“She told me that it would not do.”
“She did, did she? If she speaks of it again, tell her that she is right, that it will never do. Had he not come down to Ongar Park, I should not have mentioned this to you. I should not have thought that he had in truth any such scheme in his head. He did not tell you that he had been there?”
“He did not mention it. Indeed, he said very little about you at all.”
“No, he would not. He is cautious. He never talks of anybody to anybody. He speaks only of the outward things of the world. Now, Harry, what you must do for me is this.” As she was speaking to him she was leaning again upon the table, with her forehead resting upon her hands. Her small widow’s cap had become thus thrust back, and was now nearly off her head, so that her rich brown hair was to be seen in its full luxuriance, rich and lovely as it had ever been. Could it be that she felt—half thought, half felt, without knowing that she thought it—that while the signs of her widowhood were about her, telling in their too plain language the tale of what she had been, he could not dare to speak to her of his love? She was indeed a widow, but not as are other widows. She had confessed, did hourly confess to herself, the guilt which she had committed in marrying that man; but the very fact of such confessions, of such acknowledgment, absolved her from the necessity of any show of sorrow. When she declared how she had despised and hated her late lord, she threw off mentally all her weeds. Mourning, the appearance even of mourning, became impossible to her, and the cap upon her head was declared openly to be a sacrifice to the world’s requirements. It was now pushed back, but I fancy that nothing like a thought on the matter had made itself plain to her mind. “What you must do for me is this,” she continued. “You must see Count Pateroff again, and tell him from me—as my friend—that I cannot consent to see him. Tell him that if he will think of it, he must know the reason why.”
“Of course he will know.”
“Tell him what I say, all the same; and tell him that as I have hitherto had cause to be grateful to him for his kindness, so also I hope he will not put an end to that feeling by anything now, that would not be kind. If there be papers of Lord Ongar’s, he can take them either to my lawyers, if that be fit, or to those of the family. You can tell him that, can you not?”
“Oh, yes; I can tell him.”
“And have you any objection?”
“None for myself. The question is—would it not come better from someone else?”
“Because you are a young man, you mean? Whom else can I trust, Harry? To whom can I go? Would you have me ask Hugh to do this? Or, perhaps you think Archie Clavering would be a proper messenger. Who else have I got?”
“Would not his sister be better?”
“How should I know that she had told him? She would tell him her own story—what she herself wished. And whatever story she told, he would not believe it. They know each other better than you and I know them. It must be you, Harry, if you will do it.”
“Of course I will do it. I will try and see him tomorrow. Where does he live?”
“How should I know? Perhaps nobody knows; no one, perhaps, of all those with whom he associates constantly. They do not live after our fashion, do they, these foreigners? But you will find him at his club, or hear of him at the house in Mount Street. You will do it; eh, Harry?”
“I will.”
“That is my good Harry. But I suppose you would do anything I asked you. Ah, well; it is good to have one friend, if one has no more. Look, Harry! if it is not near eleven o’clock! Did you know that you had been here nearly three hours? And I have given you nothing but a cup of tea!”
“What else do you think I have wanted?”
“At your club you would have had cigars and brandy-and-water, and billiards, and broiled bones, and oysters, and tankards of beer. I know all about it. You have been very patient with me. If you go quick perhaps you will not be too late for the tankards and the oysters.”
“I never have any tankards or any oysters.”
“Then it is cigars and brandy-and-water. Go quick, and perhaps you may not be too late.”
“I will go, but not there. One cannot change one’s thoughts so suddenly.”
“Go, then; and do not change your thoughts. Go and think of me, and pity me. Pity me for what I have got, but pity me most for what I have lost.” Harry did not say another word, but took her hand, and kissed it, and then left her.
Pity her for what she had lost! What had she lost? What did she mean by that? He knew well what she meant by pitying her for what she had got. What had she lost? She had lost him. Did she intend to evoke his pity for that loss? She had lost him. Yes, indeed. Whether or no the loss was one to regret, he would not say to himself; or rather, he, of course, declared that it was not; but such as it was, it had been incurred. He was now the property of Florence Burton, and, whatever happened, he would be true to her.
Perhaps he pitied himself also. If so, it is to be hoped that Florence may never know of such pity. Before he went to bed, when he was praying on
