AN EVENING IN BOLTON STREET.
Ten days after his visit in Mount Street, Harry received the note
which Lady Ongar had written to him on the night of her arrival in
London. It was brought to Mr. Beilby's office by her own footman
early in the morning; but Harry was there at the time, and was thus
able to answer it, telling Lady Ongar that he would come as she had
desired. She had commenced her letter "Dear Harry," and he well
remembered that when she had before written she had called him "Dear
Mr. Clavering." And though the note contained only half-a-dozen
ordinary words, it seemed to him to be affectionate, and almost
loving. Had she not been eager to see him, she would hardly thus have
written to him on the very instant of her return. "Dear Lady Ongar,"
he wrote, "I shall dine at my club, and be with you about eight.
Yours always, H. C." After that he could hardly bring himself to work
satisfactorily during the whole day. Since his interview with the
Franco-Polish lady he had thought a good deal about himself, and had
resolved to work harder and to love Florence Burton more devotedly
than ever. The nasty little woman had said certain words to him
which had caused him to look into his own breast and to tell himself
that this was necessary. As the love was easier than the work, he
began his new tasks on the following morning by writing a long and
very affectionate letter to his own Flo, who was still staying
at Clavering rectory;--a letter so long and so affectionate that
Florence, in her ecstasy of delight, made Fanny read it, and confess
that, as a love-letter, it was perfect.
"It's great nonsense, all the same," said Fanny.
"It isn't nonsense at all," said Florence; "and if it were, it would
not signify. Is it true? That's the question."
"I'm sure it's true," said Fanny.
"And so am I," said Florence. "I don't want any one to tell me that."
"Then why did you ask, you simpleton?" Florence indeed was having
a happy time of it at Clavering rectory. When Fanny called her a
simpleton, she threw her arms round Fanny's neck and kissed her.
And Harry kept his resolve about the work too, investigating plans
with a resolution to understand them which was almost successful.
During those days he would remain at his office till past four
o'clock, and would then walk away with Theodore Burton, dining
sometimes in Onslow Crescent, and going there sometimes in the
evening after dinner. And when there he would sit and read; and
once when Cecilia essayed to talk to him, he told her to keep her
apron-strings to herself. Then Theodore laughed and apologized,
and Cecilia said that too much work made Jack a dull boy; and then
Theodore laughed again, stretching out his legs and arms as he
rested a moment from his own study, and declared that, under those
circumstances, Harry never would be dull. And Harry, on those
evenings, would be taken upstairs to see the bairns in their cots;
and as he stood with their mother looking down upon the children,
pretty words would be said about Florence and his future life; and
all was going merry as a marriage bell. But on that morning, when
the note had come from Lady Ongar, Harry could work no more to his
satisfaction. He scrawled upon his blotting-paper, and made no
progress whatsoever towards the understanding of anything. It was
the day on which, in due course, he would write to Florence; and he
did write to her. But Florence did not show this letter to Fanny,
claiming for it any meed of godlike perfection. It was a stupid,
short letter, in which he declared that he was very busy, and that
his head ached. In a postscript he told her that he was going to see
Lady Ongar that evening. This he communicated to her under an idea
that by doing so he made everything right. And I think that the
telling of it did relieve his conscience.
He left the office soon after three, having brought himself to
believe in the headache, and sauntered down to his club. He found men
playing whist there, and, as whist might be good for his head, he
joined them. They won his money, and scolded him for playing badly
till he was angry, and then he went out for a walk by himself. As he
went along Piccadilly, he saw Sophie Gordeloup coming towards him,
trotting along, with her dress held well up over her ankles, eager,
quick, and, as he said to himself, clearly intent upon some mischief.
He endeavoured to avoid her by turning up the Burlington Arcade, but
she was too quick for him, and was walking up the arcade by his side
before he had been able to make up his mind as to the best mode of
ridding himself of such a companion.
"Ah, Mr. Clavering, I am so glad to see you. I was with Julie last
night. She was fagged, very much fagged; the journey, you know, and
the business. But yet so handsome! And we talked of you. Yes, Mr.
