The Three Clerks by Anthony Trollope

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Nor would it have been fair to blame Gertrude in the matter.
While she was yet a child, this friend of her mother's had been
thrown with her, and when she was little more than a child, she
found that this friend had become a lover. She liked him, in one
sense loved him, and was accustomed to regard him as one whom it
would be almost wrong in her not to like and love. What wonder
then that when he first spoke to her warm words of adoration, she
had not been able at once to know her own heart, and tell him
that his hopes would be in vain?

She perceived by instinct, rather than by spoken words, that her
mother was favourable to this young lover, that if she accepted
him she would please her mother, that the course of true love
might in their case run smooth. What wonder then that she should
have hesitated before she found it necessary to say that she
could not, would not, be Harry Norman's wife?

On the Saturday morning, the morning of that night which was, as
he hoped, to see him go to bed a happy lover, so happy in his
love as to be able to forget his other sorrows, she was sitting
alone with her mother. It was natural that their conversation
should turn to Alaric and Harry. Alaric, with his happy
prospects, was soon dismissed; but Mrs. Woodward continued to
sing the praises of him who, had she been potent with the magi of
the Civil Service, would now be the lion of the Weights and
Measures.

'I must say I think it was weak of him to retire,' said Gertrude.
'Alaric says in his letter to Uncle Bat, that had he persevered
he would in all probability have been successful.'

'I should rather say that it was generous,' said her mother.

'Well, I don't know, mamma; that of course depends on his
motives; but wouldn't generosity of that sort between two young
men in such a position be absurd?'

'You mean that such regard for his friend would be Quixotic.'

'Yes, mamma.'

'Perhaps it would. All true generosity, all noble feeling, is now
called Quixotic. But surely, Gertrude, you and I should not
quarrel with Harry on that account.'

'I think he got frightened, mamma, and had not nerve to go
through with it.'

Mrs. Woodward looked vexed; but she made no immediate reply, and
for some time the mother and daughter went on working without
further conversation. At last Gertrude said:--

'I think every man is bound to do the best he can for himself--
that is, honestly; there is something spoony in one man allowing
another to get before him, as long as he can manage to be first
himself.'

Mrs. Woodward did not like the tone in which her daughter spoke.
She felt that it boded ill for Harry's welfare; and she tried,
but tried in vain, to elicit from her daughter the expression of
a kinder feeling.

'Well, my dear, I must say I think you are hard on him. But,
probably, just at present you have the spirit of contradiction in
you. If I were to begin to abuse him, perhaps I should get you to
praise him.'

'Oh, mamma, I did not abuse him.'

'Something like it, my dear, when you said he was spoony.'

'Oh, mamma, I would not abuse him for worlds--I know how good he
is, I know how you love him, but, but---' and Gertrude, though
very little given to sobbing moods, burst into tears.

'Come here, Gertrude; come here, my child,' said Mrs. Woodward,
now moved more for her daughter than for her favourite; 'what is
it? what makes you cry? I did not really mean that you abused
poor Harry.'

Gertrude got up from her chair, knelt at her mother's feet, and
hid her face in her mother's lap. 'Oh, mamma,' she said, with a
half-smothered voice, 'I know what you mean; I know what you
wish; but--but--but, oh, mamma, you must not--must not, must not
think of it any more.'

'Then may God help him!' said Mrs. Woodward, gently caressing her
daughter, who was still sobbing with her face buried in her
mother's lap. 'May God Almighty lighten the blow to him! But oh,
Gertrude, I had hoped, I had so hoped----'

'Oh, mamma, don't, pray don't,' and Gertrude sobbed as though she
were going into hysterics.

'No, my child, I will not say another word. Dear as he is to me,
you are and must be ten times dearer. There, Gertrude, it is over
now; over at least between us. We know each other's hearts now.
It is my fault that we did not do so sooner.' They did understand
each other at last, and the mother made no further attempt to
engage her daughter's love for the man she would have chosen as
her daughter's husband.

But still the worst was to come, as Mrs. Woodward well knew--and
as Gertrude knew also; to come, too, on this very day. Mrs.
Woodward, with a woman's keen perception, felt assured that Harry
Norman, when he found himself at the Cottage, freed from the
presence of the successful candidate, surrounded by the
affectionate faces of all her circle, would melt at once and look
to his love for consolation. She understood the feelings of his
heart as well as though she had read them in a book; and yet she
could do nothing to save him from his fresh sorrows. The cup was
prepared for him, and it was necessary that he should drink it.
She could not tell him, could not tell even him, that her
daughter had rejected him, when as yet he had made no offer.

