CHAPTER XXV.
"WHAT WOULD MEN SAY OF YOU?"
[Illustration.]
"Harry, tell me the truth,--tell me all the truth." Harry Claveringwas thus greeted when in obedience to the summons from Lady Ongar, hewent to her almost immediately on his return to London.
It will be remembered that he had remained at Clavering some daysafter the departure of Hugh and Archie, lacking the courage to facehis misfortunes boldly. But though his delay had been cowardly, ithad not been easy to him to be a coward. He despised himself for nothaving written with warm, full-expressed affection to Florence andwith honest clear truth to Julia. Half his misery rose from thisfeeling of self-abasement, and from the consciousness that he wasweak,--piteously weak, exactly in that in which he had often boastedto himself that he was strong. But such inward boastings are notaltogether bad. They preserve men from succumbing, and make at anyrate some attempt to realize themselves. The man who tells himselfthat he is brave, will struggle much before he flies; but the man whonever does so tell himself, will find flying easy unless his heartbe of nature very high. Now had come the moment either for flying,or not flying; and Harry swearing that he would stand his ground,resolutely took his hat and gloves, and made his way to Bolton Streetwith a sore heart.
But as he went he could not keep himself from arguing the matterwithin his own breast. He knew what was his duty. It was his duty tostick to Florence, not only with his word and his hand, but with hisheart. It was his duty to tell Lady Ongar that not only his word wasat Stratton, but his heart also, and to ask her pardon for the wrongthat he had done her by that caress. For some ten minutes as hewalked through the streets his resolve was strong to do this manifestduty; but, gradually, as he thought of that caress, as he thoughtof the difficulties of the coming interview, as he thought ofJulia's high-toned beauty,--perhaps something also of her wealthand birth,--and more strongly still as he thought of her love forhim, false, treacherous, selfish arguments offered themselves to hismind,--arguments which he knew to be false and selfish. Which of themdid he love? Could it be right for him to give his hand without hisheart? Could it really be good for Florence,--poor injured Florence,that she should be taken by a man who had ceased to regard hermore than all other women? Were he to marry her now, would notthat deceit be worse than the other deceit? Or, rather, wouldnot that be deceitful, whereas the other course would simply beunfortunate,--unfortunate through circumstances for which he wasblameless? Damnable arguments! False, cowardly logic, by which allmale jilts seek to excuse their own treachery to themselves and toothers!
Thus during the second ten minutes of his walk, his line of conductbecame less plain to him, and as he entered Piccadilly he wasracked with doubts. But instead of settling them in his mind heunconsciously allowed himself to dwell upon the words with which hewould seek to excuse his treachery to Florence. He thought how hewould tell her,--not to her face with spoken words, for that hecould not do,--but with written skill, that he was unworthy of hergoodness, that his love for her had fallen off through his ownunworthiness, and had returned to one who was in all respects lessperfect than she, but who in old days, as she well knew, had beenhis first love. Yes! he would say all this, and Julia, let her angerbe what it might, should know that he had said it. As he plannedthis, there came to him a little comfort, for he thought there wassomething grand in such a resolution. Yes; he would do that, eventhough he should lose Julia also.
Miserable clap-trap! He knew in his heart that all his logic wasfalse, and his arguments baseless. Cease to love Florence Burton! Hehad not ceased to love her, nor is the heart of any man made so likea weather-cock that it needs must turn itself hither and thither, asthe wind directs, and be altogether beyond the man's control. ForHarry, with all his faults, and in spite of his present falseness,was a man. No man ceases to love without a cause. No man need ceaseto love without a cause. A man may maintain his love, and nourishit, and keep it warm by honest manly effort, as he may his probity,his courage, or his honour. It was not that he had ceased to loveFlorence; but that the glare of the candle had been too bright forhim and he had scorched his wings. After all, as to that embrace ofwhich he had thought so much, and the memory of which was so sweet tohim and so bitter,--it had simply been an accident. Thus, writing inhis mind that letter to Florence which he knew, if he were an honestman, he would never allow himself to write, he reached Lady Ongar'sdoor without having arranged for himself any special line of conduct.
