CHAPTER XLII.
RESTITUTION.
Harry stayed a little too long with his love,--a little longer atleast than had been computed, and in consequence met Theodore Burtonin the Crescent as he was leaving it. This meeting could hardly bemade without something of pain, and perhaps it was well for Harrythat he should have such an opportunity as this for getting over itquickly. But when he saw Mr. Burton under the bright gas-lamp hewould very willingly have avoided him, had it been possible.
"Well, Harry?" said Burton, giving his hand to the repentant sheep.
"How are you, Burton?" said Harry, trying to speak with anunconcerned voice. Then in answer to an inquiry as to his health, hetold of his own illness, speaking of that confounded fever havingmade him very low. He intended no deceit, but he made more of thefever than was necessary.
"When will you come back to the shop?" Burton asked. It must beremembered that though the brother could not refuse to welcome backto his home his sister's lover, still he thought that the engagementwas a misfortune. He did not believe in Harry as a man of business,and had almost rejoiced when Florence had been so nearly quit of him.And now there was a taint of sarcasm in his voice as he asked as toHarry's return to the chambers in the Adelphi.
"I can hardly quite say as yet," said Harry, still pleading hisillness. "They were very much against my coming up to London sosoon. Indeed I should not have done it had I not felt so very--veryanxious to see Florence. I don't know, Burton, whether I ought to sayanything to you about that."
"I suppose you have said what you had to say to the women?"
"Oh, yes. I think they understand me completely, and I hope that Iunderstand them."
"In that case I don't know that you need say anything to me. Come tothe Adelphi as soon as you can; that's all. I never think myself thata man becomes a bit stronger after an illness by remaining idle."Then Harry passed on, and felt that he had escaped easily in thatinterview.
But as he walked home he was compelled to think of the step which hemust next take. When he had last seen Lady Ongar he had left her witha promise that Florence was to be deserted for her sake. As yet thatpromise would by her be supposed to be binding. Indeed he had thoughtit to be binding on himself till he had found himself under hismother's influence at the parsonage. During his last few weeks inLondon he had endured an agony of doubt; but in his vacillationsthe pendulum had always veered more strongly towards Bolton Streetthan to Onslow Crescent. Now the swinging of the pendulum had ceasedaltogether. From henceforth Bolton Street must be forbidden groundto him, and the sheepfold in Onslow Crescent must be his home tillhe should have established a small peculiar fold for himself. But,as yet, he had still before him the task of communicating hisfinal decision to the lady in Bolton Street. As he walked home hedetermined that he had better do so in the first place by letter,and so eager was he as to the propriety of doing this at once, thaton his return to his lodgings he sat down, and wrote the letterbefore he went to his bed. It was not very easily written. Here, atany rate, he had to make those confessions of which I have beforespoken;--confessions which it may be less difficult to make withpen and ink than with spoken words, but which when so made are moredegrading. The word that is written is a thing capable of permanentlife, and lives frequently to the confusion of its parent. A manshould make his confessions always by word of mouth if it bepossible. Whether such a course would have been possible to HarryClavering may be doubtful. It might have been that in a personalmeeting the necessary confession would not have got itself adequatelyspoken. Thinking, perhaps, of this he wrote his letter as follows onthat night.
Bloomsbury Square, July, 186--.
The date was easily written, but how was he to go on after that? Inwhat form of affection or indifference was he to address her whom hehad at that last meeting called his own, his dearest Julia? He gotout of his difficulty in the way common to ladies and gentlemen undersuch stress, and did not address her by any name or any epithet.The date he allowed to remain, and then he went away at once to thematter of his subject.
I feel that I owe it you at once to tell you what has been my history during the last few weeks. I came up from Clavering to-day, and have since that been with Mrs. and Miss Burton. Immediately on my return from them I sit down to write you.
After having said so much, Harry probably felt that the rest of hisletter would be surplusage. Those few words would tell her all thatit was required that she should know. But courtesy demanded that heshould say more, and he went on with his confession.
You know that I became engaged to Miss Burton soon after your own marriage. I feel now that I should have told you this when we first met; but yet, had I done so, it would have seemed as though I told it with a special object. I don't know whether I make myself understood in this. I can only hope that I do so.
Understood! Of course she understood it all. She required noblundering explanation from him to assist her intelligence.
I wish now that I had mentioned it. It would have been better for both of us. I should have been saved much pain; and you, perhaps, some uneasiness.
I was called down to Clavering a few weeks ago, about some business in the family, and then became ill,--so that I was confined to my bed instead of returning to town. Had it not been for this I should not have left you so long in suspense,--that is if there has been suspense. For myself, I have to own that I have been very weak,--worse than weak, I fear you will think. I do not know whether your old regard for me will prompt you to make any excuse for me, but I am well sure that I can make none for myself which will not have suggested itself to you, without my urging it. If you choose to think that I have been heartless,--or rather, if you are able so to think of me, no words of mine, written or spoken now, will remove that impression from your mind.
