LADY ONGAR'S REVENGE.
[Illustration.]
At last came the night which Harry had fixed for his visit to Bolton
Street. He had looked forward certainly with no pleasure to the
interview, and now that the time for it had come, was disposed to
think that Lady Ongar had been unwise in asking for it. But he had
promised that he would go, and there was no possible escape.
He dined that evening in Onslow Crescent, where he was now again
established with all his old comfort. He had again gone up to the
children's nursery with Cecilia, had kissed them all in their cots,
and made himself quite at home in the establishment. It was with them
there as though there had been no dreadful dream about Lady Ongar. It
was so altogether with Cecilia and Florence, and even Mr. Burton was
allowing himself to be brought round to a charitable view of Harry's
character. Harry on this day had gone to the chambers in the Adelphi
for an hour, and walking away with Theodore Burton had declared his
intention of working like a horse. "If you were to say like a man,
it would perhaps be better," said Burton. "I must leave you to say
that," answered Harry; "for the present I will content myself with
the horse." Burton was willing to hope, and allowed himself once more
to fall into his old pleasant way of talking about the business as
though there were no other subject under the sun so full of manifold
interest. He was very keen at the present moment about Metropolitan
railways, and was ridiculing the folly of those who feared that the
railway projectors were going too fast. "But we shall never get any
thanks," he said. "When the thing has been done, and thanks are our
due, people will look upon all our work so much as a matter of course
that it will never occur to them to think that they owe us anything.
They will have forgotten all their cautions, and will take what they
get as though it were simply their due. Nothing astonishes me so
much as the fear people feel before a thing is done when I join it
with their want of surprise or admiration afterwards." In this way
even Theodore Burton had resumed his terms of intimacy with Harry
Clavering.
Harry had told both Cecilia and Florence of his intended visit to
Bolton Street, and they had all become very confidential on the
subject. In most such cases we may suppose that a man does not say
much to one woman of the love which another woman has acknowledged
for himself. Nor was Harry Clavering at all disposed to make any
such boast. But in this case, Lady Ongar herself had told everything
to Mrs. Burton. She had declared her passion, and had declared
also her intention of making Harry her husband if he would take her.
Everything was known, and there was no possibility of sparing Lady
Ongar's name.
"If I had been her I would not have asked for such a meeting,"
Cecilia said. The three were at this time sitting together, for Mr.
Burton rarely joined them in their conversation.
"I don't know," said Florence. "I do not see why she and Harry should
not remain as friends."
"They might be friends without meeting now," said Cecilia.
"Hardly. If the awkwardness were not got over at once it would never
be got over. I almost think she is right, though if I were her
I should long to have it over." That was Florence's judgment in
the matter. Harry sat between them, like a sheep as he was, very
meekly,--not without some enjoyment of his sheepdom, but still
feeling that he was a sheep. At half-past eight he started up, having
already been told that a cab was waiting for him at the door. He
pressed Cecilia's hand as he went, indicating his feeling that he had
before him an affair of some magnitude, and then of course had a
word or two to say to Florence in private on the landing. Oh, those
delicious private words, the need for which comes so often during
those short halcyon days of one's lifetime! They were so pleasant
that Harry would fain have returned to repeat them after he was
seated in his cab; but the inevitable wheels carried him onwards with
cruel velocity, and he was in Bolton Street before the minutes had
sufficed for him to collect his thoughts.
[Illustration: Harry sat between them, like a sheep as he was, very
meekly.]
Lady Ongar, when he entered the room, was sitting in her accustomed
chair, near a little work-table which she always used, and did not
rise to meet him. It was a pretty chair, soft and easy, made with
a back for lounging, but with no arms to impede the circles of a
lady's hoop. Harry knew the chair well and had spoken of its graceful
comfort in some of his visits to Bolton Street. She was seated there
when he entered; and though he was not sufficiently experienced in
the secrets of feminine attire to know at once that she had dressed
herself with care, he did perceive that she was very charming, not
only by force of her own beauty, but by the aid also of her dress.
