“I can hardly quite say as yet,” said Harry, still pleading his illness. “They were very much against my coming up to London so soon. Indeed I should not have done it had I not felt so very—very anxious to see Florence. I don’t know, Burton, whether I ought to say anything to you about that.”
“I suppose you have said what you had to say to the women?”
“Oh, yes. I think they understand me completely, and I hope that I understand them.”
“In that case I don’t know that you need say anything to me. Come to the Adelphi as soon as you can; that’s all. I never think myself that a man becomes a bit stronger after an illness by remaining idle.” Then Harry passed on, and felt that he had escaped easily in that interview.
But as he walked home he was compelled to think of the step which he must next take. When he had last seen Lady Ongar he had left her with a promise that Florence was to be deserted for her sake. As yet that promise would by her be supposed to be binding. Indeed he had thought it to be binding on himself till he had found himself under his mother’s influence at the parsonage. During his last few weeks in London he had endured an agony of doubt; but in his vacillations the pendulum had always veered more strongly towards Bolton Street than to Onslow Crescent. Now the swinging of the pendulum had ceased altogether. From henceforth Bolton Street must be forbidden ground to him, and the sheepfold in Onslow Crescent must be his home till he should have established a small peculiar fold for himself. But, as yet, he had still before him the task of communicating his final decision to the lady in Bolton Street. As he walked home he determined that he had better do so in the first place by letter, and so eager was he as to the propriety of doing this at once, that on his return to his lodgings he sat down, and wrote the letter before he went to his bed. It was not very easily written. Here, at any rate, he had to make those confessions of which I have before spoken;—confessions which it may be less difficult to make with pen and ink than with spoken words, but which when so made are more degrading. The word that is written is a thing capable of permanent life, and lives frequently to the confusion of its parent. A man should make his confessions always by word of mouth if it be possible. Whether such a course would have been possible to Harry Clavering may be doubtful. It might have been that in a personal meeting the necessary confession would not have got itself adequately spoken. Thinking, perhaps, of this he wrote his letter as follows on that night.
Bloomsbury Square, July, 186‒.
The date was easily written, but how was he to go on after that? In what form of affection or indifference was he to address her whom he had at that last meeting called his own, his dearest Julia? He got out of his difficulty in the way common to ladies and gentlemen under such stress, and did not address her by any name or any epithet. The date he allowed to remain, and then he went away at once to the matter of his subject.
I feel that I owe it you at once to tell you what has been my history during the last few weeks. I came up from Clavering today, and have since that been with Mrs. and Miss Burton. Immediately on my return from them I sit down to write you.
After having said so much, Harry probably felt that the rest of his letter would be surplusage. Those few words would tell her all that it was required that she should know. But courtesy demanded that he should say more, and he went on with his confession.
You know that I became engaged to Miss Burton soon after your own marriage. I feel now that I should have told you this when we first met; but yet, had I done so, it would have seemed as though I told it with a special object. I don’t know whether I make myself understood in this. I can only hope that I do so.
Understood! Of course she understood it all. She required no blundering explanation from him to assist her intelligence.
I wish now that I had mentioned it. It would have been better for both of us. I should have been saved much pain; and you, perhaps, some uneasiness.
I was called down to Clavering a few weeks ago, about some business in the family, and then became ill—so that I was confined to my bed instead of returning to town. Had it not been for this I should not have left you so long in suspense—that is if there has been suspense. For myself, I have to own that I have been very weak—worse than weak, I fear you will think. I do not know whether your old regard for me will prompt you to make any excuse for me, but I am well sure that I can make none for myself which will not have suggested itself to you, without my urging it. If you choose to think that I have been heartless—or rather, if you are able so to think of me, no words of mine, written or spoken now, will remove that impression from your mind.
I believe that I need write nothing further. You will understand from what I have said all that I should have to say were
