RESTITUTION.
Harry stayed a little too long with his love,--a little longer at
least than had been computed, and in consequence met Theodore Burton
in the Crescent as he was leaving it. This meeting could hardly be
made without something of pain, and perhaps it was well for Harry
that he should have such an opportunity as this for getting over it
quickly. But when he saw Mr. Burton under the bright gas-lamp he
would very willingly have avoided him, had it been possible.
"Well, Harry?" said Burton, giving his hand to the repentant sheep.
"How are you, Burton?" said Harry, trying to speak with an
unconcerned voice. Then in answer to an inquiry as to his health, he
told of his own illness, speaking of that confounded fever having
made him very low. He intended no deceit, but he made more of the
fever than was necessary.
"When will you come back to the shop?" Burton asked. It must be
remembered that though the brother could not refuse to welcome back
to his home his sister's lover, still he thought that the engagement
was a misfortune. He did not believe in Harry as a man of business,
and had almost rejoiced when Florence had been so nearly quit of him.
And now there was a taint of sarcasm in his voice as he asked as to
Harry's return to the chambers in the Adelphi.
"I can hardly quite say as yet," said Harry, still pleading his
illness. "They were very much against my coming up to London so
soon. Indeed I should not have done it had I not felt so very--very
anxious to see Florence. I don't know, Burton, whether I ought to say
anything to you about that."
"I suppose you have said what you had to say to the women?"
"Oh, yes. I think they understand me completely, and I hope that I
understand them."
"In that case I don't know that you need say anything to me. Come to
the Adelphi as soon as you can; that's all. I never think myself that
a man becomes a bit stronger after an illness by remaining idle."
Then Harry passed on, and felt that he had escaped easily in that
interview.
But as he walked home he was compelled to think of the step which he
must next take. When he had last seen Lady Ongar he had left her with
a promise that Florence was to be deserted for her sake. As yet that
promise would by her be supposed to be binding. Indeed he had thought
it to be binding on himself till he had found himself under his
mother's influence at the parsonage. During his last few weeks in
London he had endured an agony of doubt; but in his vacillations
the pendulum had always veered more strongly towards Bolton Street
than to Onslow Crescent. Now the swinging of the pendulum had ceased
altogether. From henceforth Bolton Street must be forbidden ground
to him, and the sheepfold in Onslow Crescent must be his home till
he should have established a small peculiar fold for himself. But,
as yet, he had still before him the task of communicating his
final decision to the lady in Bolton Street. As he walked home he
determined that he had better do so in the first place by letter,
and so eager was he as to the propriety of doing this at once, that
on his return to his lodgings he sat down, and wrote the letter
before he went to his bed. It was not very easily written. Here, at
any rate, he had to make those confessions of which I have before
spoken;--confessions which it may be less difficult to make with
pen and ink than with spoken words, but which when so made are more
degrading. The word that is written is a thing capable of permanent
life, and lives frequently to the confusion of its parent. A man
should make his confessions always by word of mouth if it be
possible. Whether such a course would have been possible to Harry
Clavering may be doubtful. It might have been that in a personal
meeting the necessary confession would not have got itself adequately
spoken. Thinking, perhaps, of this he wrote his letter as follows on
that night.
Bloomsbury Square, July, 186--.
The date was easily written, but how was he to go on after that? In
what form of affection or indifference was he to address her whom he
had at that last meeting called his own, his dearest Julia? He got
out of his difficulty in the way common to ladies and gentlemen under
such stress, and did not address her by any name or any epithet.
The date he allowed to remain, and then he went away at once to the
matter of his subject.
I feel that I owe it you at once to tell you what has
been my history during the last few weeks. I came up from
Clavering to-day, and have since that been with Mrs. and
Miss Burton. Immediately on my return from them I sit down
to write you.
After having said so much, Harry probably felt that the rest of his
letter would be surplusage. Those few words would tell her all that
it was required that she should know. But courtesy demanded that he
should say more, and he went on with his confession.