And yet she was in deep mourning,--in the deepest mourning; nor was
there anything about her of which complaint might fairly be made by
those who do complain on such subjects. Her dress was high round
her neck, and the cap on her head was indisputably a widow's cap;
but enough of her brown hair was to be seen to tell of its rich
loveliness; and the black dress was so made as to show the full
perfection of her form; and with it all there was that graceful
feminine brightness that care and money can always give, and
which will not come without care and money. It might be well, she
had thought, to surrender her income, and become poor and dowdy
hereafter, but there could be no reason why Harry Clavering should
not be made to know all that he had lost.
"Well, Harry," she said, as he stepped up to her and took her offered
hand. "I am glad that you have come that I may congratulate you.
Better late than never; eh, Harry?"
How was he to answer her when she spoke to him in this strain? "I
hope it is not too late," he said, hardly knowing what the words were
which were coming from his mouth.
"Nay; that is for you to say. I can do it heartily, Harry, if you
mean that. And why not? Why should I not wish you happy? I have
always liked you,--have always wished for your happiness. You believe
that I am sincere when I congratulate you;--do you not?"
"Oh, yes; you are always sincere."
"I have always been so to you. As to any sincerity beyond that we
need say nothing now. I have always been your good friend,--to the
best of my ability. Ah, Harry; you do not know how much I have
thought of your welfare; how much I do think of it. But never mind
that. Tell me something now of this Florence Burton of yours. Is she
tall?" I believe that Lady Ongar, when she asked this question, knew
well that Florence was short of stature.
"No; she is not tall," said Harry.
"What,--a little beauty? Upon the whole I think I agree with your
taste. The most lovely women that I have ever seen have been small,
bright, and perfect in their proportions. It is very rare that a tall
woman has a perfect figure." Julia's own figure was quite perfect.
"Do you remember Constance Vane? Nothing ever exceeded her beauty."
Now Constance Vane,--she at least who had in those days been
Constance Vane, but who now was the stout mother of two or three
children,--had been a waxen doll of a girl, whom Harry had known, but
had neither liked nor admired. But she was highly bred, and belonged
to the cream of English fashion; she had possessed a complexion as
pure in its tints as are the interior leaves of a blush rose,--and
she had never had a thought in her head, and hardly ever a word on
her lips. She and Florence Burton were as poles asunder in their
differences. Harry felt this at once, and had an indistinct notion
that Lady Ongar was as well aware of the fact as was he himself. "She
is not a bit like Constance Vane," he said.
"Then what is she like? If she is more beautiful than what Miss Vane
used to be, she must be lovely indeed."
"She has no pretensions of that kind," said Harry, almost sulkily.
"I have heard that she was so very beautiful!" Lady Ongar had never
heard a word about Florence's beauty;--not a word. She knew nothing
personally of Florence beyond what Mrs. Burton had told her. But who
will not forgive her the little deceit that was necessary to her
little revenge?
"I don't know how to describe her," said Harry. "I hope the time may
soon come when you will see her, and be able to judge for yourself."
"I hope so too. It shall not be my fault if I do not like her."
"I do not think you can fail to like her. She is very clever, and
that will go further with you than mere beauty. Not but what I think
her very,--very pretty."
"Ah,--I understand. She reads a great deal, and that sort of thing.
Yes; that is very nice. But I shouldn't have thought that that
would have taken you. You used not to care much for talent and
learning,--not in women I mean."
"I don't know about that," said Harry, looking very foolish.
"But a contrast is what you men always like. Of course I ought not
to say that, but you will know of what I am thinking. A clever,
highly-educated woman like Miss Burton will be a much better
companion to you than I could have been. You see I am very frank,
Harry." She wished to make him talk freely about himself, his future
days, and his past days, while he was simply anxious to say on these
subjects as little as possible. Poor woman! The excitement of having
a passion which she might indulge was over with her,--at any rate for
the present. She had played her game and had lost wofully; but before
she retired altogether from the gaming-table she could not keep
herself from longing for a last throw of the dice.
