WHAT LADY ONGAR THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
[Illustration.]
Mrs. Burton, it may perhaps be remembered, had formed in her heart
a scheme of her own--a scheme of which she thought with much
trepidation, and in which she could not request her husband's
assistance, knowing well that he would not only not assist it, but
that he would altogether disapprove of it. But yet she could not put
it aside from her thoughts, believing that it might be the means of
bringing Harry Clavering and Florence together. Her husband had now
thoroughly condemned poor Harry, and had passed sentence against
him,--not indeed openly to Florence herself, but very often in
the hearing of his wife. Cecilia, womanlike, was more angry with
circumstances than with the offending man,--with circumstances and
with the woman who stood in Florence's way. She was perfectly willing
to forgive Harry, if Harry could only be made to go right at last. He
was good-looking and pleasant, and had nice ways in a house, and was
altogether too valuable as a lover to be lost without many struggles.
So she kept to her scheme, and at last she carried it into execution.
She started alone from her house one morning, and getting into an
omnibus at Brompton had herself put down on the rising ground in
Piccadilly, opposite to the Green Park. Why she had hesitated to tell
the omnibus-man to stop at Bolton Street can hardly be explained; but
she had felt that there would be almost a declaration of guilt in
naming that locality. So she got out on the little hill, and walked
up in front of the Prime Minister's house,--as it was then,--and of
the yellow palace built by one of our merchant princes, and turned
into the street that was all but interdicted to her by her own
conscience. She turned up Bolton Street, and with a trembling hand
knocked at Lady Ongar's door.
Florence in the meantime was sitting alone in Onslow Terrace. She
knew now that Harry was ill at Clavering,--that he was indeed very
ill, though Mrs. Clavering had assured her that his illness was not
dangerous. For Mrs. Clavering had written to herself,--addressing
her with all the old familiarity and affection,--with a warmth of
affection that was almost more than natural. It was clear that Mrs.
Clavering knew nothing of Harry's sins. Or, might it not be possible,
Cecilia had suggested, that Mrs. Clavering might have known, and have
resolved potentially that those sins should be banished, and become
ground for some beautifully sincere repentance? Ah, how sweet it
would be to receive that wicked sheep back again into the sheepfold,
and then to dock him a little of his wandering powers, to fix him
with some pleasant clog, to tie him down as a prudent domestic sheep
should be tied, and make him the pride of the flock! But all this
had been part of Cecilia's scheme, and of that scheme poor Florence
knew nothing. According to Florence's view Mrs. Clavering's letter
was written under a mistake. Harry had kept his secret at home,
and intended to keep it for the present. But there was the letter,
and Florence felt that it was impossible for her to answer it
without telling the whole truth. It was very painful to her to leave
unanswered so kind a letter as that, and it was quite impossible that
she should write of Harry in the old strain. "It will be best that I
should tell her the whole," Florence had said, "and then I shall be
saved the pain of any direct communication with him." Her brother, to
whom Cecilia had repeated this, applauded his sister's resolution.
"Let her face it and bear it, and live it down," he had said. "Let
her do it at once, so that all this maudlin sentimentality may be at
an end." But Cecilia would not accede to this, and as Florence was
in truth resolved, and had declared her purpose plainly, Cecilia
was driven to the execution of her scheme more quickly than she had
intended. In the meantime, Florence took out her little desk and
wrote her letter. In tears and an agony of spirit which none can
understand but women who have been driven to do the same, was it
written. Could she have allowed herself to express her thoughts with
passion, it would have been comparatively easy; but it behoved her to
be calm, to be very quiet in her words,--almost reticent even in the
language which she chose, and to abandon her claim not only without a
reproach, but almost without an allusion to her love. Whilst Cecilia
was away, the letter was written, and re-written and copied; but Mrs.
Burton was safe in this, that her sister-in-law had promised that the
letter should not be sent till she had seen it.