Clavering; and I told her how good you had been in coming to me. She
said you were always good; yes, she did. When shall you see her?"
Harry Clavering was a bad hand at fibbing, and a bad hand also at
leaving a question unanswered. When questioned in this way he did not
know what to do but to answer the truth. He would much rather not
have said that he was going to Bolton Street that evening, but he
could find no alternative. "I believe I shall see her this evening,"
he said, simply venturing to mitigate the evil of making the
communication by rendering it falsely doubtful. There are men who fib
with so bad a grace and with so little tact that they might as well
not fib at all. They not only never arrive at success, but never even
venture to expect it.
"Ah, this evening. Let me see. I don't think I can be there to-night;
Madame Berenstoff receives at the embassy."
"Good afternoon," said Harry, turning into Truefit's, the
hairdresser's, shop.
"Ah, very well," said Sophie to herself; "just so. It will be better,
much better. He is simply one lout, and why should he have it all? My
God, what fools, what louts, are these Englishmen!" Now having read
Sophie's thoughts so far, we will leave her to walk up the remainder
of the arcade by herself.
I do not know that Harry's visit to Truefit's establishment had been
in any degree caused by his engagement for the evening. I fancy that
he had simply taken to ground at the first hole, as does a hunted
fox. But now that he was there he had his head put in order, and
thought that he looked the better for the operation. He then went
back to his club, and when he sauntered into the card-room one old
gentleman looked askance at him, as though inquiring angrily whether
he had come there to make fresh misery. "Thank you; no,--I won't play
again," said Harry. Then the old gentleman was appeased, and offered
him a pinch of snuff. "Have you seen the new book about whist?" said
the old gentleman. "It is very useful,--very useful. I'll send you a
copy if you will allow me." Then Harry left the room, and went down
to dinner.
It was a little past eight when he knocked at Lady Ongar's door.
I fear he had calculated that if he were punctual to the moment,
she would think that he thought the matter to be important. It was
important to him, and he was willing that she should know that it was
so. But there are degrees in everything, and therefore he was twenty
minutes late. He was not the first man who has weighed the diplomatic
advantage of being after his time. But all those ideas went from him
at once when she met him almost at the door of the room, and, taking
him by the hand, said that she was "so glad to see him,--so very
glad. Fancy, Harry, I haven't seen an old friend since I saw you
last. You don't know how hard all that seems."
"It is hard," said he; and when he felt the pressure of her hand, and
saw the brightness of her eye, and when her dress rustled against
him as he followed her to her seat, and he became sensible of the
influence of her presence, all his diplomacy vanished, and he was
simply desirous of devoting himself to her service. Of course,
any such devotion was to be given without detriment to that other
devotion which he owed to Florence Burton. But this stipulation,
though it was made, was made quickly, and with a confused brain.
"Yes,--it is hard," she said. "Harry, sometimes I think I shall go
mad. It is more than I can bear. I could bear it if it hadn't been my
own fault,--all my own fault."
There was a suddenness about this which took him quite by surprise.
No doubt it had been her own fault. He also had told himself that;
though, of course, he would make no such charge to her. "You have not
recovered yet," he said, "from what you have suffered lately. Things
will look brighter to you after a while."
"Will they? Ah,--I do not know. But come, Harry; come and sit down,
and let me get you some tea. There is no harm, I suppose, in having
you here,--is there?"
"Harm, Lady Ongar?"
"Yes,--harm, Lady Ongar." As she repeated her own name after him,
nearly in his tone, she smiled once again; and then she looked as she
used to look in the old days, when she would be merry with him. "It
is hard to know what a woman may do, and what she may not. When my
husband was ill and dying, I never left his bedside. From the moment
of my marrying him till his death, I hardly spoke to a man but in his
presence; and when once I did, it was he that had sent him. And for
all that people have turned their backs upon me. You and I were old
friends, Harry, and something more once,--were we not? But I jilted
you, as you were man enough to tell me. How I did respect you when
you dared to speak the truth to me. Men don't know women, or they
would be harder to them."