We must return for a moment to the fact that Hugh and Archie hadreturned to town before Harry Clavering. How Archie had been engagedon great doings, the reader, I hope, will remember; and he mayas well be informed here that the fifty pounds were duly takento Mount Street, and were extracted from him by the Spy withoutmuch difficulty. I do not know that Archie in return obtained anyimmediate aid or valuable information from Sophie Gordeloup; butSophie did obtain some information from him which she found herselfable to use for her own purposes. As his position with reference tolove and marriage was being discussed, and the position also of thedivine Julia, Sophie hinted her fear of another Clavering lover. Whatdid Archie think of his cousin Harry? "Why; he's engaged to anothergirl," said Archie, opening wide his eyes and his mouth, and becomingvery free with his information. This was a matter to which Sophiefound it worth her while to attend, and she soon learned from Archieall that Archie knew about Florence Burton. And this was all thatcould be known. No secret had been made in the family of Harry'sengagement. Archie told his fair assistant that Miss Burton hadbeen received at Clavering Park openly as Harry's future wife, and,"by Jove, you know, he can't be coming it with Julia after that,you know." Sophie made a little grimace, but did not say much. She,remembering that she had caught Lady Ongar in Harry's arms, thoughtthat, "by Jove," he might be coming it with Julia, even after MissBurton's reception at Clavering Park. Then, too, she rememberedsome few words that had passed between her and her dear Julia afterHarry's departure on the evening of the embrace, and perceived thatJulia was in ignorance of the very existence of Florence Burton, eventhough Florence had been received at the Park. This was informationworth having,--information to be used! Her respect for Harry roseimmeasurably. She had not given him credit for so much audacity,so much gallantry, and so much skill. She had thought him to be apigheaded Clavering, like the rest of them. He was not pigheaded;he was a promising young man; she could have liked him and perhapsaided him,--only that he had shown so strong a determination tohave nothing to do with her. Therefore the information should beused;--and: it was used.
The reader will now understand what was the truth which Lady Ongardemanded from Harry Clavering. "Harry, tell me the truth; tell me allthe truth." She had come forward to meet him in the middle of theroom when she spoke these words, and stood looking him in the face,not having given him her hand.
"What truth?" said Harry. "Have I ever told you a lie?" But he knewwell what was the truth required of him.
"Lies can be acted as well as told. Harry, tell me all at once. Whois Florence Burton; who and what?" She knew it all, then, and thingshad settled themselves for him without the necessity of any actionon his part. It was odd enough that she should not have learned itbefore, but at any rate she knew it now. And it was well that sheshould have been told;--only how was he to excuse himself for thatembrace? "At any rate speak to me," she said, standing quite erect,and looking as a Juno might have looked. "You will acknowledge atleast that I have a right to ask the question. Who is this FlorenceBurton?"
"She is the daughter of Mr. Burton of Stratton."
"And is that all that you can tell me? Come, Harry, be braver thanthat. I was not such a coward once with you. Are you engaged to marryher?"
"Yes, Lady Ongar, I am."
"Then you have had your revenge on me, and now we are quits." Sosaying, she stepped back from the middle of the room, and sat herselfdown on her accustomed seat. He was left there standing, and itseemed as though she intended to take no further notice of him. Hemight go if he pleased, and th
ere would be an end of it all. Thedifficulty would be over, and he might at once write to Florence inwhat language he liked. It would simply be a little episode in hislife, and his escape would not have been arduous.
But he could not go from her in that way. He could not bring himselfto leave the room without some further word. She had spoken ofrevenge. Was it not incumbent on him to explain to her that therehad been no revenge; that he had loved, and suffered, and forgivenwithout one thought of anger;--and that then he had unfortunatelyloved again? Must he not find some words in which to tell her thatshe had been the light, and he simply the poor moth that had burnedhis wings?
"No, Lady Ongar," said he, "there has been no revenge."
"We will call it justice, if you please. At any rate I do not mean tocomplain."
"If you ever injured me--" he began.
"I did injure you," said she, sharply.
"If you ever injured me, I forgave you freely."
"I did injure you--" As she spoke she rose again from her seat,showing how impossible to her was that tranquillity which she hadattempted to maintain. "I did injure you, but the injury came to youearly in life, and sat lightly on you. Within a few months you hadlearned to love this young lady at the place you went to,--the firstyoung lady you saw! I had not done you much harm, Harry. But thatwhich you have done me cannot be undone."
"Julia," he said, coming up to her.
"No; not Julia. When you were here before I asked you to call me so,hoping, longing, believing,--doing more, so much more than I couldhave done, but that I thought my love might now be of service to you.You do not think that I had heard of this then?"
"Oh, no."
"No. It is odd that I should not have known it, as I now hear thatshe was at my sister's house; but all others have not been as silentas you have been. We are quits, Harry; that is all that I have tosay. We are quits now."
"I have intended to be true to you;--to you and to her."
