“Captain Clavering,” she said, “I’m sorry you should have troubled yourself with such an idea as this.”
“Don’t say that, Julia. It’s no trouble; it’s a pleasure.”
“But such a thing as you mean never can take place.”
“Yes, it can. Why can’t it? I ain’t in a hurry. I’ll wait your own time, and do just whatever you wish all the while. Don’t say no without thinking about it, Julia.”
“It is one of those things, Captain Clavering, which want no more thinking than what a woman can give to it at the first moment.”
“Ah—you think so now, because you’re surprised a little.”
“Well; I am surprised a little, as our previous intercourse was never of a nature to make such a proposition as this at all probable.”
“That was merely because I didn’t think it right,” said Archie, who, now that he had worked himself into the vein, liked the sound of his own voice. “It was indeed.”
“And I don’t think it right now. You must listen to me for a moment, Captain Clavering—for fear of a mistake. Believe me, any such plan as this is quite out of the question;—quite.” In uttering that last word she managed to use a tone of voice which did make an impression on him. “I never can, under any circumstances, become your wife. You might as well look upon that as altogether decided, because it will save us both annoyance.”
“You needn’t be so sure yet, Julia.”
“Yes, I must be sure. And unless you will promise me to drop the matter, I must—to protect myself—desire my servants not to admit you into the house again. I shall be sorry to do that, and I think you will save me from the necessity.”
He did save her from that necessity, and before he went he gave her the required promise. “That’s well,” said she, tendering him her hand; “and now we shall part friends.”
“I shall like to be friends,” said he, in a crestfallen voice, and with that he took his leave. It was a great comfort to him that he had the scheme of Jack Stuart’s yacht and the trip to Norway for his immediate consolation.
XXXVII
What Lady Ongar Thought About It
Mrs. Burton, it may perhaps be remembered, had formed in her heart a scheme of her own—a scheme of which she thought with much trepidation, and in which she could not request her husband’s assistance, knowing well that he would not only not assist it, but that he would altogether disapprove of it. But yet she could not put it aside from her thoughts, believing that it might be the means of bringing Harry Clavering and Florence together. Her husband had now thoroughly condemned poor Harry, and had passed sentence against him—not indeed openly to Florence herself, but very often in the hearing of his wife. Cecilia, womanlike, was more angry with circumstances than with the offending man—with circumstances and with the woman who stood in Florence’s way. She was perfectly willing to forgive Harry, if Harry could only be made to go right at last. He was good-looking and pleasant, and had nice ways in a house, and was altogether too valuable as a lover to be lost without many struggles. So she kept to her scheme, and at last she carried it into execution.
She started alone from her house one morning, and getting into an omnibus at Brompton had herself put down on the rising ground in Piccadilly, opposite to the Green Park. Why she had hesitated to tell the omnibus-man to stop at Bolton Street can hardly be explained; but she had felt that there would be almost a declaration of guilt in naming that locality. So she got out on the little hill, and walked up in front of the Prime Minister’s house—as it was then—and of the yellow palace built by one of our merchant princes, and turned into the street that was all but interdicted to her by her own conscience. She turned up Bolton Street, and with a trembling hand knocked at Lady Ongar’s door.
Florence in the meantime was sitting alone in Onslow Terrace. She knew now that Harry was ill at Clavering—that he was indeed very ill, though Mrs. Clavering had assured her that his illness was not dangerous. For Mrs. Clavering had written to herself—addressing her with all the old familiarity and affection—with a warmth of affection that was almost more than natural. It was clear that Mrs. Clavering knew nothing of Harry’s sins. Or, might it not be possible, Cecilia had suggested, that Mrs. Clavering might have known, and have resolved potentially that those sins should be banished, and become ground for some beautifully sincere repentance? Ah, how sweet it would be to receive that wicked sheep back again into the sheepfold, and then to dock him a little of his wandering powers, to fix him with some pleasant clog, to tie him down as a prudent domestic sheep should be tied, and make him the pride of the flock! But all this had been part of Cecilia’s scheme, and of that scheme poor Florence knew nothing. According to Florence’s view Mrs. Clavering’s letter was written under a mistake. Harry had kept his secret at home, and intended to keep it for the present. But there was the letter, and Florence felt that it was impossible for her to answer it without