"I did not mean to be hard to you."
"If you had taken me by the shoulders and shaken me, and have
declared that before God you would not allow such wickedness, I
should have obeyed you. I know I should." Harry thought of Florence,
and could not bring himself to say that he wished it had been so.
"But where would you have been then, Harry? I was wrong and false and
a beast to marry that man; but I should not, therefore, have been
right to marry you and ruin you. It would have been ruin, you know,
and we should simply have been fools."
"The folly was very pleasant," said he.
"Yes, yes; I will not deny that. But then the wisdom and the prudence
afterwards! Oh, Harry, that was not pleasant. That was not pleasant!
But what was I saying? Oh! about the propriety of your being here. It
is so hard to know what is proper. As I have been married, I suppose
I may receive whom I please. Is not that the law?"
"You may receive me, I should think. Your sister is my cousin's
wife." Harry's matter-of-fact argument did as well as anything else,
for it turned her thought at the moment.
"My sister, Harry! If there was nothing to make us friends but our
connection through Sir Hugh Clavering, I do not know that I should be
particularly anxious to see you. How unmanly he has been, and how
cruel."
"Very cruel," said Harry. Then he thought of Archie and Archie's
suit. "But he is willing to change all that now. Hermione asked me
the other day to persuade you to go to Clavering."
"And have you come here to use your eloquence for that purpose? I
will never go to Clavering again, Harry, unless it should be yours
and your wife should offer to receive me. Then I'd pack up for the
dear, dull, solemn old place though I was on the other side of
Europe."
"It will never be mine."
"Probably not, and probably, therefore, I shall never be there again.
No; I can forgive an injury, but not an insult,--not an insult such
as that. I will not go to Clavering; so, Harry, you may save your
eloquence. Hermione I shall be glad to see whenever she will come
to me. If you can persuade her to that, you will persuade her to a
charity."
"She goes nowhere, I think, without his--his--"
"Without his permission. Of course she does not. That, I suppose, is
all as it should be. And he is such a tyrant that he will give no
such permission. He would tell her, I suppose, that her sister was no
fit companion for her."
"He could not say that now, as he has asked you there."
"Ah, I don't know that. He would say one thing first and another
after, just as it would suit him. He has some object in wishing
that I should go there, I suppose." Harry, who knew the object, and
who was too faithful to betray Lady Clavering, even though he was
altogether hostile to his cousin Archie's suit, felt a little proud
of his position, but said nothing in answer to this. "But I shall
not go; nor will I see him, or go to his house when he comes up to
London. When do they come, Harry?"
"He is in town now."
"What a nice husband, is he not? And when does Hermione come?"
"I do not know; she did not say. Little Hughy is ill, and that may
keep her."
"After all, Harry, I may have to pack up and go to Clavering even
yet,--that is, if the mistress of the house will have me."
"Never in the way you mean, Lady Ongar. Do not propose to kill all my
relations in order that I might have their property. Archie intends
to marry, and have a dozen children."
"Archie marry! Who will have him? But such men as he are often in the
way by marrying some cookmaid at last. Archie is Hugh's body-slave.
Fancy being body-slave to Hugh Clavering! He has two, and poor Hermy
is the other; only he prefers not to have Hermy near him, which is
lucky for her. Here is some tea. Let us sit down and be comfortable,
and talk no more about our horrid relations. I don't know what made
me speak of them. I did not mean it."
Harry sat down and took the cup from her hand, as she had bidden the
servant to leave the tray upon the table.
"So you saw Count Pateroff," she said.
"Yes, and his sister."
"So she told me. What do you think of them?" To this question Harry
made no immediate answer. "You may speak out. Though I lived abroad
with such as them for twelve months, I have not forgotten the sweet
scent of our English hedgerows, nor the wholesomeness of English
household manners. What do you think of them?"
"They are not sweet or wholesome," said he.