Mrs. Burton, when she knocked at Lady Ongar's door, had a little note
ready for the servant between her fingers. Her compliments to Lady
Ongar, and would Lady Ongar oblige her by an interview. The note
contained simply that, and nothing more; and when the servant took it
from her, she declared her intention of waiting in the hall till she
had received an answer. But she was shown into the dining-room, and
there she remained for a quarter of an hour, during which time she
was by no means comfortable. Probably Lady Ongar might refuse to
receive her; but should that not be the case,--should she succeed in
making her way into that lady's presence, how should she find the
eloquence wherewith to plead her cause? At the end of the fifteen
minutes, Lady Ongar herself opened the door and entered the room.
"Mrs. Burton," she said, smiling, "I am really ashamed to have kept
you so long; but open confession, they say, is good for the soul, and
the truth is that I was not dressed." Then she led the way upstairs,
and placed Mrs. Burton on a sofa, and placed herself in her own
chair,--from whence she could see well, but in which she could not
be well seen,--and stretched out the folds of her morning dress
gracefully, and made her visitor thoroughly understand that she was
at home and at her ease.
We may, I think, surmise that Lady Ongar's open confession would do
her soul but little good, as it lacked truth, which is the first
requisite for all confessions. Lady Ongar had been sufficiently
dressed to receive any visitor, but had felt that some special
preparation was necessary for the reception of the one who had
now come to her. She knew well who was Mrs. Burton, and surmised
accurately the purpose for which Mrs. Burton had come. Upon the
manner in which she now carried herself might hang the decision of
the question which was so important to her,--whether that Phoebus
in knickerbockers should or should not become lord of Ongar Park.
To effect success now, she must maintain an ascendancy during this
coming interview, and in the maintenance of all ascendancy, much
depends on the outward man or woman; and she must think a little of
the words she must use, and a little, too, of her own purpose. She
was fully minded to get the better of Mrs. Burton if that might be
possible, but she was not altogether decided on the other point. She
wished that Harry Clavering might be her own. She would have wished
to pension off that Florence Burton with half her wealth, had such
pensioning been possible. But not the less did she entertain some
half doubts whether it would not be well that she could abandon her
own wishes, and give up her own hope of happiness. Of Mrs. Burton
personally she had known nothing, and having expected to see a
somewhat strong-featured and perhaps rather vulgar woman, and to hear
a voice painfully indicative of a strong mind, she was agreeably
surprised to find a pretty, mild lady, who from the first showed that
she was half afraid of what she herself was doing. "I have heard your
name, Mrs. Burton," said Lady Ongar, "from our mutual friend, Mr.
Clavering, and I have no doubt you have heard mine from him also."
This she said in accordance with the little plan which during those
fifteen minutes she had laid down for her own guidance.
Mrs. Burton was surprised, and at first almost silenced, by this
open mentioning of a name which she had felt that she would have
the greatest difficulty in approaching. She said, however, that it
was so. She had heard Lady Ongar's name from Mr. Clavering. "We are
connected, you know," said Lady Ongar. "My sister is married to
his first-cousin, Sir Hugh; and when I was living with my sister
at Clavering, he was at the rectory there. That was before my own
marriage." She was perfectly easy in her manner, and flattered
herself that the ascendancy was complete.
"I have heard as much from Mr. Clavering," said Cecilia.
"And he was very civil to me immediately on my return home. Perhaps
you may have heard that also. He took this house for me, and made
himself generally useful, as young men ought to do. I believe he is
in the same office with your husband; is he not? I hope I may not
have been the means of making him idle?"
This was all very well and very pretty, but Mrs. Burton was already
beginning to feel that she was doing nothing towards the achievement
of her purpose. "I suppose he has been idle," she said, "but I did
not mean to trouble you about that." Upon hearing this, Lady Ongar
smiled. This supposition that she had really intended to animadvert
upon Harry Clavering's idleness was amusing to her as she remembered
how little such idleness would signify if she could only have her
way.
"Poor Harry!" she said. "I supposed his sins would be laid at my
door. But my idea is, you know, that he never will do any good at
such work as that."