I believe that I need write nothing further. You will understand from what I have said all that I should have to say were I to refer at length to that which has passed between us. All that is over now, and it only remains for me to express a hope that you may be happy. Whether we shall ever see each other again who shall say?--but if we do I trust that we may not meet as enemies. May God bless you here and hereafter.
HARRY CLAVERING.
When the letter was finished Harry sat for a while by his openwindow looking at the moon, over the chimney-pots of his square, andthinking of his career in life as it had hitherto been fulfilled. Thegreat promise of his earlier days had not been kept. His plight inthe world was now poor enough, though his hopes had been so high! Hewas engaged to be married, but had no income on which to marry. Hehad narrowly escaped great wealth. Ah!--It was hard for him to thinkof that without a regret; but he did strive so to think of it. Thoughhe told himself that it would have been evil for him to have dependedon money which had been procured by the very act which had been tohim an injury,--to have dressed himself in the feathers which hadbeen plucked from Lord Ongar's wings,--it was hard for him to thinkof all that he had missed, and rejoice thoroughly that he had missedit. But he told himself that he so rejoiced, and endeavoured to beglad that he had not soiled his hands with riches which never wouldhave belonged to the woman he had loved had she not earned them bybeing false to him. Early on the following morning he sent off hisletter, and then, putting himself into a cab, bowled down to OnslowCrescent. The sheepfold now was very pleasant to him when the headshepherd was away, and so much gratification it was natural that heshould allow himself.
That evening, when he came from his club, he found a note from LadyOngar. It was very short, and the blood rushed to his face as he feltashamed at seeing with how much apparent ease she had answered him.He had written with difficulty, and had written awkwardly. But therewas nothing awkward in her words.
DEAR HARRY,--We are quits now. I do not know why we should ever meet as enemies. I shall never feel myself to be an enemy of yours. I think it would be well that we should see each other, and if you have no obj
ection to seeing me, I will be at home any evening that you may call. Indeed I am at home always in the evening. Surely, Harry, there can be no reason why we should not meet. You need not fear that there will be danger in it.
Will you give my compliments to Miss Florence Burton, with my best wishes for her happiness? Your Mrs. Burton I have seen,--as you may have heard, and I congratulate you on your friend.
Yours always, J. O.
The writing of this letter seemed to have been easy enough, andcertainly there was nothing in it that was awkward; but I think thatthe writer had suffered more in the writing than Harry had done inproducing his longer epistle. But she had known how to hide hersuffering, and had used a tone which told no tale of her wounds. Weare quits now, she had said, and she had repeated the words over andover again to herself as she walked up and down her room. Yes! theywere quits now,--if the reflection of that fact could do her anygood. She had ill-treated him in her early days; but, as she hadtold herself so often, she had served him rather than injured him bythat ill-treatment. She had been false to him; but her falsehood hadpreserved him from a lot which could not have been fortunate. Withsuch a clog as she would have been round his neck,--with such a wife,without a shilling of fortune, how could he have risen in the world?No! Though she had deceived him, she had served him. Then,--afterthat,--had come the tragedy of her life, the terrible days inthinking of which she still shuddered, the days of her husband andSophie Gordeloup,--that terrible deathbed, those attacks upon herhonour, misery upon misery, as to which she never now spoke a word toany one, and as to which she was resolved that she never would speakagain. She had sold herself for money, and had got the price; butthe punishment of her offence had been very heavy. And now, in theselatter days, she had thought to compensate the man she had loved forthe treachery with which she had used him. That treachery had beenserviceable to him, but not the less should the compensation be veryrich. And she would love him too. Ah, yes; she had always loved him!He should have it all now,--everything, if only he would consent toforget that terrible episode in her life, as she would strive toforget it. All that should remain to remind them of Lord Ongar wouldbe the wealth that should henceforth belong to Harry Clavering.Such had been her dream, and Harry had come to her with words oflove which made it seem to be a reality. He had spoken to her wordsof love which he was now forced to withdraw, and the dream wasdissipated. It was not to be allowed to her to escape her penalty soeasily as that! As for him, they were now quits. That being the case,there could be no reason why they should quarrel.