"Oh, Harry, you are so honest! Your honesty is beautiful. A spade
will ever be a spade with you."
He thought that she was laughing at him, and coloured.
"You pressed me to speak," he said, "and I did but use your own
words."
"Yes, but you used them with such straightforward violence! Well, you
shall use what words you please, and how you please, because a word
of truth is so pleasant after living in a world of lies. I know you
will not lie to me, Harry. You never did."
He felt that now was the moment in which he should tell her of his
engagement, but he let the moment pass without using it. And, indeed,
it would have been hard for him to tell. In telling such a story he
would have been cautioning her that it was useless for her to love
him,--and this he could not bring himself to do. And he was not sure
even now that she had not learned the fact from her sister. "I hope
not," he said. In all that he was saying he knew that his words were
tame and impotent in comparison with hers, which seemed to him to
mean so much. But then his position was so unfortunate! Had it not
been for Florence Burton he would have been long since at her feet;
for, to give Harry Clavering his due, he could be quick enough at
swearing to a passion. He was one of those men to whom love-making
comes so readily that it is a pity that they should ever marry. He
was ever making love to women, usually meaning no harm. He made
love to Cecilia Burton over her children's beds, and that discreet
matron liked it. But it was a love-making without danger. It simply
signified on his part the pleasure he had in being on good terms with
a pretty woman. He would have liked to have made love in the same
way to Lady Ongar; but that was impossible, and in all love-making
with Lady Ongar there must be danger. There was a pause after the
expression of his last hopes, during which he finished his tea, and
then looked at his boots.
"You do not ask me what I have been doing at my country-house."
"And what have you been doing there?"
"Hating it."
"That is wrong."
"Everything is wrong that I do; everything must be wrong. That is the
nature of the curse upon me."
"You think too much of all that now."
"Ah, Harry, that is so easily said. People do not think of such
things if they can help themselves. The place is full of him and his
memories; full of him, though I do not as yet know whether he ever
put his foot in it. Do you know, I have a plan, a scheme, which
would, I think, make me happy for one half-hour. It is to give
everything back to the family. Everything! money, house, and name;
to call myself Julia Brabazon, and let the world call me what it
pleases. Then I would walk out into the streets, and beg some one
to give me my bread. Is there one in all the wide world that would
give me a crust? Is there one, except yourself, Harry--one, except
yourself?"
Poor Florence! I fear it fared badly with her cause at this moment.
How was it possible that he should not regret, that he should not
look back upon Stratton with something akin to sorrow? Julia had been
his first love, and to her he could have been always true. I fear he
thought of this now. I fear that it was a grief to him that he could
not place himself close at her side, bid her do as she had planned,
and then come to him, and share all his crusts. Had it been open to
him to play that part, he would have played it well, and would have
gloried in the thoughts of her poverty. The position would have
suited him exactly. But Florence was in the way, and he could not do
it. How was he to answer Lady Ongar? It was more difficult now than
ever to tell her of Florence Burton.
His eyes were full of tears, and she accepted that as his excuse for
not answering her. "I suppose they would say that I was a romantic
fool. When the price has been taken one cannot cleanse oneself of the
stain. With Judas, you know, it was not sufficient that he gave back
the money. Life was too heavy for him, and so he went out and hanged
himself."
"Julia," he said, getting up from his chair, and going over to where
she sat on a sofa, "Julia, it is horrid to hear you speak of yourself
in that way. I will not have it. You are not such a one as the
Iscariot." And as he spoke to her, he found her hand in his.
"I wish you had my burden, Harry, for one half day, so that you might
know its weight."
"I wish I could bear it for you--for life."
"To be always alone, Harry; to have none that come to me and scold
me, and love me, and sometimes make me smile! You will scold me at
any rate; will you not? It is terrible to have no one near one that
will speak to one with the old easiness of familiar affection. And
then the pretence of it where it does not, cannot, could not, exist!
Oh, that woman, Harry;--that woman who comes here and calls me Julie!