"Were you true when you acted as you did the other night?" He couldnot explain to her how greatly he had been tempted. "Were you truewhen you held me in your arms as that woman came in? Had you not mademe think that I might glory in loving you, and that I might show herthat I scorned her when she thought to promise me her secrecy;--hersecrecy, as though I were ashamed of what she had seen. I was notashamed,--not then. Had all the world known it, I should not havebeen ashamed. 'I have loved him long,' I should have said, 'andhim only. He is to be my husband, and now at last I need not beashamed.'" So much she spoke, standing up, looking at him with firmface, and uttering her syllables with a quick clear voice; but at thelast word there came a quiver in her tone, and the strength of hercountenance quailed, and there was a tear which made dim her eye, andshe knew that she could no longer stand before him. She endeavouredto seat herself with composure; but the attempt failed, and as shefell back upon the sofa he just heard the sob which had cost her sogreat and vain an effort to restrain. In an instant he was kneelingat her feet, and grasping at the hand with which she was hiding herface. "Julia," he said, "look at me; let us at any rate understandeach other at last."
"No, Harry; there must be no more such knowledge,--no more suchunderstanding. You must go from me, and come here no more. Had it notbeen for that other night, I would still have endeavoured to regardyou as a friend. But I have no right to such friendship. I havesinned and gone astray, and am a thing vile and polluted. I soldmyself, as a beast is sold, and men have treated me as I treatedmyself."
"Have I treated you so?"
"Yes, Harry; you, you. How did you treat me when you took me in yourarms and kissed me,--knowing, knowing that I was not to be your wife?O God, I have sinned. I have sinned, and I am punished."
"No, no," said he, rising from his knees, "it was not as you say."
"Then how was it, sir? Is it thus that you treat other women;--yourfriends, those to whom you declare friendship? What did you mean meto think?"
"That I loved you."
"Yes; with a love that should complete my disgrace,--that shouldfinish my degradation. But I had not heard of this Florence Burton;and, Harry, that night I was so happy in my bed. And in that nextweek when you were down there for that sad ceremony, I was happyhere, happy and proud. Yes, Harry, I was so proud when I thought thatyou still loved me,--loved me in spite of my past sin, that I almostforgot that I was polluted. You have made me remember it, and I shallnot forget it again."
It would have been better for him had he gone away at once. Nowhe was sitting in a chair, sobbing violently, and pressing awaythe tears from his cheeks with his hands. How could he make herunderstand that he had intended no insult when he embraced her? Wasit not incumbent on him to tell her that the wrong he then did wasdone to Florence Burton, and not to her? But his agony was too muchfor him at present, and he could find no words in which to speak toher.
"I said to myself that you would come when the funeral was over, andI wept for poor Hermy as I thought that my lot was so much happierthan hers. But people have what they deserve, and Hermy, who has doneno such wrong as I have done, is not crushed as I am crushed. It wasjust, Harry, that the punishment should come from you, but it hascome very heavily."
"Julia, it was not meant to be so."
"Well; we will let that pass. I cannot unsay, Harry, all that I havesaid;--all that I did not say, but which you must have thought andknown when you were here last. I cannot bid you believe that I donot--love you."
"Not more tenderly or truly than I love you."
"Nay, Harry, your love to me can be neither true nor tender,--norwill I permit it to be offered to me. You do not think I would robthat girl of what is hers. Mine for you may be both tender and true;but, alas, truth has come to me when it can avail me no longer."
"Julia, if you will say that you love me, it shall avail you."
"In saying that, you are continuing to ill-treat me. Listen to menow. I hardly know when it began, for, at first, I did not expectthat you would forgive me and let me be dear to you as I used to be;but as you sat here, looking up into my face in the old way, it cameon me gradually,--the feeling that it might be so; and I told myselfthat if you would take me I might be of service to you, and I thoughtthat I might forgive myself at last for possessing this money if Icould throw it into your lap, so that you might thrive with it inthe world; and I said to myself that it might be well to wait awhile,till I should see whether you really loved me; but then came thatburst of passion, and though I knew that you were wrong, I wasproud to feel that I was still so dear to you. It is all over. Weunderstand each other at last, and you may go. There is nothing to beforgiven between us."
