“But it is so with Julia,” she said. “That is the truth. How am I better than her, and why should I not associate with her?”
“Better than her! As women you are poles asunder.”
“But as dragons,” she said, smiling, “we come together.”
“Do you mean that you have no one to love you?”
“Yes, Harry; that is just what I do mean. I have none to love me. In playing my cards I have won my stakes in money and rank, but have lost the amount ten times told in affection, friendship, and that general unpronounced esteem which creates the fellowship of men and women in the world. I have a carriage and horses, and am driven about with grand servants; and people, as they see me, whisper and say that is Lady Ongar, whom nobody knows. I can see it in their eyes till I fancy that I can hear their words.”
“But it is all false.”
“What is false? It is not false that I have deserved this. I have done that which has made me a fitting companion for such a one as Sophie Gordeloup, though I have not done that which perhaps these people think.”
He paused again before he spoke, still standing near her on the rug. “Lady Ongar—” he said.
“Nay, Harry; not Lady Ongar when we are together thus. Let me feel that I have one friend who can dare to call me by my name—from whose mouth I shall be pleased to hear my name. You need not fear that I shall think that it means too much. I will not take it as meaning what it used to mean.”
He did not know how to go on with his speech, or in truth what to say to her. Florence Burton was still present to his mind, and from minute to minute he told himself that he would not become a villain. But now it had come to that with him, that he would have given all that he had in the world that he had never gone to Stratton. He sat down by her in silence, looking away from her at the fire, swearing to himself that he would not become a villain, and yet wishing, almost wishing, that he had the courage to throw his honour overboard. At last, half turning round towards her he took her hand, or rather took her first by the wrist till he could possess himself of her hand. As he did so he touched her hair and her cheek, and she let her hand drop till it rested in his. “Julia,” he said, “what can I do to comfort you?” She did not answer him, but looked away from him as she sat, across the table into vacancy. “Julia,” he said again, “is there anything that will comfort you?” But still she did not answer him.
He understood it all as well as the reader will understand it. He knew how it was with her, and was aware that he was at this instant false almost equally to her and to Florence. He knew that the question he had asked was one to which there could be made a true and satisfactory answer, but that his safety lay in the fact that that answer was all but impossible for her to give. Could she say, “Yes, you can comfort me. Tell me that you yet love me, and I will be comforted?” But he had not designed to bring her into such difficulty as this. He had not intended to be cruel. He had drifted into treachery unawares, and was torturing her, not because he was wicked, but because he was weak. He had held her hand now for some minute or two, but still she did not speak to him. Then he raised it and pressed it warmly to his lips.
“No, Harry,” she said, jumping from her seat and drawing her hand rapidly from him; “no; it shall not be like that. Let it be Lady Ongar again if the sound of the other name brings back too closely the memory of other days. Let it be Lady Ongar again. I can understand that it will be better.” As she spoke she walked away from him across the room, and he followed her.
“Are you angry?” he asked her.
“No, Harry; not angry. How should I be angry with you who alone are left to me of my old friends? But, Harry, you must think for me, and spare me in my difficulty.”
“Spare you, Julia?”
“Yes, Harry, spare me; you must be good to me and considerate, and make yourself like a brother to me. But people will know you are not a brother, and you must remember all that, for my sake. But you must not leave me or desert me. Anything that people might say would be better than that.”
“Was I wrong to kiss your hand?”
“Yes, wrong, certainly wrong;—that is, not wrong, but unmindful.”
“I did it,” he said, “because I love you.” And as he spoke the tears stood in both his eyes.
“Yes; you love me, and I you; but not with love that may show itself in that form. That was the old love, which I threw away, and which has been lost. That was at an end when I—jilted you. I am not angry; but you will remember that that love exists no longer? You will remember that, Harry?”
He sat himself down in a chair in a far part of the room, and two tears coursed their way down his cheeks. She stood over him and watched him as he wept. “I did not mean to make you sad,” she said. “Come, we will be sad no longer. I understand it all. I know how it is with you. The old love is lost, but we will not the less be friends.” Then he rose suddenly from his chair, and taking her in his arms, and holding her closely to his bosom, pressed