And she has got me to promise too that I would call her Sophie! I
know that you despise me because she comes here. Yes; I can see it.
You said at once that she was not wholesome, with your dear outspoken
honesty."
"It was your word."
"And she is not wholesome, whosever word it was. She was there,
hanging about him when he was so bad, before the worst came. She read
novels to him,--books that I never saw, and played écarté with him
for what she called gloves. I believe in my heart she was spying me,
and I let her come and go as she would, because I would not seem to
be afraid of her. So it grew. And once or twice she was useful to
me. A woman, Harry, wants to have a woman near her sometimes,--even
though it be such an unwholesome creature as Sophie Gordeloup. You
must not think too badly of me on her account."
"I will not;--I will not think badly of you at all."
"He is better, is he not? I know little of him or nothing, but he has
a more reputable outside than she has. Indeed I liked him. He had
known Lord Ongar well; and though he did not toady him nor was afraid
of him, yet he was gentle and considerate. Once to me he said words
that I was called on to resent;--but he never repeated them, and I
know that he was prompted by him who should have protected me. It is
too bad, Harry, is it not? Too bad almost to be believed by such as
you."
"It is very bad," said Harry.
"After that he was always courteous; and when the end came and things
were very terrible, he behaved well and kindly. He went in and out
quietly, and like an old friend. He paid for everything, and was
useful. I know that even this made people talk;--yes, Harry, even at
such a moment as that! But in spite of the talking I did better with
him then than I could have done without him."
"He looks like a man who could be kind if he chooses."
"He is one of those, Harry, who find it easy to be good-natured,
and who are soft by nature, as cats are,--not from their heart, but
through instinctive propensity to softness. When it suits them,
they scratch, even though they have been ever so soft before. Count
Pateroff is a cat. You, Harry, I think are a dog." She perhaps
expected that he would promise to her that he would be her dog,--a
dog in constancy and affection; but he was still mindful in part of
Florence, and restrained himself.
"I must tell you something further," she said. "And indeed it is this
that I particularly want to tell you. I have not seen him, you know,
since I parted with him at Florence."
"I did not know," said Harry.
"I thought I had told you. However, so it is. And now, listen:--He
came down to Ongar Park the other day while I was there, and sent
in his card. When I refused to receive him, he wrote to me pressing
his visit. I still declined, and he wrote again. I burned his note,
because I did not choose that anything from him should be in my
possession. He told some story about papers of Lord Ongar. I have
nothing to do with Lord Ongar's papers. Everything of which I knew
was sealed up in the count's presence and in mine, and was sent to
the lawyers for the executors. I looked at nothing; not at one word
in a single letter. What could he have to say to me of Lord Ongar's
papers?"
"Or he might have written?"
"At any rate he should not have come there, Harry. I would not see
him, nor, if I can help it, will I see him here. I will be open with
you, Harry. I think that perhaps it might suit him to make me his
wife. Such an arrangement, however, would not suit me. I am not going
to be frightened into marrying a man, because he has been falsely
called my lover. If I cannot escape the calumny in any other way, I
will not escape it in that way."
"Has he said anything?"
"No; not a word. I have not seen him since the day after Lord Ongar's
funeral. But I have seen his sister."
"And has she proposed such a thing?"
"No, she has not proposed it. But she talks of it, saying that it
would not do. Then, when I tell her that of course it would not do,
she shows me all that would make it expedient. She is so sly and so
false, that with all my eyes open I cannot quite understand her, or
quite know what she is doing. I do not feel sure that she wishes it
herself."
"She told me that it would not do."
"She did, did she? If she speaks of it again, tell her that she is
right, that it will never do. Had he not come down to Ongar Park, I
should not have mentioned this to you. I should not have thought that
he had in truth any such scheme in his head. He did not tell you that
he had been there?"
"He did not mention it. Indeed, he said very little about you at
all."