And so Harry Norman hurried down to his fate. When he reached the
Cottage, Mrs. Woodward and Linda and Katie were in the drawing-
room.

'Harry, my dear Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, rushing to him,
throwing her arms round him, and kissing him; 'we know it all, we
understand it all--my fine, dear, good Harry.'

Harry was melted in a moment, and in the softness of his mood
kissed Katie too, and Linda also. Katie he had often kissed, but
never Linda, cousins though they were. Linda merely laughed, but
Norman blushed; for he remembered that had it so chanced that
Gertrude had been there, he would not have dared to kiss her.

'Oh, Harry,' said Katie, 'we are so sorry--that is, not sorry
about Alaric, but sorry about you. Why were there not two
prizes?'

'It's all right as it is, Katie,' said he; 'we need none of us be
sorry at all. Alaric is a clever fellow; everybody gave him
credit for it before, and now he has proved that everybody is
right.'

'He is older than you, you know, and therefore he ought to be
cleverer,' said Katie, trying to make things pleasant.

And then they went out into the garden. But where was Gertrude
all this time? She had been in the drawing-room a moment before
his arrival. They walked out into the lawn, but nothing was said
about her absence. Norman could not bring himself to ask for her,
and Mrs. Woodward could not trust herself to talk of her.

'Where is the captain?' said Harry.

'He's at Hampton Court,' said Linda; 'he has found another navy
captain there, and he goes over every day to play backgammon.' As
they were speaking, however, the captain walked through the house
on to the lawn.

'Well, Norman, how are you, how are you? sorry you couldn't all
win. But you're a man of fortune, you know, so it doesn't
signify.'

'Not a great deal of fortune,' said Harry, looking sheepish.

'Well, I only hope the best man got it. Now, at the Admiralty the
worst man gets it always.'

'The worst man didn't get it here,' said Harry.

'No, no,' said Uncle Bat, 'I'm sure he did not; nor he won't long
at the Admiralty either, I can tell them that. But where's
Gertrude?'

'She's in her bedroom, dressing for dinner,' said Katie.

'Hoity toity,' said Uncle Bat, 'she's going to make herself very
grand to-day. That's all for you, Master Norman. Well, I suppose
we may all go in and get ready; but mind, I have got no
sweetheart, and so I shan't make myself grand at all;' and so
they all went in to dress for dinner.

When Norman came down, Gertrude was in the drawing-room alone.
But he knew that they would be alone but for a minute, and that a
minute would not serve for his purpose. She said one soft gentle
word of condolence to him, some little sentence that she had been
studying to pronounce. All her study was thrown away; for Norman,
in his confusion, did not understand a word that she spoke. Her
tone, however, was kind and affectionate; and she shook hands
with him apparently with cordiality. He, however, ventured no
kiss with her. He did not even press her hand, when for a moment
he held it within his own.

Dinner was soon over, and the autumn evening still admitted of
their going out. Norman was not sorry to urge the fact that the
ladies had done so, as an excuse to Captain Cuttwater for not
sitting with him over his wine. He heard their voices in the
garden, and went out to join them, prepared to ascertain his fate
if fortune would give him an opportunity of doing so. He found
the party to consist of Mrs. Woodward, Linda, and Katie; Gertrude
was not there.

'I think the evenings get warmer as the winter gets nearer,' said
Harry.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'but they are so dangerous. The night
comes on all at once, and then the air is so damp and cold.'

And so they went on talking about the weather.

'Your boat is up in London, I know, Harry,' said Katie, with a
voice of reproach, but at the same time with a look of entreaty.

'Yes, it's at Searle's,' said Norman.

'But the punt is here,' said Katie.

'Not this evening, Katie,' said he.

'Katie, how can you be such a tease?' said Mrs. Woodward; 'you'll
make Harry hate the island, and you too. I wonder you can be so
selfish.'

Poor Katie's eyes became suffused with tears.

'My dear Katie, it's very bad of me, isn't it?' said Norman,
'and the fine weather so nearly over too; I ought to take you,
oughtn't I? come, we will go.'

'No, we won't,' said Katie, taking his big hand in both her
little ones, 'indeed we won't. It was very wrong of me to bother
you; and you with--with--with so much to think of. Dear Harry, I
don't want to go at all, indeed I don't,' and she turned away
from the little path which led to the place where the punt was
moored.