You know that I became engaged to Miss Burton soon after
your own marriage. I feel now that I should have told you
this when we first met; but yet, had I done so, it would
have seemed as though I told it with a special object. I
don't know whether I make myself understood in this. I can
only hope that I do so.
Understood! Of course she understood it all. She required no
blundering explanation from him to assist her intelligence.
I wish now that I had mentioned it. It would have been
better for both of us. I should have been saved much pain;
and you, perhaps, some uneasiness.
I was called down to Clavering a few weeks ago, about some
business in the family, and then became ill,--so that I
was confined to my bed instead of returning to town. Had
it not been for this I should not have left you so long in
suspense,--that is if there has been suspense. For myself,
I have to own that I have been very weak,--worse than
weak, I fear you will think. I do not know whether your
old regard for me will prompt you to make any excuse for
me, but I am well sure that I can make none for myself
which will not have suggested itself to you, without
my urging it. If you choose to think that I have been
heartless,--or rather, if you are able so to think of me,
no words of mine, written or spoken now, will remove that
impression from your mind.
I believe that I need write nothing further. You will
understand from what I have said all that I should have
to say were I to refer at length to that which has passed
between us. All that is over now, and it only remains for
me to express a hope that you may be happy. Whether we
shall ever see each other again who shall say?--but if we
do I trust that we may not meet as enemies. May God bless
you here and hereafter.
HARRY CLAVERING.
When the letter was finished Harry sat for a while by his open
window looking at the moon, over the chimney-pots of his square, and
thinking of his career in life as it had hitherto been fulfilled. The
great promise of his earlier days had not been kept. His plight in
the world was now poor enough, though his hopes had been so high! He
was engaged to be married, but had no income on which to marry. He
had narrowly escaped great wealth. Ah!--It was hard for him to think
of that without a regret; but he did strive so to think of it. Though
he told himself that it would have been evil for him to have depended
on money which had been procured by the very act which had been to
him an injury,--to have dressed himself in the feathers which had
been plucked from Lord Ongar's wings,--it was hard for him to think
of all that he had missed, and rejoice thoroughly that he had missed
it. But he told himself that he so rejoiced, and endeavoured to be
glad that he had not soiled his hands with riches which never would
have belonged to the woman he had loved had she not earned them by
being false to him. Early on the following morning he sent off his
letter, and then, putting himself into a cab, bowled down to Onslow
Crescent. The sheepfold now was very pleasant to him when the head
shepherd was away, and so much gratification it was natural that he
should allow himself.
That evening, when he came from his club, he found a note from Lady
Ongar. It was very short, and the blood rushed to his face as he felt
ashamed at seeing with how much apparent ease she had answered him.
He had written with difficulty, and had written awkwardly. But there
was nothing awkward in her words.
DEAR HARRY,--We are quits now. I do not know why we should
ever meet as enemies. I shall never feel myself to be an
enemy of yours. I think it would be well that we should
see each other, and if you have no objection to seeing me,
I will be at home any evening that you may call. Indeed
I am at home always in the evening. Surely, Harry, there
can be no reason why we should not meet. You need not fear
that there will be danger in it.
Will you give my compliments to Miss Florence Burton, with
my best wishes for her happiness? Your Mrs. Burton I have
seen,--as you may have heard, and I congratulate you on
your friend.
Yours always, J. O.
The writing of this letter seemed to have been easy enough, and
certainly there was nothing in it that was awkward; but I think that
the writer had suffered more in the writing than Harry had done in
producing his longer epistle. But she had known how to hide her
suffering, and had used a tone which told no tale of her wounds. We
are quits now, she had said, and she had repeated the words over and
over again to herself as she walked up and down her room. Yes! they
were quits now,--if the reflection of that fact could do her any
good. She had ill-treated him in her early days; but, as she had
told herself so often, she had served him rather than injured him by
that ill-treatment. She had been false to him; but her falsehood had
preserved him from a lot which could not have been fortunate. With
such a clog as she would have been round his neck,--with such a wife,
without a shilling of fortune, how could he have risen in the world?