"No, he would not. He is cautious. He never talks of anybody to
anybody. He speaks only of the outward things of the world. Now,
Harry, what you must do for me is this." As she was speaking to him
she was leaning again upon the table, with her forehead resting upon
her hands. Her small widow's cap had become thus thrust back, and was
now nearly off her head, so that her rich brown hair was to be seen
in its full luxuriance, rich and lovely as it had ever been. Could it
be that she felt,--half thought, half felt, without knowing that she
thought it,--that while the signs of her widowhood were about her,
telling in their too plain language the tale of what she had been, he
could not dare to speak to her of his love? She was indeed a widow,
but not as are other widows. She had confessed, did hourly confess to
herself, the guilt which she had committed in marrying that man; but
the very fact of such confessions, of such acknowledgment, absolved
her from the necessity of any show of sorrow. When she declared how
she had despised and hated her late lord, she threw off mentally
all her weeds. Mourning, the appearance even of mourning, became
impossible to her, and the cap upon her head was declared openly to
be a sacrifice to the world's requirements. It was now pushed back,
but I fancy that nothing like a thought on the matter had made itself
plain to her mind. "What you must do for me is this," she continued.
"You must see Count Pateroff again, and tell him from me,--as my
friend,--that I cannot consent to see him. Tell him that if he will
think of it, he must know the reason why."
"Of course he will know."
"Tell him what I say, all the same; and tell him that as I have
hitherto had cause to be grateful to him for his kindness, so also
I hope he will not put an end to that feeling by anything now, that
would not be kind. If there be papers of Lord Ongar's, he can take
them either to my lawyers, if that be fit, or to those of the family.
You can tell him that, can you not?"
"Oh, yes; I can tell him."
"And have you any objection?"
"None for myself. The question is,--would it not come better from
some one else?"
"Because you are a young man, you mean? Whom else can I trust, Harry?
To whom can I go? Would you have me ask Hugh to do this? Or, perhaps
you think Archie Clavering would be a proper messenger. Who else have
I got?"
"Would not his sister be better?"
"How should I know that she had told him? She would tell him her own
story,--what she herself wished. And whatever story she told, he
would not believe it. They know each other better than you and I know
them. It must be you, Harry, if you will do it."
"Of course I will do it. I will try and see him to-morrow. Where does
he live?"
"How should I know? Perhaps nobody knows; no one, perhaps, of all
those with whom he associates constantly. They do not live after our
fashion, do they, these foreigners? But you will find him at his
club, or hear of him at the house in Mount Street. You will do it;
eh, Harry?"
"I will."
"That is my good Harry. But I suppose you would do anything I asked
you. Ah, well; it is good to have one friend, if one has no more.
Look, Harry! if it is not near eleven o'clock! Did you know that you
had been here nearly three hours? And I have given you nothing but a
cup of tea!"
"What else do you think I have wanted?"
"At your club you would have had cigars and brandy-and-water, and
billiards, and broiled bones, and oysters, and tankards of beer.
I know all about it. You have been very patient with me. If you go
quick perhaps you will not be too late for the tankards and the
oysters."
"I never have any tankards or any oysters."
"Then it is cigars and brandy-and-water. Go quick, and perhaps you
may not be too late."
"I will go, but not there. One cannot change one's thoughts so
suddenly."
"Go, then; and do not change your thoughts. Go and think of me, and
pity me. Pity me for what I have got, but pity me most for what I
have lost." Harry did not say another word, but took her hand, and
kissed it, and then left her.
Pity her for what she had lost! What had she lost? What did she mean
by that? He knew well what she meant by pitying her for what she had
got. What had she lost? She had lost him. Did she intend to evoke his
pity for that loss? She had lost him. Yes, indeed. Whether or no the
loss was one to regret, he would not say to himself; or rather, he,
of course, declared that it was not; but such as it was, it had been
incurred. He was now the property of Florence Burton, and, whatever
happened, he would be true to her.
Perhaps he pitied himself also. If so, it is to be hoped that
Florence may never know of such pity. Before he went to bed, when
he was praying on his knees, he inserted it in his prayers that the
God in whom he believed might make him true in his faith to Florence
Burton.