“I had a letter from her today and she asks where you are.”
“Women expect such a lot of letter-writing! But I have been remiss I know. I got out of my business way of doing things when I came down here and have neglected it. Do you write to her tomorrow, and tell her that she shall hear from me directly I get back to town.”
“But why should you not write to her from here?”
“Because I can get you to do it for me.”
Fanny felt that this was not at all like a lover, and not at all like such a lover as her brother had been. While Florence had been at Clavering he had been most constant with his letters, and Fanny had often heard Florence boast of them as being perfect in their way. She did not say anything further at the present moment, but she knew that things were not altogether right. Things were by no means right. He had written neither to Lady Ongar nor to Florence, and the longer he put off the task the more burdensome did it become. He was now telling himself that he would write to neither till he got back to London.
On the day before he went, there came to him a letter from Stratton. Fanny was with him when he received it, and observed that he put it into his pocket without opening it. In his pocket he carried it unopened half the day, till he was ashamed of his own weakness. At last, almost in despair with himself, he broke the seal and forced himself to read it. There was nothing in it that need have alarmed him. It contained hardly a word that was intended for a rebuke.
“I wonder why you should have been two whole weeks without writing,” she said. “It seems so odd to me, because you have spoiled me by your customary goodness. I know that other men when they are engaged do not trouble themselves with constant letter-writing. Even Theodore, who according to Cecilia is perfect, would not write to her then very often; and now, when he is away, his letters are only three lines. I suppose you are teaching me not to be exacting. If so, I will kiss the rod like a good child; but I feel it the more because the lesson has not come soon enough.”
Then she went on in her usual strain, telling him of what she had done, what she had read, and what she had thought. There was no suspicion in her letter, no fear, no hint at jealousy. And she should have no further cause for jealousy! One of the two must be sacrificed, and it was most fitting that Julia should be the sacrifice. Julia should be sacrificed—Julia and himself! But still he could not write to Florence till he had written to Julia. He could not bring himself to send soft, pretty, loving words to one woman while the other was still regarding him as her affianced lover.
“Was your letter from Florence this morning?” Fanny asked him.
“Yes; it was.”
“Had she received mine?”
“I don’t know. Of course she had. If you sent it by post of course she got it.”
“She might have mentioned it, perhaps.”
“I daresay she did. I don’t remember.”
“Well, Harry; you need not be cross with me because I love the girl who is going to be your wife. You would not like it if I did not care about her.”
“I hate being called cross.”
“Suppose I were to say that I hated your being cross. I’m sure I do;—and you are going away tomorrow, too. You have hardly said a nice word to me since you have been home.”
Harry threw himself back into a chair almost in despair. He was not enough a hypocrite to say nice words when his heart within him was not at ease. He could not bring himself to pretend that things were pleasant.
“If you are in trouble, Harry, I will not go on teasing you.”
“I am in trouble,” he said.
“And cannot I help you?”
“No; you cannot help me. No one can help me. But do not ask any questions.”
“Oh, Harry! is it about money?”
“No, no; it has nothing to do with money.”
“You have not really quarrelled with Florence?”
“No; I have not quarrelled with her at all. But I will not answer more questions. And, Fanny, do not speak of this to my father or mother. It will be over before long, and then, if possible, I will tell you.”
“Harry, you are not going to fight with Hugh?”
“Fight with Hugh! no. Not that I should mind it; but he is not fool enough for that. If he wanted fighting done, he would do it by deputy. But there is nothing of that kind.”
She asked him no more questions, and on the next morning he returned to London. On his table he found a note which he at once knew to be from Lady Ongar, and which had come only that afternoon.
“Come to me at once;—at once.” That was all that the note contained.
XXIII
Cumberly Lane Without the Mud
Fanny Clavering, while she was inquiring of her brother about his troubles, had not been without troubles of her own. For some days past she had been aware—almost aware—that Mr. Saul’s love was not among the things that were past. I am not prepared to say that this conviction on her part was altogether an unalloyed trouble, or that there might have been no faint touch of sadness, of silent melancholy about her, had it been otherwise. But Mr. Saul was undoubtedly a trouble to her; and Mr. Saul with his love in activity would be more troublesome than Mr. Saul with his love in abeyance. “It would be madness either in him or in me,” Fanny had said to herself very often; “he has not a shilling in the world.” But she thought no more in these days
