“Ah—I understand. She reads a great deal, and that sort of thing. Yes; that is very nice. But I shouldn’t have thought that that would have taken you. You used not to care much for talent and learning—not in women I mean.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, looking very foolish.
“But a contrast is what you men always like. Of course I ought not to say that, but you will know of what I am thinking. A clever, highly-educated woman like Miss Burton will be a much better companion to you than I could have been. You see I am very frank, Harry.” She wished to make him talk freely about himself, his future days, and his past days, while he was simply anxious to say on these subjects as little as possible. Poor woman! The excitement of having a passion which she might indulge was over with her—at any rate for the present. She had played her game and had lost woefully; but before she retired altogether from the gaming-table she could not keep herself from longing for a last throw of the dice.
“These things, I fear, go very much by chance,” said Harry.
“You do not mean me to suppose that you are taking Miss Burton by chance. That would be as uncomplimentary to her as to yourself.”
“Chance, at any rate, has been very good to me in this instance.”
“Of that I am sure. Do not suppose that I am doubting that. It is not only the paradise that you have gained, but the pandemonium that you have escaped!” Then she laughed slightly, but the laughter was uneasy, and made her angry with herself. She had especially determined to be at ease during this meeting, and was conscious that any falling off in that respect on her part would put into his hands the power which she was desirous of exercising.
“You are determined to rebuke me, I see,” said he. “If you choose to do so, I am prepared to bear it. My defence, if I have a defence, is one that I cannot use.”
“And what would be your defence?”
“I have said that I cannot use it.”
“As if I did not understand it all! What you mean to say is this—that when your good stars sent you in the way of Florence Burton, you had been ill-treated by her who would have made your pandemonium for you, and that she therefore—she who came first and behaved so badly—can have no right to find fault with you in that you have obeyed your good stars and done so well for yourself. That is what you call your defence. It would be perfect, Harry—perfect, if you had only whispered to me a word of Miss Burton when I first saw you after my return home. It is odd to me that you should not have written to me and told me when I was abroad with my husband. It would have comforted me to have known that the wound which I had given had been cured;—that is, if there was a wound.”
“You know that there was a wound.”
“At any rate, it was not mortal. But when are such wounds mortal? When are they more than skin-deep?”
“I can say nothing as to that now.”
“No, Harry; of course you can say nothing. Why should you be made to say anything? You are fortunate and happy, and have all that you want. I have nothing that I want.”
There was a reality in the tone of sorrow in which this was spoken which melted him at once;—and the more so in that there was so much in her grief which could not but be flattering to his vanity. “Do not say that, Lady Ongar,” he exclaimed.
“But I do say it. What have I got in the world that is worth having? My possessions are ever so many thousands a year—and a damaged name.”
“I deny that. I deny it altogether. I do not think that there is one who knows of your story who believes ill of you.”
“I could tell you of one, Harry, who thinks very ill of me;—nay, of two; and they are both in this room. Do you remember how you used to teach me that terribly conceited bit of Latin—Nil conscire sibi? Do you suppose that I can boast that I never grow pale as I think of my own fault? I am thinking of it always, and my heart is ever becoming paler and paler. And as to the treatment of others;—I wish I could make you know what I suffered when I was fool enough to go to that place in Surrey. The coachman who drives me no doubt thinks that I poisoned my husband, and the servant who let you in just now supposes me to be an abandoned woman because you are here.”
“You will be angry with me, perhaps, if I say that these feelings are morbid and will die away. They show the weakness which has come from the ill-usage you have suffered.”
“You are right in part, no doubt. I shall become hardened to it all, and shall fall into some endurable mode of life in time. But I can look forward to nothing. What future have I? Was there ever anyone so utterly friendless as I am? Your kind cousin has done that for me;—and yet he came here to me the other day, smiling and talking as though he were sure that I should be delighted by his condescension. I do not think that he will ever come again.”
“I did not know you had seen him.”
“Yes; I saw him;—but I did not find much relief from his visit. We won’t mind that, however. We can talk about something better than Hugh Clavering during the few minutes that we have together;—can we not? And so Miss Burton is very learned and very clever?”
“I did not quite say that.”
“But I know she is. What a comfort that will be to you! I am
