It will not, I hope, be taken as a blot on the character of this mother that she was much elated at the prospect of the good things which were to fall to her daughter’s lot. For herself she desired nothing. For her daughters she had coveted only good, substantial, painstaking husbands, who would fear God and mind their business. When Harry Clavering had come across her path and had demanded a daughter from her, after the manner of the other young men who had learned the secrets of their profession at Stratton, she had desired nothing more than that he and Florence should walk in the path which had been followed by her sisters and their husbands. But then had come that terrible fear; and now had come these golden prospects. That her daughter should be Lady Clavering, of Clavering Park! She could not but be elated at the thought of it. She would not live to see it, but the consciousness that it would be so was pleasant to her in her old age. Florence had ever been regarded as the flower of the flock, and now she would be taken up into high places—according to her deserts.
First had come the letter from Harry, and then, after an interval of a week, another letter from Mrs. Clavering, pressing her dear Florence to go to the parsonage. “We think that at present we all ought to be together,” said Mrs. Clavering, “and therefore we want you to be with us.” It was very flattering. “I suppose I ought to go, mamma?” said Florence. Mrs. Burton was of opinion that she certainly ought to go. “You should write to her ladyship at once,” said Mrs. Burton, mindful of the change which had taken place. Florence, however, addressed her letter, as heretofore, to Mrs. Clavering, thinking that a mistake on that side would be better than a mistake on the other. It was not for her to be over-mindful of the rank with which she was about to be connected. “You won’t forget your old mother now that you are going to be so grand?” said Mrs. Burton, as Florence was leaving her.
“You only say that to laugh at me,” said Florence. “I expect no grandness, and I am sure you expect no forgetfulness.”
The solemnity consequent upon the first news of the accident had worn itself off, and Florence found the family at the parsonage happy and comfortable. Mrs. Fielding was still there, and Mr. Fielding was expected again after the next Sunday. Fanny also was there, and Florence could see during the first half-hour that she was very radiant. Mr. Saul, however, was not there, and it may as well be said at once that Mr. Saul as yet knew nothing of his coming fortune. Florence was received with open arms by them all, and by Harry with arms which were almost too open. “I suppose it may be in about three weeks from now?” he said at the first moment in which he could have her to himself.
“Oh, Harry—no,” said Florence.
“No;—why no? That’s what my mother proposes.”
“In three weeks!—She could not have said that. Nobody has begun to think of such a thing yet at Stratton.”
“They are so very slow at Stratton!”
“And you are so very fast at Clavering! But, Harry, we don’t know where we are going to live.”
“We should go abroad at first, I suppose.”
“And what then? That would only be for a month or so.”
“Only for a month? I mean for all the winter—and the spring. Why not? One can see nothing in a month. If we are back for the shooting next year that would do—and then of course we should come here. I should say next winter—that is the winter after the next—we might as well stay with them at the big house, and then we could look about us, you know. I should like a place near to this, because of the hunting!”
Florence, when she heard all this, became aware that in talking about a month she had forgotten herself. She had been accustomed to holidays of a month’s duration—and to honeymoon trips fitted to such vacations. A month was the longest holiday ever heard of in the chambers in the Adelphi—or at the house in Onslow Crescent. She had forgotten herself. It was not to be the lot of her husband to earn his bread, and fit himself to such periods as business might require. Then Harry went on describing the tour which he had arranged;—which as he said he only suggested. But it was quite apparent that in this matter he intended to be paramount. Florence indeed made no objection. To spend a fortnight in Paris;—to hurry over the Alps before the cold weather came; to spend a month in Florence, and then go on to Rome;—it would all be very nice. But she declared that it would suit the next year better than this.
“Suit ten thousand fiddlesticks,” said Harry.
“But it is October now.”
“And therefore there is no time to lose.”
“I haven’t a dress in the world but the one I have on, and a few others like it. Oh, Harry, how can you talk in that way?”
“Well, say four weeks then from now. That will make it the seventh of November, and we’ll only stay a day or two in Paris. We can do Paris next year—in May. If you’ll agree to that, I’ll agree.”
But Florence’s breath was taken away from her, and she could agree to nothing. She did agree to nothing till she had been talked into doing so by Mrs. Clavering.
“My dear,” said her future mother-in-law, “what you say is undoubtedly true. There is no absolute necessity for hurrying. It is not an affair of life and death. But you and Harry have been engaged quite long enough now, and I really don’t see why you should put it off. If you do as he asks you, you