"Perhaps not;--that is, I really can't say. I don't think Mr. Burton
has ever expressed any such opinion; and if he had--"
"If he had, you wouldn't mention it."
"I don't suppose I should, Lady Ongar;--not to a stranger."
"Harry Clavering and I are not strangers," said Lady Ongar, changing
the tone of her voice altogether as she spoke.
"No; I know that. You have known him longer than we have. I am aware
of that."
"Yes; before he ever dreamed of going into your husband's business,
Mrs. Burton; long before he had ever been to--Stratton."
The name of Stratton was an assistance to Cecilia, and seemed to
have been spoken with the view of enabling her to commence her work.
"Yes," she said, "but nevertheless he did go to Stratton. He went
to Stratton, and there he became acquainted with my sister-in-law,
Florence Burton."
"I am aware of it, Mrs. Burton."
"And he also became engaged to her."
"I am aware of that too. He has told me as much himself."
"And has he told you whether he means to keep, or to break that
engagement?"
"Ah, Mrs. Burton, is that question fair? Is it fair either to him, or
to me? If he has taken me into his confidence and has not taken you,
should I be doing well to betray him? Or if there can be anything in
such a secret specially interesting to myself, why should I be made
to tell it to you?"
"I think the truth is always the best, Lady Ongar."
"Truth is always better than a lie;--so at least people say, though
they sometimes act differently; but silence may be better than
either."
"This is a matter, Lady Ongar, in which I cannot be silent. I hope
you will not be angry with me for coming to you,--or for asking you
these questions--"
"O dear, no."
"But I cannot be silent. My sister-in-law must at any rate know what
is to be her fate."
"Then why do you not ask him?"
"He is ill at present."
"Ill! Where is he ill? Who says he is ill?" And Lady Ongar, though
she did not quite leave her chair, raised herself up and forgot all
her preparations. "Where is he, Mrs. Burton? I have not heard of his
illness."
"He is at Clavering;--at the parsonage."
"I have heard nothing of this. What ails him? If he be really ill,
dangerously ill, I conjure you to tell me. But pray tell me the
truth. Let there be no tricks in such a matter as this."
"Tricks, Lady Ongar!"
"If Harry Clavering be ill, tell me what ails him. Is he in danger?"
"His mother in writing to Florence says that he is not in danger; but
that he is confined to the house. He has been taken by some fever."
On that very morning Lady Ongar had received a letter from her
sister, begging her to come to Clavering Park during the absence
of Sir Hugh; but in the letter no word had been said as to Harry's
illness. Had he been seriously, or at least dangerously ill, Hermione
would certainly have mentioned it. All this flashed across Julia's
mind as these tidings about Harry reached her. If he were not really
in danger, or even if he were, why should she betray her feeling
before this woman? "If there had been much in it," she said, resuming
her former position and manners, "I should no doubt have heard of it
from my sister."
"We hear that it is not dangerous," continued Mrs. Burton; "but he is
away, and we cannot see him. And, in truth, Lady Ongar, we cannot see
him any more until we know that he means to deal honestly by us."
"Am I the keeper of his honesty?"
"From what I have heard, I think you are. If you will tell me
that I have heard falsely, I will go away and beg your pardon for
my intrusion. But if what I have heard be true, you must not be
surprised that I show this anxiety for the happiness of my sister. If
you knew her, Lady Ongar, you would know that she is too good to be
thrown aside with indifference."
"Harry Clavering tells me that she is an angel,--that she is
perfect."
"And if he loves her, will it not be a shame that they should be
parted?"
"I said nothing about his loving her. Men are not always fond of
perfection. The angels may be too angelic for this world."
"He did love her."
"So I suppose;--or at any rate he thought that he did."
"He did love her, and I believe he loves her still."
"He has my leave to do so, Mrs. Burton."
Cecilia, though she was somewhat afraid of the task which she had
undertaken, and was partly awed by Lady Ongar's style of beauty and
demeanour, nevertheless felt that if she still hoped to do any good,
she must speak the truth out at once. She must ask Lady Ongar whether
she held herself to be engaged to Harry Clavering. If she did not do
this, nothing could come of the present interview.