They sauntered on for a while together, and then Norman left
them. He said nothing, but merely stole away from the lawn
towards the drawing-room window. Mrs. Woodward well knew with
what object he went, and would have spared him from his immediate
sorrow by following him; but she judged that it would be better
both for him and for her daughter that he should learn the truth.

He went in through the open drawing-room window, and found
Gertrude alone. She was on the sofa with a book in her hand; and
had he been able to watch her closely he would have seen that the
book trembled as he entered the room. But he was unable to watch
anything closely. His own heart beat so fast, his own confusion
was so great, that he could hardly see the girl whom he now hoped
to gain as his wife. Had Alaric been coming to his wooing, he
would have had every faculty at his call. But then Alaric could
not have loved as Norman loved.

And so we will leave them. In about half an hour, when the short
twilight was becoming dusk, Mrs. Woodward returned, and found
Norman standing alone on the hearthrug before the fireplace.
Gertrude was away, and he was leaning against the mantelpiece,
with his hands behind his back, staring at vacancy; but oh! with
such an aspect of dull, speechless agony in his face.

Mrs. Woodward looked up at him, and would have burst into tears,
had she not remembered that they would not be long alone; she
therefore restrained herself, but gave one involuntary sigh; and
then, taking off her bonnet, placed herself where she might sit
without staring at him in his sorrow.

Katie came in next. 'Oh! Harry, it's so lucky we didn't start in
the punt,' said she, 'for it's going to pour, and we never should
have been back from the island in that slow thing.'

Norman looked at her and tried to smile, but the attempt was a
ghastly failure. Katie, gazing up into his face, saw that he was
unhappy, and slunk away, without further speech, to her distant
chair. There, from time to time, she would look up at him, and
her little heart melted with ruth to see the depth of his misery.
'Why, oh why,' thought she, 'should that greedy Alaric have taken
away the only prize?'

And then Linda came running in with her bonnet ribbons all moist
with the big raindrops. 'You are a nice squire of dames,' said
she, 'to leave us all out to get wet through by ourselves;' and
then she also, looking up, saw that jesting was at present ill-
timed, and so sat herself down quietly at the tea-table.

But Norman never moved. He saw them come in one after another. He
saw the pity expressed in Mrs. Woodward's face; he heard the
light-hearted voices of the two girls, and observed how, when
they saw him, their light-heartedness was abashed; but still he
neither spoke nor moved. He had been stricken with a fearful
stroke, and for a while was powerless.

Captain Cuttwater, having shaken off his dining-room nap, came
for his tea; and then, at last, Gertrude also, descending from
her own chamber, glided quietly into the room. When she did so,
Norman, with a struggle, roused himself, and took a chair next to
Mrs. Woodward, and opposite to her eldest daughter.

Who could describe the intense discomfiture of that tea-party, or
paint in fitting colours the different misery of each one there
assembled? Even Captain Cuttwater at once knew that something was
wrong, and munched his bread-and-butter and drank his tea in
silence. Linda surmised what had taken place; though she was
surprised, she was left without any doubt. Poor Katie was still
in the dark, but she also knew that there was cause for sorrow,
and crept more and more into her little self. Mrs. Woodward sat
with averted face, and ever and anon she put her handkerchief to
her eyes. Gertrude was very pale, and all but motionless, but she
had schooled herself, and managed to drink her tea with more
apparent indifference than any of the others. Norman sat as he
had before been standing, with that dreadful look of agony upon
his brow.

Immediately after tea Mrs. Woodward got up and went to her
dressing-room. Her dressing-room, though perhaps not improperly
so called, was not an exclusive closet devoted to combs,
petticoats, and soap and water. It was a comfortable snug room,
nicely furnished, with sofa and easy chairs, and often open to
others besides her handmaidens. Thither she betook herself, that
she might weep unseen; but in about twenty minutes her tears were
disturbed by a gentle knock at the door.

Very soon after she went, Gertrude also left the room, and then
Katie crept off.

'I have got a headache to-night,' said Norman, after the
remaining three had sat silent for a minute or two; 'I think I'll
go across and go to bed.'

'A headache!' said Linda. 'Oh, I am so sorry that you have got to
go to that horrid inn.'

'Oh! I shall do very well there,' said Norman, trying to smile.

'Will you have my room?' said the captain good-naturedly; 'any
sofa does for me.'

Norman assured them as well as he could that his present headache
was of such a nature that a bed at the inn would be the best
thing for him; and then, shaking hands with them, he moved to the
door.

