The Claverings

She had not seen him since he had parted from her on that evening when he had asked her to be his wife, and the last words she had heard from his lips had made this request. She, indeed, had then bade him be true to her rival⁠—to Florence Burton. She had told him this in spite of her love⁠—of her love for him and of his for her. They two, she had said, could not now become man and wife;⁠—but he had not acknowledged the truth of what she had said. She could not write to him. She could make no overtures. She could ask no questions. She had no friend in whom she could place confidence. She could only wait for him, till he should come to her or send to her, and let her know what was to be her fate.

As she now sat she held a letter in her hand which had just been brought to her from Sophie⁠—from her poor, famished, but indefatigable Sophie. Sophie she had not seen since they had parted on the railway platform, and then the parting was supposed to be made in lasting enmity. Desolate as she was, she had congratulated herself much on her escape from Sophie’s friendship, and was driven by no qualms of her heart to long for a renewal of the old ties. But it was not so with the more affectionate Sophie; and Sophie therefore had written⁠—as follows:⁠—

Mount Street⁠—Friday morning.

Dearest dearest Julie⁠—My heart is so sad that I cannot keep my silence longer. What; can such friendship as ours has been be made to die all in a minute? Oh, no;⁠—not at least in my bosom, which is filled with love for my Julie. And my Julie will not turn from her friend, who has been so true to her⁠—ah, at such moments too⁠—oh, yes, at such moments!⁠—just for an angry word, or a little indiscretion. What was it after all about my brother? Bah! He is a fool; that is all. If you shall wish it, I will never speak to him again. What is my brother to me, compared to my Julie? My brother is nothing to me. I tell him we go to that accursed island⁠—accursed island because my Julie has quarrelled with me there⁠—and he arranges himself to follow us. What could I do? I could not tie him up by the leg in his London club. He is a man whom no one can tie up by the leg. Mon Dieu, no. He is very hard to tie up.

Do I wish him for your husband? Never! Why should I wish him for your husband? If I was a man, my Julie, I should wish you for myself. But I am not, and why should you not have him whom you like the best? If I was you, with your beauty and money and youth, I would have any man that I liked⁠—everything. I know, of course⁠—for did I not see? It is that young Clavering to whom your little heart wishes to render itself;⁠—not the captain who is a fool⁠—such a fool! but the other who is not a fool, but a fine fellow;⁠—and so handsome! Yes; there is no doubt as to that. He is beautiful as a Phoebus.

This was good-natured on the part of Sophie, who, as the reader may remember, hated Harry Clavering herself.

Well⁠—why should he not be your own? As for your poor Sophie, she would do all in her power to assist the friend whom she love. There is that little girl⁠—yes; it is true as I told you. But little girls cannot have all they want always. He is a gay deceiver. These men who are so beautiful as Phoebus are always deceivers. But you need not be the one deceived;⁠—you with your money and your beauty and your⁠—what you call rank. No, I think not; and I think that little girl must put up with it, as other little girls have done, since the men first learned how to tell lies. That is my advice, and if you will let me I can give you good assistance.

Dearest Julie, think of all this, and do not banish your Sophie. I am so true to you, that I cannot live without you. Send me back one word of permission, and I will come to you, and kneel at your feet. And in the meantime, I am

Your most devoted friend,

Sophie.

Lady Ongar, on the receipt of this letter, was not at all changed in her purpose with reference to Madame Gordeloup. She knew well enough where her Sophie’s heart was placed, and would yield to no further pressure from that quarter; but Sophie’s reasoning, nevertheless, had its effect. She, Lady Ongar, with her youth, her beauty, her wealth, and her rank, why should she not have that one thing which alone could make her happy, seeing, as she did see, or as she thought she saw, that in making herself happy she could do so much, could confer such great blessings on him she loved? She had already found that the money she had received as the price of herself had done very little towards making her happy in her present state. What good was it to her that she had a carriage and horses and two footmen six feet high? One pleasant word from lips that she could love⁠—from the lips of man or woman that she could esteem⁠—would be worth it all. She had gone down to her pleasant place in the country⁠—a place so pleasant that it had a fame of its own among the luxuriantly pleasant seats of the English country gentry; she had gone there, expecting to be happy in the mere feeling that it was all her own; and the whole thing had been to her so unutterably sad, so wretched in the severity of its desolation, that she had been unable to