In his dilemma he did at last go to Bolton Street, and there found that Lady Ongar had left town for three or four days. The servant said that she had gone, he believed, to the Isle of Wight; and that Madame Gordeloup had gone with her. She was to be back in town early in the following week. This was on a Thursday, and he was aware that he could not postpone his interview with Burton till after Julia’s return. So he went to his club, and nailing himself as it were to the writing-table, made an appointment for the following morning. He would be with Burton at the Adelphi at twelve o’clock. He had been in trouble, he said, and that trouble had kept him from the office and from Onslow Crescent. Having written this, he sent it off, and then played billiards and smoked and dined, played more billiards and smoked and drank till the usual hours of the night had come. He was not a man who liked such things. He had not become what he was by passing his earlier years after this fashion. But his misery required excitement—and billiards with tobacco were better than the desolation of solitude.
On the following morning he did not breakfast till near eleven. Why should he get up as long as it was possible to obtain the relief which was to be had from dozing? As far as possible he would not think of the matter till he had put his hat upon his head to go to the Adelphi. But the time for taking his hat soon came; and he started on his short journey. But even as he walked, he could not think of it. He was purposeless, as a ship without a rudder, telling himself that he could only go as the winds might direct him. How he did hate himself for his one weakness! And yet he hardly made an effort to overcome it. On one point only did he seem to have a resolve. If Burton attempted to use with him anything like a threat he would instantly resent it.
Punctually at twelve he walked into the outer office, and was told that Mr. Burton was in his room.
“Halloa, Clavering,” said Walliker, who was standing with his back to the fire, “I thought we had lost you for good and all. And here you are come back again!”
Harry had always disliked this man, and now hated him worse than ever. “Yes; I am here,” said he, “for a few minutes; but I believe I need not trouble you.”
“All right, old fellow,” said Walliker; and then Harry passed through into the inner room.
“I am very glad to see you, Harry,” said Burton, rising and giving his hand cordially to Clavering. “And I am sorry to hear that you have been in trouble. Is it anything in which we can help you?”
“I hope—Mrs. Burton is well,” said Harry, hesitating.
“Pretty well.”
“And the children?”
“Quite well. They say you are a very bad fellow not to go and see them.”
“I believe I am a bad fellow,” said Harry.
“Sit down, Harry. It will be best to come at the point at once;—will it not? Is there anything wrong between you and Florence?”
“What do you mean by wrong?”
“I should call it very wrong—hideously wrong, if after all that has passed between you, there should now be any doubt as to your affection for each other. If such doubt were now to arise with her, I should almost disown my sister.”
“You will never have to blush for her.”
“I think not. I thank God that hitherto there have been no such blushes among us. And I hope, Harry, that my heart may never have to bleed for her. Come, Harry, let me tell you all at once like an honest man. I hate subterfuges and secrets. A report has reached the old people at home—not Florence, mind—that you are untrue to Florence, and are passing your time with that lady who is the sister of your cousin’s wife.”
“What right have they to ask how I pass my time?”
“Do not be unjust, Harry. If you simply tell me that your visits to that lady imply no evil to my sister, I, knowing you to be a gentleman, will take your word for all that it can mean.” He paused, and Harry hesitated and could not answer. “Nay, dear friend—brother, as we both of us have thought you—come once more to Onslow Crescent and kiss the bairns, and kiss Cecilia, too, and sit with us at our table, and talk as you used to do, and I will ask no further question;—nor will she. Then you will come back here to your work, and your trouble will be gone, and your mind will be at ease; and, Harry, one of the best girls that ever gave her heart into a man’s keeping will be there to worship you, and to swear when your back is turned that anyone who says a word against you shall be no brother and no sister and no friend of hers.”
And this was the man who had dusted his boots with his pocket-handkerchief, and whom Harry had regarded as being on that account hardly fit to be his friend! He knew that
