“He is in town now.”
“What a nice husband, is he not? And when does Hermione come?”
“I do not know; she did not say. Little Hughy is ill, and that may keep her.”
“After all, Harry, I may have to pack up and go to Clavering even yet—that is, if the mistress of the house will have me.”
“Never in the way you mean, Lady Ongar. Do not propose to kill all my relations in order that I might have their property. Archie intends to marry, and have a dozen children.”
“Archie marry! Who will have him? But such men as he are often in the way by marrying some cookmaid at last. Archie is Hugh’s body-slave. Fancy being body-slave to Hugh Clavering! He has two, and poor Hermy is the other; only he prefers not to have Hermy near him, which is lucky for her. Here is some tea. Let us sit down and be comfortable, and talk no more about our horrid relations. I don’t know what made me speak of them. I did not mean it.”
Harry sat down and took the cup from her hand, as she had bidden the servant to leave the tray upon the table.
“So you saw Count Pateroff,” she said.
“Yes, and his sister.”
“So she told me. What do you think of them?” To this question Harry made no immediate answer. “You may speak out. Though I lived abroad with such as them for twelve months, I have not forgotten the sweet scent of our English hedgerows, nor the wholesomeness of English household manners. What do you think of them?”
“They are not sweet or wholesome,” said he.
“Oh, Harry, you are so honest! Your honesty is beautiful. A spade will ever be a spade with you.”
He thought that she was laughing at him, and coloured.
“You pressed me to speak,” he said, “and I did but use your own words.”
“Yes, but you used them with such straightforward violence! Well, you shall use what words you please, and how you please, because a word of truth is so pleasant after living in a world of lies. I know you will not lie to me, Harry. You never did.”
He felt that now was the moment in which he should tell her of his engagement, but he let the moment pass without using it. And, indeed, it would have been hard for him to tell. In telling such a story he would have been cautioning her that it was useless for her to love him—and this he could not bring himself to do. And he was not sure even now that she had not learned the fact from her sister. “I hope not,” he said. In all that he was saying he knew that his words were tame and impotent in comparison with hers, which seemed to him to mean so much. But then his position was so unfortunate! Had it not been for Florence Burton he would have been long since at her feet; for, to give Harry Clavering his due, he could be quick enough at swearing to a passion. He was one of those men to whom lovemaking comes so readily that it is a pity that they should ever marry. He was ever making love to women, usually meaning no harm. He made love to Cecilia Burton over her children’s beds, and that discreet matron liked it. But it was a lovemaking without danger. It simply signified on his part the pleasure he had in being on good terms with a pretty woman. He would have liked to have made love in the same way to Lady Ongar; but that was impossible, and in all lovemaking with Lady Ongar there must be danger. There was a pause after the expression of his last hopes, during which he finished his tea, and then looked at his boots.
“You do not ask me what I have been doing at my country-house.”
“And what have you been doing there?”
“Hating it.”
“That is wrong.”
“Everything is wrong that I do; everything must be wrong. That is the nature of the curse upon me.”
“You think too much of all that now.”
“Ah, Harry, that is so easily said. People do not think of such things if they can help themselves. The place is full of him and his memories; full of him, though I do not as yet know whether he ever put his foot in it. Do you know, I have a plan, a scheme, which would, I think, make me happy for one half-hour. It is to give everything back to the family. Everything! money, house, and name; to call myself Julia Brabazon, and let the world call me what it pleases. Then I would walk out into the streets, and beg someone to give me my bread. Is there one in all the wide world that would give me a crust? Is there one, except yourself, Harry—one, except yourself?”
Poor Florence! I fear it fared badly with her cause at this moment. How was it possible that he should not regret, that he should not look back upon Stratton with something akin to sorrow? Julia had been his first love, and to her he could have been always true. I fear he thought of this now. I fear that it was a grief to him that he could not place himself close at her side, bid her do as she had planned, and then come to him, and share all his crusts. Had it been open to him to play that part, he would have played it well, and would have gloried in the thoughts of her poverty. The position would have suited him exactly. But Florence was in the way, and he could not do it. How was he to answer Lady Ongar? It was more difficult now than ever to tell her of Florence Burton.
His eyes were full of tears, and she accepted that as his excuse for not answering her. “I suppose they would say that I was a romantic fool. When the