'Stop a moment, Harry,' said Linda, 'and let me tell mamma.
She'll give you something for your head.' He made a sign to her,
however, to let him pass, and then, creeping gently upstairs, he
knocked at Mrs. Woodward's door.

'Come in,' said Mrs. Woodward, and Harry Norman, with all his
sorrows still written on his face, stood before her.

'Oh! Harry,' said she, 'come in; I am so glad that you have come
to me. Oh! Harry, dear Harry, what shall I say to comfort you?
What can I say--what can I do?'

Norman, forgetting his manhood, burst into tears, and throwing
himself on a sofa, buried his face on the arm and sobbed like a
young girl. But the tears of a man bring with them no comfort as
do those of the softer sex. He was a strong tall man, and it was
dreadful to see him thus convulsed.

Mrs. Woodward stood by him, and put her hand caressingly on his
shoulder. She saw he had striven to speak, and had found himself
unable to do so. 'I know how it is,' said she, 'you need not tell
me; I know it all. Would that she could have seen you with my
eyes; would that she could have judged you with my mind!'

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward!'

'To me, Harry, you should have been the dearest, the most welcome
son. But you are so still. No son could be dearer. Oh, that she
could have seen you as I see you!'

'There is no hope,' said he. He did not put it as a question; but
Mrs. Woodward saw that it was intended that she should take it as
such if she pleased. What could she say to him? She knew that
there was no hope. Had it been Linda, Linda might have been
moulded to her will. But with Gertrude there could now be no
hope. What could she say? She knelt down and kissed his brow, and
mingled her tears with his.

'Oh, Harry--oh, Harry! my dearest, dearest son!'

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward, I have loved her so truly.'

What could Mrs. Woodward do but cry also? what but that, and
throw such blame as she could upon her own shoulders? She was
bound to defend her daughter.

'It has been my fault, Harry,' she said; 'it is I whom you must
blame, not poor Gertrude.'

'I blame no one,' said he.

'I know you do not; but it is I whom you should blame. I should
have learnt how her heart stood, and have prevented this--but I
thought, I thought it would have been otherwise.'

Norman looked up at her, and took her hand, and pressed it. 'I
will go now,' he said, 'and don't expect me here to-morrow. I
could not come in. Say that I thought it best to go to town
because I am unwell. Good-bye, Mrs. Woodward; pray write to me. I
can't come to the Cottage now for a while, but pray write to me:
do not you forget me, Mrs. Woodward.'

Mrs. Woodward fell upon his breast and wept, and bade God bless
him, and called him her son and her dearest friend, and sobbed
till her heart was nigh to break. 'What,' she thought, 'what
could her daughter wish for, when she repulsed from her feet such
a suitor as Harry Norman?'

He then went quietly down the stairs, quietly out of the house,
and having packed up his bag at the inn, started off through the
pouring rain, and walked away through the dark stormy night,
through the dirt and mud and wet, to his London lodgings; nor was
he again seen at Surbiton Cottage for some months after this
adventure.

CHAPTER XIII

A COMMUNICATION OF IMPORTANCE

Norman's dark wet walk did him physically no harm, and morally
some good. He started on it in that frame of mind which induces a
man to look with indifference on all coming evils under the
impression that the evils already come are too heavy to admit of
any increase. But by the time that he was thoroughly wet through,
well splashed with mud, and considerably fatigued by his first
five or six miles' walk, he began to reflect that life was not
over with him, and that he must think of future things as well as
those that were past.

He got home about two o'clock, and having knocked up his
landlady, Mrs. Richards, betook himself to bed. Alaric had been
in his room for the last two hours, but of Charley and his latch-
key Mrs. Richards knew nothing. She stated her belief, however,
that two a.m. seldom saw that erratic gentleman in his bed.

On the following morning, Alaric, when he got his hot water,
heard that Norman returned during the night from Hampton, and he
immediately guessed what had brought him back. He knew that
nothing short of some great trouble would have induced Harry to
leave the Cottage so abruptly, and that that trouble must have
been of such a nature as to make his remaining with the Woodwards
an aggravation of it. No such trouble could have come on him but
the one.

As Charley seldom made his appearance at the breakfast table on
Sunday mornings, Alaric foresaw that he must undergo a _tete-a-
tete_ which would not be agreeable to himself, and which must
be much more disagreeable to his companion; but for this there
was no help. Harry had, however, prepared himself for what he had
to go through, and immediately that the two were alone, he told
his tale in a very few words.