No! Though she had deceived him, she had served him. Then,--after
that,--had come the tragedy of her life, the terrible days in
thinking of which she still shuddered, the days of her husband and
Sophie Gordeloup,--that terrible deathbed, those attacks upon her
honour, misery upon misery, as to which she never now spoke a word to
any one, and as to which she was resolved that she never would speak
again. She had sold herself for money, and had got the price; but
the punishment of her offence had been very heavy. And now, in these
latter days, she had thought to compensate the man she had loved for
the treachery with which she had used him. That treachery had been
serviceable to him, but not the less should the compensation be very
rich. And she would love him too. Ah, yes; she had always loved him!
He should have it all now,--everything, if only he would consent to
forget that terrible episode in her life, as she would strive to
forget it. All that should remain to remind them of Lord Ongar would
be the wealth that should henceforth belong to Harry Clavering.
Such had been her dream, and Harry had come to her with words of
love which made it seem to be a reality. He had spoken to her words
of love which he was now forced to withdraw, and the dream was
dissipated. It was not to be allowed to her to escape her penalty so
easily as that! As for him, they were now quits. That being the case,
there could be no reason why they should quarrel.
But what now should she do with her wealth, and especially how should
she act in respect to that place down in the country? Though she had
learned to hate Ongar Park during her solitary visit there, she had
still looked forward to the pleasure the property might give her,
when she should be able to bestow it upon Harry Clavering. But that
had been part of her dream, and the dream was now over. Through it
all she had been conscious that she might hardly dare to hope that
the end of her punishment should come so soon,--and now she knew that
it was not to come. As far as she could see, there was no end to the
punishment in prospect for her. From her first meeting with Harry
Clavering on the platform of the railway station his presence, or
her thoughts of him, had sufficed to give some brightness to her
life,--had enabled her to support the friendship of Sophie Gordeloup,
and also to support her solitude when poor Sophie had been banished.
But now she was left without any resource. As she sat alone,
meditating on all this, she endeavoured to console herself with the
reflection that, after all, she was the one whom Harry loved,--whom
Harry would have chosen, had he been free to choose. But the comfort
to be derived from that was very poor. Yes; he had loved her
once,--nay, perhaps he loved her still. But when that love was her
own she had rejected it. She had rejected it, simply declaring to
him, to her friends, and to the world at large, that she preferred to
be rich. She had her reward, and, bowing her head upon her hands, she
acknowledged that the punishment was deserved.
Her first step after writing her note to Harry was to send for Mr.
Turnbull, her lawyer. She had expected to see Harry on the evening of
the day on which she had written, but instead of that she received a
note from him in which he said that he would come to her before long.
Mr. Turnbull was more instant in obeying her commands, and was with
her on the morning after he received her injunction. He was almost
a perfect stranger to her, having only seen her once and that for a
few moments after her return to England. Her marriage settlements
had been prepared for her by Sir Hugh's attorney; but during her
sojourn in Florence it had become necessary that she should have
some one in London to look after her own affairs, and Mr. Turnbull
had been recommended to her by lawyers employed by her husband. He
was a prudent, sensible man, who recognized it to be his imperative
interest to look after his client's interest. And he had done his
duty by Lady Ongar in that trying time immediately after her return.
An offer had then been made by the Courton family to give Julia her
income without opposition if she would surrender Ongar Park. To this
she had made objections with indignation, and Mr. Turnbull, though he
had at first thought that she would be wise to comply with the terms
proposed, had done her work for her with satisfactory expedition.
Since those days she had not seen him, but now she had summoned him,
and he was with her in Bolton Street.
"I want to speak to you, Mr. Turnbull," she said, "about that place
down in Surrey. I don't like it."
"Not like Ongar Park?" he said. "I have always heard that it is so
charming."
"It is not charming to me. It is a sort of property that I don't
want, and I mean to give it up."
"Lord Ongar's uncles would buy your interest in it, I have no doubt."
