Count Pateroff had again called in Bolton Street, and had again been refused admittance. It was plain to him to see by the servant’s manner that it was intended that he should understand that he was not to be admitted. Under such circumstances, it was necessary that he must either abandon his pursuit, or that he must operate upon Lady Ongar through some other feeling than her personal regard for himself. He might, perhaps, have trusted much to his own eloquence if he could have seen her; but how is a man to be eloquent in his wooing if he cannot see the lady whom he covets? There is, indeed, the penny post, but in these days of legal restraints, there is no other method of approaching an unwilling beauty. Forcible abduction is put an end to as regards Great Britain and Ireland. So the count had resort to the post.
His letter was very long, and shall not, therefore, be given to the reader. He began by telling Lady Ongar that she owed it to him for the good services he had done her, to read what he might say, and to answer him. He then gave her various reasons why she should see him, pleading, among other things, in language which she could understand, though the words were purposely as ambiguous as they could be made, that he had possessed and did possess the power of doing her a grievous injury, and that he had abstained, and—hoped that he might be able to abstain for the future. She knew that the words contained no threat—that taken literally they were the reverse of a threat, and amounted to a promise—but she understood also all that he had intended to imply. Long as his own letter was, he said nothing in it as to his suit, confining himself to a request that she should see him. But with his letter he sent her an enclosure longer than the letter itself, in which his wishes were clearly explained.
This enclosure purported to be an expression of Lord Ongar’s wishes on many subjects, as they had been communicated to Count Pateroff in the latter days of the lord’s life; but as the manuscript was altogether in the count’s writing, and did not even pretend to have been subjected to Lord Ongar’s eye, it simply amounted to the count’s own story of their alleged conversations. There might have been no such conversations, or their tenor might have been very different from that which the count represented, or the statements and opinions, if expressed at all by Lord Ongar, might have been expressed at times when no statements or opinions coming from him could be of any value. But as to these conversations, if they could have been verified as having come from Lord Ongar’s mouth when he was in full possession of such faculties as he possessed—all that would have amounted to nothing with Lady Ongar. To Lord Ongar alive she had owed obedience, and had been obedient. To Lord Ongar dead she owed no obedience, and would not be obedient.
Such would have been her feelings as to any document which could have reached her, purporting to contain Lord Ongar’s wishes; but this document was of a nature which made her specially antagonistic to the exercise of any such marital authority from the grave. It was very long, and went into small details—details which were very small; but the upshot of it all was a tendering of great thanks to Count Pateroff, and the expression of a strong wish that the count should marry his widow. “O. said that this would be the only thing for J.’s name.” “O. said that this would be the safest course for his own honour.” “O. said, as he took my hand, that in promising to take this step I gave him grat comfort.” “O. commissioned me to speak to J. in his name to this effect.” The O. was of course Lord Ongar, and the J. was of course Julia. It was all in French, and went on in the same strain for many pages. Lady Ongar answered the letter as follows:—
Lady Ongar presents her compliments to Count Pateroff, and begs to return the enclosed manuscript, which is, to her, perfectly valueless. Lady Ongar must still decline, and now more strongly than before, to receive Count Pateroff.
She was quite firm as she did this. She had no doubt at all on the matter. She did not feel that she wanted to ask for any advice. But she did feel that this count might still work her additional woe, that her cup of sorrow might not even yet be full, and that she was sadly—sadly in want of love and protection. For aught she knew, the count might publish the whole statement, and people might believe that those words came from her husband, and that her husband had understood what would be best for her fame and for his honour. The whole thing was a threat, and not to save herself from any misery, would she have succumbed to a menace; but still it was possible that the threat might be carried out.
She was sorely in want of love and protection. At this time, when the count’s letter reached her, Harry had been with her; and we know what had passed between them. She had bid him go to Florence—and