'Alaric,' said he, 'I proposed to Gertrude last night, and she
refused me.'

Alaric Tudor was deeply grieved for his friend. There was
something in the rejected suitor's countenance--something in the
tone of voice, which would have touched any heart softer than
stone; and Alaric's heart had not as yet been so hardened by the
world as to render him callous to the sight of such grief as
this.

'Take my word for it, Harry, she'll think better of it in a month
or two,' he said.

'Never-never; I am sure of it. Not only from her own manner, but
from her mother's,' said Harry. And yet, during half his walk
home, he had been trying to console himself with the reflection
that most young ladies reject their husbands once or twice before
they accept them.

There is no offering a man comfort in such a sorrow as this;
unless, indeed, he be one to whom the worship of Bacchus may be
made a fitting substitute for that of the Paphian goddess.

There is a sort of disgrace often felt, if never acknowledged,
which attaches itself to a man for having put himself into
Norman's present position, and this generally prevents him from
confessing his defeat in such matters. The misfortune in question
is one which doubtless occurs not unfrequently to mankind; but as
mankind generally bear their special disappointments in silence,
and as the vanity of women is generally exceeded by their good-
nature, the secret, we believe, in most cases remains a secret.

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?

This was the upshot of the consideration which Withers, the poet,
gave to the matter, and Withers was doubtless right. 'Tis thus
that rejected lovers should think, thus that they should demean
themselves; but they seldom come to this philosophy till a few
days have passed by, and talking of their grievance does not
assist them in doing so.

When, therefore, Harry had declared what had happened to him, and
had declared also that he had no further hope, he did not at
first find himself much the better for what he had confessed. He
was lackadaisical and piteous, and Alaric, though he had
endeavoured to be friendly, soon found that he had no power of
imparting any comfort. Early in the day they parted, and did not
see each other again till the following morning.

'I was going down to Normansgrove on Thursday,' said Harry.

'Yes, I know,' said Alaric.

'I think I shall ask leave to go to-day. It can't make much
difference, and the sooner I get away the better.'

And so it was settled. Norman left town the same afternoon, and
Alaric, with his blushing honours thick upon him, was left alone.

London was now very empty, and he was constrained to enjoy his
glory very much by himself. He had never associated much with the
Minusexes and Uppinalls, nor yet with the Joneses and Robinsons
of his own office, and it could not be expected that there should
be any specially confidential intercourse between them just at
the present moment. Undy was of course out of town with the rest
of the fashionable world, and Alaric, during the next week, was
left very much on his own hands.

'And so,' said he to himself, as he walked solitary along the
lone paths of Rotten Row, and across the huge desert to the
Marble Arch, 'and so poor Harry's hopes have been all in vain; he
has lost his promotion, and now he has lost his bride--poor
Harry!'--and then it occurred to him that as he had acquired the
promotion it might be his destiny to win the bride also. He had
never told himself that he loved Gertrude; he had looked on her
as Norman's own, and he, at any rate, was not the man to sigh in
despair after anything that was out of his reach. But now, now
that Harry's chance was over, and that no bond of friendship
could interfere with such a passion, why should he not tell
himself that he loved Gertrude? 'If, as Harry had himself said,
there was no longer any hope for him, why,' said Alaric to
himself, 'why should not I try my chance?' Of Linda, of 'dear,
dearest Linda,' at this moment he thought very little, or,
perhaps, not at all. Of what Mrs. Woodward might say, of that he
did think a good deal.

The week was melancholy and dull, and it passed very slowly at
Hampton. On the Sunday morning it became known to them all that
Norman was gone, but the subject, by tacit consent, was allowed
to pass all but unnoticed. Even Katie, even Uncle Bat, were aware
that something had occurred which ought to prevent them from
inquiring too particularly why Harry had started back to town in
so sudden a manner; and so they said nothing. To Linda, Gertrude
had told what had happened; and Linda, as she heard it, asked
herself whether she was prepared to be equally obdurate with her
lover. He had now the means of supporting a wife, and why should
she be obdurate?

Nothing was said on the subject between Gertrude and her mother.
What more could Mrs. Woodward say? It would have been totally
opposed to the whole principle of her life to endeavour, by any
means, to persuade her daughter to the match, or to have used her
maternal influence in Norman's favour. And she was well aware
that it would have been impossible to do so successfully.
Gertrude was not a girl to be talked into a marriage by any
parent, and certainly not by such a parent as her mother. There
was, therefore, nothing further to be said about it.