On reaching Lionel's chambers, a show of cordiality was kept up; but
during the walk back, Harry, filled with bitterness, had decided upon
his future course--rashly enough, he knew--but he was determined to put
an end to what he told himself had been but a mad dream after one who
was not worthy of his regard.
The young men lunched, walked out, and dined together, after which, with
their coffee and cigars, they sat by the open window, where Lionel, who
had evidently been turning something over in his mind--suddenly
exclaimed--
"I don't want to quarrel, Harry; but I have been thinking over that
meeting this morning."
"Hear me first," exclaimed Harry, almost fiercely. "You spoke in a
strangely supercilious way, Lionel--a way that cut severely; and I feel
it due to myself and to my position to declare solemnly that my visit to
that place this morning was prompted by the purest motives." He
hesitated for a moment, but the feeling of weak pride even now
restrained him from telling Lionel who the object of this conversation
was. "By a desire for the well-being of one who struck me as--"
"Oh, yes!" burst in Lionel, "of course. I know what you would say. So
was I moved by the purest motives."
"Listen to me, Lionel," said Harry, rising. "I am not blind. I am, for
all my quiet life, perhaps as worldly wise as yourself. Do not think me
so simple as not to see that you have a _penchant_ for that young girl.
And now, Lionel Redgrave, I ask you, as a gentleman and a man of honour,
to give me your word that you will go there no more."
"Pooh! rubbish!" exclaimed Lionel, angrily. "Do you think that I am
blind--or a child--a little boy with his tutor, to be taken to task for
every word and look. Perhaps we are both worldly wise--perhaps not. At
any rate, I am going to bind myself by no absurd promises. Perhaps you
had better yourself go there no more."
"I do not intend!" said Harry, quietly.
"Frankly, then," said Lionel, hotly, "I do. I told you that I should
before, and--by Jove, where's Luff? Why, I've not seen him since we
came back. He was with me when I entered that shop the second time,
I'll swear, and then all this confounded humbug put him out of my mind.
There! you see," he continued, with a laugh, "I must go there again to
enlist the services of Mr D. Wragg. Don't you make no mistake, Mr Harry
Clayton; I'm not going to lose my `dorg,' if I can help it. But there,
Harry, old fellow, as I said before, I don't want to quarrel, and I'm
quite out of breath now with this long-winded speechifying; only don't
be such a confounded nuisance."
Harry Clayton, who was greatly moved, took a turn up and down the room.
"Here, shake hands," cried Lionel, "and let's have no more of it. Let's
be off out and see something. Why, stop! here!--where are you going?"
"To my room," said Harry, speaking very slowly and seriously, as he took
the hand held out to him.
"What for?" said Lionel.
"To write to your father!"
"Ha--ha--ha! Ha--ha--ha!" laughed Lionel, half angrily dashing away his
companion's hand, half with contempt. "Are you going to tell him that I
have been a naughty boy, and to ask him to come up with a stick?"
"No!" said Harry, quietly, almost sadly, "but to ask him to relieve me
of my responsibility;" and then he left the room.
"A confounded prig!" cried Lionel; "he grows insufferable." Then
throwing his half-smoked cigar from the window in his impatience, the
lighted fragment struck a heavy-faced man who was leaning against a
lamp-post, and staring up at the window of the well-lighted room.
The man dashed his hand to his face, growled, muttered, shook his fist
at the window, and then stooped, picked up the piece of cigar, knocked
away the few remaining sparks, and deposited it in his pocket, when he
gave another glance upwards as he said, audibly--
"Look out, my fine fellow!--look out!"
Lionel lit a fresh cigar and strolled up and down the room for a few
moments. "Coming to a nice pass," he muttered. "Just as if one
couldn't indulge in a little piece of innocent flirtation without being
taken to task like that!"
"No, Master Harry!" he said, after another turn or two. "I'm not blind
either, saint as you look--St Anthony if you like. She really is
uncommonly pretty, though. I liked that dove-scene, too; natural
evidently--but she can't be that old rag-and-famish dog-stealer's
daughter. The idea of Harry flying out like that! The beggar was
jealous, I'll swear. Well, let him go if he can't act like a man of the
world."
Harry Clayton did not mutter as he went to his room, but thoughts of a
troublous nature came quickly. It was only by an effort that he
composed himself to write a calm cool letter to Sir Richard Redgrave,
stating nothing relative to what had passed, but merely asking him to
make fresh arrangements respecting his son, if he still wished him to
have the counterpoise of a quiet companion, since it was the writer's
wish to return immediately to Cambridge.
"Like giving up the fight--a complete coward!" said Harry, as he read
over his note, and then he sighed and closed it up so that he might not
falter in his determination. Then he sat by the window thinking, but
not as had been his wont, for strange thoughts would intrude themselves
in spite of each angry repulse; and when at last he retired, it was not
to rest, but to lie tossing in a fevered manner, fighting with fancies
which he could not control.
The rising sun, as it gilded chimney and house-top, found Harry pale and
wakeful as he had been through the night, and he rose to sit by the open
window, gazing out upon the quiet streets, clear now and bright in the
early morning, and with hardly a wayfarer to be seen; but even the
calmness of the only quiet hour in London streets failed to bring the
peace he sought.
In due course came a letter from Sir Richard Redgrave, expressing sorrow
that Harry should so soon be obliged to return to the University, but
wishing him all success in his studies, ending with a hope that the
writer would see him high up in the honour-list, and hinting how
gratifying it would have been could he have inoculated Lionel with a
little of his application.
That same morning Harry had a hard fight with self.
"I've done all I could," he exclaimed; "I'll go back and forget."
An hour after he was with Lionel, who could hardly at the last bring
himself to believe that Harry was in earnest; but the affair was serious
enough he found, as he accompanied his friend to the Shoreditch Station,
staying upon the platform till Harry had taken his seat, and then, with
rather a formal hand-shake, the young men parted.
They were not to separate, though, without Lionel sending a sharp pang
through Harry's breast, as he said, mockingly--
"Any message for Decadia?"
Harry Clayton's reply was a cold, bitterly reproachful look; but as the
train glided out into the open air, he threw himself back, smiling sadly
as he gazed with a newly-awakened interest at the dense and wretched
neighbourhood on either hand, with its thronging population, and roofs
devoted often to the keeping of birds, many of which were also hung from
miserable poverty-stricken windows, whose broken panes were patched with
paper or stuffed with rags.
On went the train, momentarily gathering speed, till, as he saw one
iridescent pigeon alight cooing upon a brick parapet, Harry Clayton's
brow wrinkled, and he compressed his lips as if with pain.
An instant and the train had glided by, and the pigeon was lost to view;
and as he mused upon the troubles of the past, his broken home at
Norwood, and his determination to leave London for a time, the young man
whispered to himself softly--
"It's a dream--a dream of folly and weakness, and it was time that I was
rudely awakened."
Volume 2, Chapter IV.