"Exactly. They have sent to me, offering to do so. My brother-in-law,
Sir Hugh Clavering, called on me with a message from them saying
so. I thought that he was very foolish to come, and so I told him.
Such things should be done by one's lawyers. Don't you think so, Mr.
Turnbull?" Mr. Turnbull smiled as he declared that, of course, he,
being a lawyer, was of that opinion. "I am afraid they will have
thought me uncivil," continued Julia, "as I spoke rather brusquely to
Sir Hugh Clavering. I am not inclined to take any steps through Sir
Hugh Clavering; but I do not know that I have any reason to be angry
with the little lord's family."
"Really, Lady Ongar, I think not. When your ladyship returned there
was some opposition thought of for a while, but I really do not think
it was their fault."
"No; it was not their fault."
"That was my feeling at the time; it was indeed."
"It was the fault of Lord Ongar,--of my husband. As regards all
the Courtons I have no word of complaint to make. It is not to be
expected,--it is not desirable that they and I should be friends.
It is impossible, after what has passed, that there should be such
friendship. But they have never injured me, and I wish to oblige
them. Had Ongar Park suited me I should, doubtless, have kept it; but
it does not suit me, and they are welcome to have it back again."
"Has a price been named, Lady Ongar?"
"No price need be named. There is to be no question of a price. Lord
Ongar's mother is welcome to the place,--or rather to such interest
as I have in it."
"And to pay a rent?" suggested Mr. Turnbull.
"To pay no rent! Nothing would induce me to let the place, or to sell
my right in it. I will have no bargain about it. But as nothing also
will induce me to live there, I am not such a dog in the manger as to
wish to keep it. If you will have the kindness to see Mr. Courton's
lawyer and to make arrangements about it."
"But, Lady Ongar; what you call your right in the estate is worth
over twenty thousand pounds. It is indeed. You could borrow twenty
thousand pounds on the security of it to-morrow."
"But I don't want to borrow twenty thousand pounds."
"No, no; exactly. Of course you don't. But I point out that fact to
show the value. You would be making a present of that sum of money
to people who do not want it,--who have no claim upon you. I really
don't see how they could take it."
"Mrs. Courton wishes to have the place very much."
"But, my lady, she has never thought of getting it without paying
for it. Lady Ongar, I really cannot advise you to take any such step
as that. Indeed, I cannot. I should be wrong, as your lawyer, if
I did not point out to you that such a proceeding would be quite
romantic,--quite so; what the world would call Quixotic. People don't
expect such things as that. They don't, indeed."
"People don't often have such reasons as I have," said Lady Ongar.
Mr. Turnbull sat silent for a while, looking as though he were
unhappy. The proposition made to him was one which, as a lawyer, he
felt to be very distasteful to him. He knew that his client had no
male friends in whom she confided, and he felt that the world would
blame him if he allowed this lady to part with her property in the
way she had suggested. "You will find that I am in earnest," she
continued, smiling. "And you may as well give way to my vagaries with
a good grace."
"They would not take it, Lady Ongar."
"At any rate we can try them. If you will make them understand that
I don't at all want the place, and that it will go to rack and ruin
because there is no one to live there, I am sure they will take it."
Then Mr. Turnbull again sat silent and unhappy, thinking with what
words he might best bring forward his last and strongest argument
against this rash proceeding.
"Lady Ongar," he said, "in your peculiar position there are double
reasons why you should not act in this way."
"What do you mean, Mr. Turnbull? What is my peculiar position?"
"The world will say that you have restored Ongar Park because you
were afraid to keep it. Indeed, Lady Ongar, you had better let it
remain as it is."
"I care nothing for what the world says," she exclaimed, rising
quickly from her chair;--"nothing; nothing!"
"You should really hold by your rights; you should, indeed. Who can
possibly say what other interests may be concerned? You may marry,
and live for the next fifty years, and have a family. It is my duty,
Lady Ongar, to point out these things to you."