"You say that, Lady Ongar, but do you mean it?" she asked. "We have
been told that you also are engaged to marry Mr. Clavering."
"Who has told you so?"
"We have heard it. I have heard it, and have been obliged to tell my
sister that I had done so."
"And who told you? Did you hear it from Harry Clavering himself?"
"I did. I heard it in part from him."
"Then why have you come beyond him to me? He must know. If he has
told you that he is engaged to marry me, he must also have told you
that he does not intend to marry Miss Florence Burton. It is not for
me to defend him or to accuse him. Why do you come to me?"
"For mercy and forbearance," said Mrs. Burton, rising from her seat
and coming over to the side of the room in which Lady Ongar was
seated.
[Illustration: A plea for mercy.]
"And Miss Burton has sent you?"
"No; she does not know that I am here; nor does my husband know it.
No one knows it. I have come to tell you that before God this man is
engaged to become the husband of Florence Burton. She has learned to
love him, and has now no other chance of happiness."
"But what of his happiness?"
"Yes; we are bound to think of that. Florence is bound to think of
that above all things."
"And so am I. I love him too;--as fondly, perhaps, as she can do. I
loved him first, before she had even heard his name."
"But, Lady Ongar--"
"Yes; you may ask the question if you will, and I will answer it
truly." They were both standing now and confronting each other. "Or
I will answer it without your asking it. I was false to him. I would
not marry him because he was poor; and then I married another because
he was rich. All that is true. But it does not make me love him the
less now. I have loved him through it all. Yes; you are shocked, but
it is true. I have loved him through it all. And what am I to do now,
if he still loves me? I can give him wealth now."
"Wealth will not make him happy."
"It has not made me happy; but it may help to do so with him. But
with me at any rate there can be no doubt. It is his happiness to
which I am bound to look. Mrs. Burton, if I thought that I could make
him happy, and if he would come to me, I would marry him to-morrow,
though I broke your sister's heart by doing so. But if I felt that
she could do so more than I, I would leave him to her, though I broke
my own. I have spoken to you very openly. Will she say as much as
that?"
"She would act in that way. I do not know what she would say."
"Then let her do so, and leave him to be the judge of his own
happiness. Let her pledge herself that no reproaches shall come
from her, and I will pledge myself equally. It was I who loved him
first, and it is I who have brought him into this trouble. I owe him
everything. Had I been true to him, he would never have thought of,
never have seen, Miss Florence Burton."
All that was, no doubt, true, but it did not touch the question of
Florence's right. The fact on which Mrs. Burton wished to insist, if
only she knew how, was this, that Florence had not sinned at all, and
that Florence therefore ought not to bear any part of the punishment.
It might be very true that Harry's fault was to be excused in part
because of Lady Ongar's greater and primary fault;--but why should
Florence be the scapegoat?
"You should think of his honour as well as his happiness," said Mrs.
Burton at last.
"That is rather severe, Mrs. Burton, considering that it is said
to me in my own house. Am I so low as that, that his honour will
be tarnished if I become his wife?" But she, in saying this, was
thinking of things of which Mrs. Burton knew nothing.
"His honour will be tarnished," said she, "if he do not marry her
whom he has promised to marry. He was welcomed by her father and
mother to their house, and then he made himself master of her heart.
But it was not his till he had asked for it, and had offered his own
and his hand in return for it. Is he not bound to keep his promise?
He cannot be bound to you after any such fashion as that. If you are
solicitous for his welfare, you should know that if he would live
with the reputation of a gentleman, there is only one course open to
him."
"It is the old story," said Lady Ongar; "the old story! Has not
somebody said that the gods laugh at the perjuries of lovers? I do
not know that men are inclined to be much more severe than the gods.
These broken hearts are what women are doomed to bear."
"And that is to be your answer to me, Lady Ongar?"
