The Claverings

of it that may be done without love. This is devotion, and it is this which a man owes to the woman who has once promised to be his wife, and has not forfeited her right. Doubtless Harry Clavering should have remembered this at the first moment of his weakness in Lady Ongar’s drawing-room. Doubtless he should have known at once that his duty to Florence made it necessary that he should declare his engagement⁠—even though, in doing so, he might have seemed to caution Lady Ongar on that point on which no woman can endure a caution. But the fault was hers, and the caution was needed. No doubt he should not have returned to Bolton Street. He should not have cozened himself by trusting himself to her assurances of friendship; he should have kept warm his love for the woman to whom his hand was owed, not suffering himself to make comparisons to her injury. He should have been chivalric, manly, full of high duty. He should have been all this, and full also of love, and then he would have been a hero. But men as I see them are not often heroic.

As he entered the room he saw Mrs. Burton at once, and then looked round quickly for her husband. “Harry,” said she, “I am so glad to see you once again,” and she gave him her hand, and smiled on him with that sweet look which used to make him feel that it was pleasant to be near her. He took her hand and muttered some word of greeting, and then looked round again for Mr. Burton. “Theodore is not here,” she said; “he thought it better that you and I should have a little talk together. He said you would like it best so; but perhaps I ought not to tell you that.”

“I do like it best so⁠—much best. I can speak to you as I could hardly speak to him.”

“What is it, Harry, that ails you? What has kept you away from us? Why do you leave poor Flo so long without writing to her? She will be here on Monday. You will come and see her then; or perhaps you will go with me and meet her at the station?”

“Burton said that she was coming, but I did not understand that it was so soon.”

“You do not think it too soon, Harry; do you?”

“No,” said Harry, but his tone belied his assertion. At any rate he had not pretended to display any of a lover’s rapture at this prospect of seeing the lady whom he loved.

“Sit down, Harry. Why do you stand like that and look so comfortless? Theodore says that you have some trouble at heart. Is it a trouble that you can tell to a friend such as I am?”

“It is very hard to tell. Oh, Mrs. Burton, I am brokenhearted. For the last two weeks I have wished that I might die.”

“Do not say that, Harry; that would be wicked.”

“Wicked or not, it is true. I have been so wretched that I have not known how to hold myself. I could not bring myself to write to Florence.”

“But why not? You do not mean that you are false to Florence. You cannot mean that. Harry, say at once that it is not so, and I will promise you her forgiveness, Theodore’s forgiveness, all our forgiveness for anything else. Oh, Harry, say anything but that.” In answer to this Harry Clavering had nothing to say, but sat with his head resting on his arm and his face turned away from her. “Speak, Harry; if you are a man, say something. Is it so? If it be so, I believe that you will have killed her. Why do you not speak to me? Harry Clavering, tell me what is the truth.”

Then he told her all his story, not looking her once in the face, not changing his voice, suppressing his emotion till he came to the history of the present days. He described to her how he had loved Julia Brabazon, and how his love had been treated by her; how he had sworn to himself, when he knew that she had in truth become that lord’s wife, that for her sake he would keep himself from loving any other woman. Then he spoke of his first days at Stratton and of his early acquaintance with Florence, and told her how different had been his second love⁠—how it had grown gradually and with no check to his confidence, till he felt sure that the sweet girl who was so often near him would, if he could win her, be to him a source of joy for all his life. “And so she shall,” said Cecilia, with tears running down her cheeks; “she shall do so yet.” And he went on with his tale, saying how pleasant it had been for him to find himself at home in Onslow Crescent, how he had joyed in calling her Cecilia, and having her infants in his arms, as though they were already partly belonging to him. And he told her how he had met the young widow at the station, having employed himself on her behalf at her sister’s instance; and how cold she had been to him, offending him by her silence and sombre pride. “False woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Oh, Cecilia, do not abuse her⁠—do not say a word till you know all.” “I know that she is false,” said Mrs. Burton, with vehement indignation. “She is not false,” said Harry; “if there be falsehood, it is mine.” Then he went on, and said how different she was when next he saw her. How then he understood that her solemn and haughty manner had been almost forced on her by the mode of her return, with no other friend to meet her. “She has deserved no friend,” said Mrs. Burton. “You wrong her,” said Harry; “you do not know her. If any