"These things, I fear, go very much by chance," said Harry.
"You do not mean me to suppose that you are taking Miss Burton by
chance. That would be as uncomplimentary to her as to yourself."
"Chance, at any rate, has been very good to me in this instance."
"Of that I am sure. Do not suppose that I am doubting that. It is
not only the paradise that you have gained, but the pandemonium
that you have escaped!" Then she laughed slightly, but the laughter
was uneasy, and made her angry with herself. She had especially
determined to be at ease during this meeting, and was conscious that
any falling off in that respect on her part would put into his hands
the power which she was desirous of exercising.
"You are determined to rebuke me, I see," said he. "If you choose to
do so, I am prepared to bear it. My defence, if I have a defence, is
one that I cannot use."
"And what would be your defence?"
"I have said that I cannot use it."
"As if I did not understand it all! What you mean to say is
this,--that when your good stars sent you in the way of Florence
Burton, you had been ill-treated by her who would have made your
pandemonium for you, and that she therefore,--she who came first and
behaved so badly--can have no right to find fault with you in that
you have obeyed your good stars and done so well for yourself. That
is what you call your defence. It would be perfect, Harry,--perfect,
if you had only whispered to me a word of Miss Burton when I first
saw you after my return home. It is odd to me that you should not
have written to me and told me when I was abroad with my husband.
It would have comforted me to have known that the wound which I had
given had been cured;--that is, if there was a wound."
"You know that there was a wound."
"At any rate, it was not mortal. But when are such wounds mortal?
When are they more than skin-deep?"
"I can say nothing as to that now."
"No, Harry; of course you can say nothing. Why should you be made
to say anything? You are fortunate and happy, and have all that you
want. I have nothing that I want."
There was a reality in the tone of sorrow in which this was spoken
which melted him at once;--and the more so in that there was so much
in her grief which could not but be flattering to his vanity. "Do not
say that, Lady Ongar," he exclaimed.
"But I do say it. What have I got in the world that is worth having?
My possessions are ever so many thousands a year,--and a damaged
name."
"I deny that. I deny it altogether. I do not think that there is one
who knows of your story who believes ill of you."
"I could tell you of one, Harry, who thinks very ill of me;--nay, of
two; and they are both in this room. Do you remember how you used to
teach me that terribly conceited bit of Latin,--Nil conscire sibi? Do
you suppose that I can boast that I never grow pale as I think of my
own fault? I am thinking of it always, and my heart is ever becoming
paler and paler. And as to the treatment of others;--I wish I could
make you know what I suffered when I was fool enough to go to that
place in Surrey. The coachman who drives me no doubt thinks that I
poisoned my husband, and the servant who let you in just now supposes
me to be an abandoned woman because you are here."
"You will be angry with me, perhaps, if I say that these feelings are
morbid and will die away. They show the weakness which has come from
the ill-usage you have suffered."
"You are right in part, no doubt. I shall become hardened to it all,
and shall fall into some endurable mode of life in time. But I can
look forward to nothing. What future have I? Was there ever any one
so utterly friendless as I am? Your kind cousin has done that for
me;--and yet he came here to me the other day, smiling and talking as
though he were sure that I should be delighted by his condescension.
I do not think that he will ever come again."
"I did not know you had seen him."
"Yes; I saw him;--but I did not find much relief from his visit. We
won't mind that, however. We can talk about something better than
Hugh Clavering during the few minutes that we have together;--can we
not? And so Miss Burton is very learned and very clever?"
"I did not quite say that."
"But I know she is. What a comfort that will be to you! I am not
clever, and I never should have become learned. Oh, dear! I had but
one merit, Harry;--I was fond of you."
"And how did you show it?" He did not speak these words, because he
would not triumph over her, nor was he willing to express that regret
on his own part which these words would have implied;--but it was
impossible for him to avoid a thought of them. He remained silent,
therefore, taking up some toy from the table into his hands, as
though that would occupy his attention.