He had now resolved that Florence must go by the board. If Juliawould still take him she should be his wife, and he would faceFlorence and all the Burtons, and his own family, and all the worldin the matter of his treachery. What would he care what the worldmight say? His treachery to Florence was a thing completed. Now, atthis moment, he felt himself to be so devoted to Julia as to make himregard his engagement to Florence as one which must, at all hazards,be renounced. He thought of his mother's sorrow, of his father'sscorn,--of the dismay with which Fanny would hear concerning hima tale which she would believe to be so impossible; he thought ofTheodore Burton, and the deep, unquenchable anger of which thatbrother was capable, and of Cecilia and her outraged kindness; hethought of the infamy which would be attached to him, and resolvedthat he must bear it all. Even if his own heart did not move him soto act, how could he hinder himself from giving comfort and happinessto this woman who was before him? Injury, wrong, and broken-heartedwretchedness, he could not prevent; but, therefore, this part was asopen to him as the other. Men would say that he had done this forLady Ongar's money; and the indignation with which he was able toregard this false accusation,--for his mind declared such accusationto be damnably false,--gave him some comfort. People might say of himwhat they pleased. He was about to do the best within his power. Bad,alas, was the best, but it was of no avail now to think of that.
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p; "Julia," he said, "between us at least there shall be nothing to beforgiven."
"There is nothing," said she.
"And there shall be no broken love. I am true to you now,--as ever."
"And, what, then, of your truth to Miss Florence Burton?"
"It will not be for you to rebuke me with that. We have, both of us,played our game badly, but not for that reason need we both be ruinedand broken-hearted. In your folly you thought that wealth was betterthan love; and I, in my folly,--I thought that one love blightedmight be mended by another. When I asked Miss Burton to be my wifeyou were the wife of another man. Now that you are free again Icannot marry Miss Burton."
"You must marry her, Harry."
"There shall be no must in such a case. You do not know her, andcannot understand how good, how perfect she is. She is too good totake a hand without a heart."
"And what would men say of you?"
"I must bear what men say. I do not suppose that I shall be allhappy,--not even with your love. When things have once gone wrongthey cannot be mended without showing the patches. But yet men staythe hand of ruin for a while, tinkering here and putting in a nailthere, stitching and cobbling; and so things are kept together. Itmust be so for you and me. Give me your hand, Julia, for I have neverdeceived you, and you need not fear that I shall do so now. Give meyour hand, and say that you will be my wife."
"No, Harry; not your wife. I do not, as you say, know that perfectgirl, but I will not rob one that is so good."
"You are bound to me, Julia. You must do as I bid you. You have toldme that you love me; and I have told you,--and I tell you now, that Ilove none other as I love you;--have never loved any other as I haveloved you. Give me your hand." Then, coming to her, he took her hand,while she sat with her face averted from him. "Tell me that you willbe my wife." But she would not say the words. She was less selfishthan he, and was thinking,--was trying to think what might be bestfor them all, but, above all, what might be best for him. "Speak tome," he said, "and acknowledge that you wronged me when you thoughtthat the expression of my love was an insult to you."
"It is easy to say, speak. What shall I say?"
"Say that you will be my wife."
"No,--I will not say it." She rose again from her chair, and tookher hand away from him. "I will not say it. Go now and think overall that you have done; and I also will think of it. God help me.What evil comes, when evil has been done! But, Harry, I understandyou now, and I at least will blame you no more. Go and see FlorenceBurton; and if, when you see her, you find that you can love her,take her to your heart, and be true to her. You shall never hearanother reproach from me. Go now, go; there is nothing more to besaid."
He paused a moment as though he were going to speak, but he left theroom without another word. As he went along the passage and turned onthe stairs he saw her standing at the door of the room, looking athim, and it seemed that her eyes were imploring him to be true to herin spite of the words that she had spoken. "And I will be true toher," he said to himself. "She was the first that I ever loved, and Iwill be true to her."
He went out, and for an hour or two wandered about the town, hardlyknowing whither his steps were taking him. There had been a tragicseriousness in what had occurred to him this evening, which seemed tocover him with care, and make him feel that his youth was gone fromhim. At any former period of his life his ears would have tingledwith pride to hear such a woman as Lady Ongar speak of her love forhim in such terms as she had used; but there was no room now forpride in his bosom. Now at least he thought nothing of her wealth orrank. He thought of her as a woman between whom and himself thereexisted so strong a passion as to make it impossible that he shouldmarry another, even though his duty plainly required it. The graceand graciousness of his life were over; but love still remained tohim, and of that he must make the most. All others whom he regardedwould revile him, and now he must live for this woman alone. She hadsaid that she had injured him. Yes, indeed, she had injured him! Shehad robbed him of his high character, of his unclouded brow, of thatself-pride which had so often told him that he was living a lifewithout reproach among men. She had brought him to a state in whichmisery must be his bedfellow, and disgrace his companion;--but stillshe loved him, and to that love he would be true.
And as to Florence Burton;--how was he to settle matters with her?That letter for which he had been preparing the words as he went toBolton Street, before the necessity for it had become irrevocable,did not now appear to him to be very easy. At any rate he did notattempt it on that night.