"I am sure you are quite right, Mr. Turnbull," she said, struggling
to maintain a quiet demeanour. "You, of course, are only doing your
duty. But whether I marry or whether I remain as I am, I shall give
up this place. And as for what the world, as you call it, may say, I
will not deny that I cared much for that on my immediate return. What
people said then made me very unhappy. But I care nothing for it now.
I have established my rights, and that has been sufficient. To me
it seems that the world, as you call it, has been civil enough in
its usage of me lately. It is only of those who should have been my
friends that I have a right to complain. If you will please to do
this thing for me, I will be obliged to you."
"If you are quite determined about it--"
"I am quite determined. What is the use of the place to me? I never
shall go there. What is the use even of the money that comes to me?
I have no purpose for it. I have nothing to do with it."
There was something in her tone as she said this which well filled
him with pity.
"You should remember," he said, "how short a time it is since you
became a widow. Things will be different with you soon."
"My clothes will be different, if you mean that," she answered; "but
I do not know that there will be any other change in me. But I am
wrong to trouble you with all this. If you will let Mr. Courton's
lawyer know, with my compliments to Mrs. Courton, that I have heard
that she would like to have the place, and that I do not want it, I
will be obliged to you." Mr. Turnbull having by this time perceived
that she was quite in earnest, took his leave, having promised to do
her bidding.
In this interview she had told her lawyer only a part of the plan
which was now running in her head. As for giving up Ongar Park, she
took to herself no merit for that. The place had been odious to her
ever since she had endeavoured to establish herself there and had
found that the clergyman's wife would not speak to her,--that even
her own housekeeper would hardly condescend to hold converse with
her. She felt that she would be a dog in the manger to keep the place
in her own possession. But she had thoughts beyond this,--resolutions
only as yet half-formed as to a wider surrender. She had disgraced
herself, ruined herself, robbed herself of all happiness by the
marriage she had made. Her misery had not been simply the misery of
that lord's lifetime. As might have been expected, that was soon
over. But an enduring wretchedness had come after that from which
she saw no prospect of escape. What was to be her future life, left
as she was and would be, in desolation? If she were to give it all
up,--all the wealth that had been so ill-gotten,--might there not
then be some hope of comfort for her?
She had been willing enough to keep Lord Ongar's money, and use it
for the purposes of her own comfort, while she had still hoped that
comfort might come from it. The remembrance of all that she had to
give had been very pleasant to her, as long as she had hoped that
Harry Clavering would receive it at her hands. She had not at once
felt that the fruit had all turned to ashes. But now,--now that Harry
was gone from her,--now that she had no friend left to her whom she
could hope to make happy by her munificence,--the very knowledge of
her wealth was a burden to her. And as she thought of her riches in
these first days of her desertion, as she had indeed been thinking
since Cecilia Burton had been with her, she came to understand that
she was degraded by their acquisition. She had done that which had
been unpardonably bad, and she felt like Judas when he stood with the
price of his treachery in his hand. He had given up his money, and
would not she do as much? There had been a moment in which she had
nearly declared all her purpose to the lawyer, but she was held back
by the feeling that she ought to make her plans certain before she
communicated them to him.
She must live. She could not go out and hang herself as Judas had
done. And then there was her title and rank, of which she did not
know whether it was within her power to divest herself. She sorely
felt the want of some one from whom in her present need she might
ask counsel; of some friend to whom she could trust to tell her in
what way she might now best atone for the evil she had done. Plans
ran through her head which were thrown aside almost as soon as made,
because she saw that they were impracticable. She even longed in
these days for her sister's aid, though of old she had thought but
little of Hermy as a counsellor. She had no friend whom she might
ask;--unless she might still ask Harry Clavering.
If she did not keep it all might she still keep something,--enough
for decent life,--and yet comfort herself with the feeling that she
had expiated her sin? And what would be said of her when she had made
this great surrender? Would not the world laugh at her instead of
praising her,--that world as to which she had assured Mr. Turnbull
that she did not care what its verdict about her might be? She had
many doubts. Ah! why had not Harry Clavering remained true to her?
But her punishment had come upon her with all its severity, and she
acknowledged to herself now that it was not to be avoided.