"But what a fool I am to talk of it;--am I not? And I am worse
than a fool. I was thinking of you when I stood up in church to be
married;--thinking of that offer of your little savings. I used to
think of you at every harsh word that I endured;--of your modes of
life when I sat through those terrible nights by that poor creature's
bed;--of you when I knew that the last day was coming. I thought of
you always, Harry, when I counted up my gains. I never count them
up now. Ah, how I thought of you when I came to this house in the
carriage which you had provided for me, when I had left you at the
station almost without speaking a word to you! I should have been
more gracious had I not had you in my thoughts throughout my whole
journey home from Florence. And after that I had some comfort in
believing that the price of my shame might make you rich without
shame. Oh, Harry, I have been disappointed! You will never understand
what I felt when first that evil woman told me of Miss Burton."
"Oh, Julia, what am I to say?"
"You can say nothing; but I wonder that you had not told me."
"How could I tell you? Would it not have seemed that I was vain
enough to have thought of putting you on your guard?"
"And why not? But never mind. Do not suppose that I am rebuking you.
As I said in my letter, we are quits now, and there is no place for
scolding on either side. We are quits now; but I am punished and you
are rewarded."
Of course he could not answer this. Of course he was hard pressed
for words. Of course he could neither acknowledge that he had been
rewarded, nor assert that a share of the punishment of which she
spoke had fallen upon him also. This was the revenge with which she
had intended to attack him. That she should think that he had in
truth been punished and not rewarded, was very natural. Had he been
less quick in forgetting her after her marriage, he would have had
his reward without any punishment. If such were her thoughts, who
shall quarrel with her on that account?
"I have been very frank with you," she continued. "Indeed, why should
I not be so? People talk of a lady's secret, but my secret has been
no secret from you? That I was made to tell it under,--under,--what I
will call an error,--was your fault; and it is that that has made us
quits."
"I know that I have behaved badly to you."
"But then unfortunately you know also that I had deserved bad
treatment. Well; we will say no more about it. I have been very
candid with you, but then I have injured no one by my candour. You
have not said a word to me in reply; but then your tongue is tied
by your duty to Miss Burton,--your duty and your love together, of
course. It is all as it should be, and now I will have done. When are
you to be married, Harry?"
"No time has been fixed. I am a very poor man, you know."
"Alas, alas,--yes. When mischief is done, how badly all the things
turn out. You are poor and I am rich, and yet we cannot help each
other."
"I fear not."
"Unless I could adopt Miss Burton, and be a sort of mother to her.
You would shrink, however, from any such guardianship on my part. But
you are clever, Harry, and can work when you please, and will make
your way. If Miss Burton keeps you waiting now by any prudent fear on
her part, I shall not think so well of her as I am inclined to do."
"The Burtons are all prudent people."
"Tell her, from me, with my love,--not to be too prudent. I thought
to be prudent, and see what has come of it."
"I will tell her what you say."
"Do, please; and, Harry, look here. Will she accept a little present
from me? You, at any rate, for my sake, will ask her to do so. Give
her this,--it is only a trifle,"--and she put her hand on a small
jeweller's box, which was close to her arm upon the table, "and tell
her,--of course she knows all our story, Harry?"
"Yes; she knows it all."
"Tell her that she whom you have rejected sends it with her kindest
wishes to her whom you have taken."
"No; I will not tell her that."
"Why not? It is all true. I have not poisoned the little ring, as the
ladies would have done some centuries since. They were grander then
than we are now, and perhaps hardly worse, though more cruel. You
will bid her take it,--will you not?"
"I am sure she will take it without bidding on my part."
"And tell her not to write me any thanks. She and I will both
understand that that had better be omitted. If, when I shall see her
at some future time as your wife, it shall be on her finger, I shall
know that I am thanked." Then Harry rose to go. "I did not mean by
that to turn you out, but perhaps it may be as well. I have no more
to say,--and as for you, you cannot but wish that the penance should
be over." Then he pressed her hand, and with some muttered farewell,
bade her adieu. Again she did not rise from her chair, but nodding at
him with a sweet smile, let him go without another word.