"No; that is not my answer to you. That is the excuse that I make for
Harry Clavering. My answer to you has been very explicit. Pardon me
if I say that it has been more explicit than you had any right to
expect. I have told you that I am prepared to take any step that may
be most conducive to the happiness of the man whom I once injured,
but whom I have always loved. I will do this, let it cost myself what
it may; and I will do this let the cost to any other woman be what
it may. You cannot expect that I should love another woman better
than myself." She said this, still standing, not without something
more than vehemence in her tone. In her voice, in her manner, and
in her eye there was that which amounted almost to ferocity. She
was declaring that some sacrifice must be made, and that she recked
little whether it should be of herself or of another. As she would
immolate herself without hesitation, if the necessity should exist,
so would she see Florence Burton destroyed without a twinge of
remorse, if the destruction of Florence would serve the purpose
which she had in view. You and I, O reader, may feel that the man
for whom all this was to be done was not worth the passion. He had
proved himself to be very far from such worth. But the passion,
nevertheless, was there, and the woman was honest in what she was
saying.
After this Mrs. Burton got herself out of the room as soon as she
found an opening which allowed her to go. In making her farewell
speech, she muttered some indistinct apology for the visit which she
had been bold enough to make. "Not at all," said Lady Ongar. "You
have been quite right;--you are fighting your battle for the friend
you love bravely; and were it not that the cause of the battle must,
I fear, separate us hereafter, I should be proud to know one who
fights so well for her friends. And when all this is over and has
been settled, in whatever way it may be settled, let Miss Burton know
from me that I have been taught to hold her name and character in
the highest possible esteem." Mrs. Burton made no attempt at further
speech, but left the room with a low curtsey.
Till she found herself out in the street, she was unable to think
whether she had done most harm or most good by her visit to Bolton
Street,--whether she had in any way served Florence, or whether she
had simply confessed to Florence's rival the extent of her sister's
misery. That Florence herself would feel the latter to be the case,
when she should know it all, Mrs. Burton was well aware. Her own
ears had tingled with shame as Harry Clavering had been discussed
as a grand prize for which her sister was contending with another
woman,--and contending with so small a chance of success. It was
terrible to her that any woman dear to her should seem to seek for a
man's love. And the audacity with which Lady Ongar had proclaimed her
own feelings had been terrible also to Cecilia. She was aware that
she was meddling with things which were foreign to her nature, and
which would be odious to her husband. But yet, was not the battle
worth fighting? It was not to be endured that Florence should seek
after this thing; but, after all, the possession of the thing in
question was the only earthly good that could give any comfort to
poor Florence. Even Cecilia, with all her partiality for Harry,
felt that he was not worth the struggle; but it was for her now to
estimate him at the price which Florence might put upon him,--not at
her own price.
But she must tell Florence what had been done, and tell her on that
very day of her meeting with Lady Ongar. In no other way could she
stop that letter which she knew that Florence would have already
written to Mrs. Clavering. And could she now tell Florence that there
was ground for hope? Was it not the fact that Lady Ongar had spoken
the simple and plain truth when she had said that Harry must be
allowed to choose the course which appeared to him to be the best for
him? It was hard, very hard, that it should be so. And was it not
true also that men, as well as gods, excuse the perjuries of lovers?
She wanted to have back Harry among them as one to be forgiven
easily, to be petted much, and to be loved always; but, in spite
of the softness of her woman's nature, she wished that he might be
punished sorely if he did not so return. It was grievous to her that
he should any longer have a choice in the matter. Heavens and earth!
was he to be allowed to treat a woman as he had treated Florence, and
was nothing to come of it? In spite both of gods and men, the thing
was so grievous to Cecilia Burton, that she could not bring herself
to acknowledge that it was possible. Such things had not been done in
the world which she had known.
She walked the whole way home to Brompton, and had hardly perfected
any plan when she reached her own door. If only Florence would allow
her to write the letter to Mrs. Clavering, perhaps something might be
done in that way. So she entered the house prepared to tell the story
of her morning's work.
And she must tell it also to her husband in the evening! It had been
hard to do the thing without his knowing of it beforehand; but it
would be impossible to her to keep the thing a secret from him, now
that it was done.