repented, was enough for her.

Mr. Burton was again absent when Harry Clavering knocked in person at the door; but on this occasion his absence had been specially arranged by him with a view to Harry’s comfort. “He won’t want to see me this evening,” he had said. “Indeed you’ll all get on a great deal better without me.” He therefore had remained away from home, and, not being a club man, had dined most uncomfortably at an eating-house. “Are the ladies at home?” Harry asked, when the door was opened. Oh, yes; they were at home. There was no danger that they should be found out on such an occasion as this. The girl looked at him pleasantly, calling him by his name as she answered him, as though she too desired to show him that he had again been taken into favour⁠—into her favour as well as that of her mistress.

He hardly knew what he was doing as he ran up the steps to the drawing-room. He was afraid of what was to come; but nevertheless he rushed at his fate as some young soldier rushes at the trench in which he feels that he may probably fall. So Harry Clavering hurried on, and before he had looked round upon the room which he had entered, found his fate with Florence on his bosom.

Alas, alas! I fear that justice was outraged in the welcome that Harry received on that evening. I have said that he would be called upon to own his sins, and so much, at least, should have been required of him. But he owned no sin! I have said that a certain degradation must attend him in that first interview after his reconciliation. Instead of this the hours that he spent that evening in Onslow Terrace were hours of one long ovation. He was, as it were, put upon a throne as a king who had returned from his conquest, and those two women did him honour, almost kneeling at his feet. Cecilia was almost as tender with him as Florence, pleading to her own false heart the fact of his illness as his excuse. There was something of the pallor of the sickroom left with him⁠—a slight tenuity in his hands and brightness in his eye which did him yeoman’s service. Had he been quite robust, Cecilia might have felt that she could not justify to herself the peculiar softness of her words. After the first quarter of an hour he was supremely happy. His awkwardness had gone, and as he sat with his arm round Florence’s waist, he found that the little pencil-case had again been attached to her chain, and as he looked down upon her he saw that the cheap brooch was again on her breast. It would have been pretty, could an observer have been there, to see the skill with which they both steered clear of any word or phrase which could be disagreeable to him. One might have thought that it would have been impossible to avoid all touch of a rebuke. The very fact that he was forgiven would seem to imply some fault that required pardon. But there was no hint at any fault. The tact of women excels the skill of men; and so perfect was the tact of these women that not a word was said which wounded Harry’s ear. He had come again into their fold, and they were rejoiced and showed their joy. He who had gone astray had repented, and they were beautifully tender to the repentant sheep.

XLII

Restitution

Harry stayed a little too long with his love⁠—a little longer at least than had been computed, and in consequence met Theodore Burton in the Crescent as he was leaving it. This meeting could hardly be made without something of pain, and perhaps it was well for Harry that he should have such an opportunity as this for getting over it quickly. But when he saw Mr. Burton under the bright gas-lamp he would very willingly have avoided him, had it been possible.

“Well, Harry?” said Burton, giving his hand to the repentant sheep.

“How are you, Burton?” said Harry, trying to speak with an unconcerned voice. Then in answer to an inquiry as to his health, he told of his own illness, speaking of that confounded fever having made him very low. He intended no deceit, but he made more of the fever than was necessary.

“When will you come back to the shop?” Burton asked. It must be remembered that though the brother could not refuse to welcome back to his home his sister’s lover, still he thought that the engagement was a misfortune.