The Claverings

her defence of him as to declare that he was blameless. And in truth she was prepared to acquit him of blame⁠—to give him full absolution without penance⁠—if only he could be brought back again into the fold. Her wrath against him would be very hot should he not so return;⁠—but all should be more than forgiven if he would only come back, and do his duty with affectionate and patient fidelity. Her desire was, not so much that justice should be done, as that Florence should have the thing coveted, and that Florence’s rival should not have it. According to the arguments, as arranged by her feminine logic, Harry Clavering would be all right or all wrong according as he might at last bear himself. She desired success, and, if she could only be successful, was prepared to forgive everything. And even yet she would not give up the battle, though she admitted to herself that Florence’s letter to Mrs. Clavering made the contest more difficult than ever. It might, however, be that Mrs. Clavering would be good enough, just enough, true enough, clever enough, to know that such a letter as this, coming from such a girl and written under such circumstances, should be taken as meaning nothing. Most mothers would wish to see their sons married to wealth, should wealth throw itself in their way;⁠—but Mrs. Clavering, possibly, might not be such a mother as that.

In the meantime there was before her the terrible necessity of explaining to her husband the step which she had taken without his knowledge, and of which she knew that she must tell him the history before she could sit down to dinner with him in comfort. “Theodore,” she said, creeping in out of her own chamber to his dressing-room, while he was washing his hands, “you mustn’t be angry with me, but I have done something today.”

“And why must I not be angry with you?”

“You know what I mean. You mustn’t be angry⁠—especially about this⁠—because I don’t want you to be.”

“That’s conclusive,” said he. It was manifest to her that he was in a good humour, which was a great blessing. He had not been tried with his work as he was often wont to be, and was therefore willing to be playful.

“What do you think I’ve done?” said she. “I have been to Bolton Street and have seen Lady Ongar.”

“No!”

“I have, Theodore, indeed.”

Mr. Burton had been rubbing his face vehemently with a rough towel at the moment in which the communication had been made to him, and so strongly was he affected by it that he was stopped in his operation and brought to a stand in his movement, looking at his wife over the towel as he held it in both his hands. “What on earth has made you do such a thing as that?” he said.

“I thought it best. I thought that I might hear the truth⁠—and so I have. I could not bear that Florence should be sacrificed whilst anything remained undone that was possible.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were going?”

“Well, my dear; I thought it better not. Of course I ought to have told you, but in this instance I thought it best just to go without the fuss of mentioning it.”

“What you really mean is, that if you had told me I should have asked you not to go.”

“Exactly.”

“And you were determined to have your own way.”

“I don’t think, Theodore, I care so much about my own way as some women do. I am sure I always think your opinion is better than my own;⁠—that is, in most things.”

“And what did Lady Ongar say to you?” He had now put down the towel, and was seated in his armchair, looking up into his wife’s face.

“It would be a long story to tell you all that she said.”

“Was she civil to you?”

“She was not uncivil. She is a handsome, proud woman, prone to speak out what she thinks and determined to have her own way when it is possible; but I think that she intended to be civil to me personally.”

“What is her purpose now?”

“Her purpose is clear enough. She means to marry Harry Clavering if she can get him. She said so. She made no secret of what her wishes are.”

“Then, Cissy, let her marry him, and do not let us trouble ourselves further in the matter.”

“But Florence, Theodore! Think of Florence!”

“I am thinking of her, and I think that Harry Clavering is not worth her acceptance. She is as the traveller that fell among thieves. She is hurt and wounded, but not dead. It is for you to be the Good Samaritan, but the oil which you should pour into her wounds is not a renewed hope as to that worthless man. Let Lady Ongar have him. As far as I can see, they are fit for each other.”

Then she went through with him, diligently, all the arguments which she had used with Florence, palliating Harry’s conduct, and explaining the circumstances of his disloyalty, almost as those circumstances had in truth occurred. “I think you are too hard on him,” she said. “You can’t be too hard on falsehood,” he replied. “No, not while it exists. But you would not be angry with a man forever, because he should once have been false? But we do not know that he is false.” “Do we not?” said he. “But never mind; we must go to dinner now. Does Florence know of your visit?” Then, before she would allow him to leave his room, she explained to him what had taken place between herself and Florence, and told him of the letter that had been written to Mrs. Clavering. “She is right,” said he. “That way out of her difficulty is the best that is left to her.” But, nevertheless, Mrs. Burton was resolved that she would not as yet surrender.

Theodore Burton, when he reached the drawing-room, went up to his sister and kissed