“I will speak up for her,” said Harry; and now it seemed for the first time that something of his old boldness had returned to him. “I will speak up for her, although she did as you say, because she has suffered as few women have been made to suffer, and because she has repented in ashes as few women are called on to repent.” And now as he warmed with his feeling for her, he uttered his words faster and with less of shame in his voice. He described how he had gone again and again to Bolton Street, thinking no evil, till—till—till something of the old feeling had come back upon him. He meant to be true in his story, but I doubt whether he told all the truth. How could he tell it all? How could he confess that the blaze of the woman’s womanhood, the flame of her beauty, and the fire engendered by her mingled rank and suffering, had singed him and burned him up, poor moth that he was? “And then at last I learned,” said he, “that—that she had loved me more than I had believed.”
“And is Florence to suffer because she has postponed her love of you to her love of money?”
“Mrs. Burton, if you do not understand it now, I do not know that I can tell you more. Florence alone in this matter is altogether good. Lady Ongar has been wrong, and I have been wrong. I sometimes think that Florence is too good for me.”
“It is for her to say that, if it be necessary.”
“I have told you all now, and you will know why I have not come to you.”
“No, Harry; you have not told me all. Have you told that—woman that she should be your wife?” To this question he made no immediate answer, and she repeated it. “Tell me; have you told her you would marry her?”
“I did tell her so.”
“And you will keep your word to her?” Harry, as he heard the words, was struck with awe that there should be such vehemence, such anger, in the voice of so gentle a woman as Cecilia Burton. “Answer me, sir, do you mean to marry this—countess?” But still he made no answer. “I do not wonder that you cannot speak,” she said. “Oh, Florence—oh, my darling; my lost, brokenhearted angel!” Then she turned away her face and wept.
“Cecilia,” he said, attempting to approach her with his hand, without rising from his chair.
“No, sir; when I desired you to call me so, it was because I thought you were to be a brother. I did not think that there could be a thing so weak as you. Perhaps you had better go now, lest you should meet my husband in his wrath, and he should spurn you.”
But Harry Clavering still sat in his chair, motionless—motionless, and without a word. After a while he turned his face towards her, and even in her own misery she was stricken by the wretchedness of his countenance. Suddenly she rose quickly from her chair, and coming close to him, threw herself on her knees before him. “Harry,” she said, “Harry; it is not yet too late. Be our own Harry again; our dearest Harry. Say that it shall be so. What is this woman to you? What has she done for you, that for her you should throw aside such a one as our Florence? Is she noble, and good, and pure and spotless as Florence is? Will she love you with such love as Florence’s? Will she believe in you as Florence believes? Yes, Harry, she believes yet. She knows nothing of this, and shall know nothing, if you will only say that you will be true. No one shall know, and I will remember it only to remember your goodness afterwards. Think of it, Harry; there can be no falseness to one who has been so false to you. Harry, you will not destroy us all at one blow?”
Never before was man so supplicated to take into his arms youth and beauty and feminine purity! And in truth he would have yielded, as indeed, what man would not have yielded—had not Mrs. Burton been interrupted in her prayers. The step of her husband was heard upon the stairs, and she, rising from her knees, whispered quickly, “Do not tell him that it is settled. Let me tell him when you are gone.”
“You two have been a long time together,” said Theodore, as he came in.
“Why did you leave us, then, so long?” said Mrs. Burton, trying to smile, though the signs of tears were, as she well knew, plain enough.
“I thought you would have sent for me.”
“Burton,” said Harry, “I take it kindly of you that you allowed me to see your wife alone.”
“Women always understand these things best,” said he.
“And you will come again tomorrow, Harry, and answer me my question?”
“Not tomorrow.”
“Florence will be here on Monday.”
“And why should he not come when Florence is here?” asked Theodore, in an angry tone.
“Of course he will come, but I want to see him again first. Do I not, Harry?”
“I hate mysteries,” said Burton.
“There shall be no mystery,” said his wife. “Why did you send him to me, but that there are some things difficult to discuss among three? Will you come tomorrow, Harry?”
“Not tomorrow; but I will write tomorrow—early tomorrow. I will go now, and of course you will tell Burton everything that I have said. Good night.” They both took his hand, and Cecilia pressed it as she looked with beseeching eyes into his face. What would she not have done to secure the happiness of the sister whom she loved? On this occasion
