When Cecilia’s letter reached Stratton, and another post came without any letter from Harry, poor Florence’s heart sank low in her bosom. “Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Burton, who watched her daughter anxiously while she was reading the letter. Mrs. Burton had not told Florence of her own letter to her son; and now, having herself received no answer, looked to obtain some reply from that which her daughter-in-law had sent.
“Cecilia wants me to go to London,” said Florence.
“Is there anything the matter that you should go just now?”
“Not exactly the matter, mamma; but you can see the letter.”
Mrs. Burton read it slowly, and felt sure that much was the matter. She knew that Cecilia would have written in that strain only under the influence of some great alarm. At first she was disposed to think that she herself would go to London. She was eager to know the truth—eager to utter her loud maternal bleatings if any wrong were threatened to her lamb. Florence might go with her, but she longed herself to be on the field of action. She felt that she could almost annihilate any man by her words and looks who would dare to ill-treat a girl of hers.
“Well, mamma;—what do you think?”
“I don’t know yet, my dear. I will speak to your papa before dinner.” But as Mrs. Burton had been usually autocratic in the management of her own daughters, Florence was aware that her mother simply required a little time before she made up her mind. “It is not that I want to go to London—for the pleasure of it, mamma.”
“I know that, my dear.”
“Nor yet merely to see him!—though of course I do long to see him!”
“Of course you do;—why shouldn’t you?”
“But Cecilia is so very prudent, and she thinks that it will be better. And she would not have pressed it, unless Theodore had thought so too!”
“I thought Theodore would have written to me!”
“But he writes so seldom.”
“I expected a letter from him now, as I had written to him.”
“About Harry, do you mean?”
“Well;—yes. I did not mention it, as I was aware I might make you uneasy. But I saw that you were unhappy at not hearing from him.”
“Oh, mamma, do let me go.”
“Of course you shall go if you wish it;—but let me speak to papa before anything is quite decided.”
Mrs. Burton did speak to her husband, and it was arranged that Florence should go up to Onslow Crescent. But Mrs. Burton, though she had been always autocratic about her unmarried daughters, had never been autocratic about herself. When she hinted that she also might go, she saw that the scheme was not approved, and she at once abandoned it. “It would look as if we were all afraid,” said Mr. Burton, “and after all what does it come to?—a young gentleman does not write to his sweetheart for two or three weeks. I used to think myself the best lover in the world if I wrote once a month.”
“There was no penny post then, Mr. Burton.”
“And I often wish there was none now,” said Mr. Burton. That matter was therefore decided, and Florence wrote back to her sister-in-law, saying that she would go up to London on the third day from that. In the meantime, Harry Clavering and Theodore Burton had met.
Has it ever been the lot of any unmarried male reader of these pages to pass three or four days in London, without anything to do—to have to get through them by himself—and to have that burden on his shoulder, with the additional burden of some terrible, wearing misery, away from which there seems to be no road, and out of which there is apparently no escape? That was Harry Clavering’s condition for some few days after the evening which he last passed in the company of Lady Ongar—and I will ask any such unmarried man whether, in such a plight, there was for him any other alternative but to wish himself dead? In such a condition, a man can simply walk the streets by himself, and declare to himself that everything is bad, and rotten, and vile, and worthless. He wishes himself dead, and calculates the different advantages of prussic acid and pistols. He may the while take his meals very punctually at his club, may smoke his cigars, and drink his bitter beer, or brandy-and-water;—but he is all the time wishing himself dead, and making that calculation as to the best way of achieving that desirable result. Such was Harry Clavering’s condition now. As for his office, the doors of that place were absolutely closed against him, by the presence of Theodore Burton. When he attempted to read he could not understand a word, or sit for ten minutes with a book in his hand. No occupation was possible to him. He longed to go again to Bolton Street, but he did not even do that. If there, he could act only as though Florence had been deserted forever;—and if he so acted he would be infamous for life. And yet he had sworn to Julia that such was his intention. He hardly dared to ask himself which of the two he loved. The misery of it all had become so heavy upon him, that he could take no pleasure in the thought of his love. It must always be all regret, all sorrow, and all remorse. Then there came upon him the letter from Theodore Burton, and he knew that it was necessary that he should see the writer.
Nothing could be more disagreeable than such an interview, but he could not allow himself to be guilty of the cowardice of declining it. Of a personal quarrel with Burton he was not afraid. He felt, indeed, that he
