“Terribly sudden,” said Florence.
“The two brothers! Had you not met Captain Clavering?”
“Yes—he was here when I dined with your sister.”
“Poor fellow! Is it not odd that they should have gone, and that their friend, whose yacht it was, should have been saved? They say, however, that Mr. Stuart behaved admirably, begging his friends to get into the boat first. He stayed by the vessel when the boat was carried away, and he was saved in that way. But he meant to do the best he could for them. There’s no doubt of that.”
“But how dreadful his feelings must be!”
“Men do not think so much of these things as we do. They have so much more to employ their minds. Don’t you think so?” Florence did not at the moment quite know what she thought about men’s feelings, but said that she supposed that such was the case. “But I think that after all they are juster than we are,” continued Lady Ongar—“juster and truer, though not so tenderhearted. Mr. Stuart, no doubt, would have been willing to drown himself to save his friends, because the fault was in some degree his. I don’t know that I should have been able to do so much.”
“In such a moment it must have been so difficult to think of what ought to be done.”
“Yes, indeed; and there is but little good in speculating upon it now. You know this place, do you not;—the house, I mean, and the gardens?”
“Not very well.” Florence, as she answered this question, began again to tremble. “Take a turn with me, and I will show you the garden. My hat and cloak are in the hall.” Then Florence got up to accompany her, trembling very much inwardly. “Miss Burton and I are going out for a few minutes,” said Lady Ongar, addressing herself to Mrs. Clavering. “We will not keep you waiting very long.”
“We are in no hurry,” said Mrs. Clavering. Then Florence was carried off, and found herself alone with her conquered rival.
“Not that there is much to show you,” said Lady Ongar; “indeed nothing; but the place must be of more interest to you than to anyone else; and if you are fond of that sort of thing, no doubt you will make it all that is charming.”
“I am very fond of a garden,” said Florence.
“I don’t know whether I am. Alone, by myself, I think I should care nothing for the prettiest Eden in all England. I don’t think I would care for a walk through the Elysian fields by myself. I am a chameleon, and take the colour of those with whom I live. My future colours will not be very bright as I take it. It’s a gloomy place enough; is it not? But there are fine trees, you see, which are the only things which one cannot by any possibility command. Given good trees, taste and money may do anything very quickly; as I have no doubt you’ll find.”
“I don’t suppose I shall have much to do with it—at present.”
“I should think that you will have everything to do with it. There, Miss Burton; I brought you here to show you this very spot, and to make to you my confession here—and to get from you, here, one word of confidence, if you will give it me.” Florence was trembling now outwardly as well as inwardly. “You know my story; as far, I mean, as I had a story once, in conjunction with Harry Clavering?”
“I think I do,” said Florence.
“I am sure you do,” said Lady Ongar. “He has told me that you do; and what he says is always true. It was here, on this spot, that I gave him back his troth to me, and told him that I would have none of his love, because he was poor. That is barely two years ago. Now he is poor no longer. Now, had I been true to him, a marriage with him would have been, in a prudential point of view, all that any woman could desire. I gave up the dearest heart, the sweetest temper, ay, and the truest man that, that—Well, you have won him instead, and he has been the gainer. I doubt whether I ever should have made him happy; but I know that you will do so. It was just here that I parted from him.”
“He has told me of that parting,” said Florence.
“I am sure he has. And, Miss Burton, if you will allow me to say one word further—do not be made to think any ill of him because of what happened the other day.”
“I think no ill of him,” said Florence proudly.
“That is well. But I am sure you do not. You are not one to think evil, as I take it, of anybody; much less of him whom you love. When he saw me again, free as I am, and when I saw him, thinking him also to be free, was it strange that some memory of old days should come back upon us? But the fault, if fault there has been, was mine.”
“I have never said that there was any fault.”
“No, Miss Burton; but others have said so. No doubt I am foolish to talk to you in this way; and I have not yet said that which I desired to say. It is simply this;—that I do not begrudge you your happiness. I wished the same happiness to be mine; but it is not mine. It might have been, but I forfeited it. It is past;