But what now should she do with her wealth, and especially how shouldshe act in respect to that place down in the country? Though she hadlearned to hate Ongar Park during her solitary visit there, she hadstill looked forward to the pleasure the property might give her,when she should be able to bestow it upon Harry Clavering. But thathad been part of her dream, and the dream was now over. Through itall she had been conscious that she might hardly dare to hope thatthe end of her punishment should come so soon,--and now she knew thatit was not to come. As far as she could see, there was no end to thepunishment in prospect for her. From her first meeting with HarryClavering on the platform of the railway station his presence, orher thoughts of him, had sufficed to give some brightness to herlife,--had enabled her to support the friendship of Sophie Gordeloup,and also to support her solitude when poor Sophie had been banished.But now she was left without any resource. As she sat alone,meditating on all this, she endeavoured to console herself with thereflection that, after all, she was the one whom Harry loved,--whomHarry would have chosen, had he been free to choose. But the comfortto be derived from that was very poor. Yes; he had loved heronce,--nay, perhaps he loved her still. But when that love was herown she had rejected it. She had rejected it, simply declaring tohim, to her friends, and to the world at large, that she preferred tobe rich. She had her reward, and, bowing her head upon her hands, sheacknowledged that the punishment was deserved.
Her first step after writing her note to Harry was to send for Mr.Turnbull, her lawyer. She had expected to see Harry on the evening ofthe day on which she had written, but instead of that she received anote from him in which he said that he would come to her before long.Mr. Turnbull was more instant in obeying her commands, and was withher on the morning after he received her injunction. He was almosta perfect stranger to her, having only seen her once and that for afew moments after her return to England. Her marriage settlementshad been prepared for her by Sir Hugh's attorney; but during hersojourn in Florence it had become necessary that she should havesome one in London to look after her own affairs, and Mr. Turnbullhad been recommended to her by lawyers employed by her husband. Hewas a prudent, sensible man, who recognized it to be his imperativeinterest to look after his client's interest. And he had done hisduty by Lady Ongar in that trying time immediately after her return.An offer had then been made by the Courton family to give Julia herincome without opposition if she would surrender Ongar Park. To thisshe had made objections with indignation, and Mr. Turnbull, though hehad at first thought that she would be wise to comply with the termsproposed, had done her work for her with satisfactory expedition.Since those days she had not seen him, but now she had summoned him,and he was with her in Bolton Street.
"I want to speak to you, Mr. Turnbull," she said, "about that placedown in Surrey. I don't like it."
"Not like Ongar Park?" he said. "I have always heard that it is socharming."
"It is not charming to me. It is a sort of property that I don'twant, and I mean to give it up."
"Lord Ongar's uncles would buy your interest in it, I have no doubt."
"Exactly. They have sent to me, offering to do so. My brother-in-law,Sir Hugh Clavering, called on me with a message from them sayingso. I thought that he was very foolish to come, and so I told him.Such things should be done by one's lawyers. Don't you think so, Mr.Turnbull?" Mr. Turnbull smiled as he declared that, of course, he,being a lawyer, was of that opinion. "I am afraid they will havethought me uncivil," continued Julia, "as I spoke rather brusquely toSir Hugh Clavering. I am not inclined to take any steps through SirHugh Clavering; but I do not know that I have any reason to be angrywith the little lord's family."
"Really, Lady Ongar, I think not. When your ladyship returned therewas some opposition thought of for a while, but I really do not thinkit was their fault."
"No; it was not their fault."
"That was my feeling at the time; it was indeed."
"It was the fault of Lord Ongar,--of my husband. As regards allthe Courtons I have no word of complaint to make. It is not to beexpected,--it is not desirable that they and I should be friends.It is impossible, after what has passed, that there should be suchfriendship. But they have never injured me, and I wish to obligethem. Had Ongar Park suited me I should, doubtless, have kept it; butit does not suit me, and they are welcome to have it back again."
"Has a price been named, Lady Ongar?"
"No price need be named. There is to be no question of a price. LordOngar's mother is welcome to the place,--or rather to such interestas I have in it."
"And to pay a rent?" suggested Mr. Turnbull.
"To pay no rent! Nothing would induce me to let the place, or to sellmy right in it. I will have no bargain about it. But as nothing alsowill induce me to live there, I am not such a dog in the manger as towish to keep it. If you will have the kindness to see Mr. Courton'slawyer and to make arrangements about it."
"But, Lady Ongar; what you call your right in the estate is worthover twenty thousand pounds. It is indeed. You could borrow twentythousand pounds on the security of it to-morrow."
"But I don't want to borrow twenty thousand pounds."
"No, no; exactly. Of course you don't. But I point out that fact toshow the value. You would be making a present of that sum of moneyto people who do not want it,--who have no claim upon you. I reallydon't see how they could take it."
"Mrs. Courton wishes to have the place very much."
/>
"But, my lady, she has never thought of getting it without payingfor it. Lady Ongar, I really cannot advise you to take any such stepas that. Indeed, I cannot. I should be wrong, as your lawyer, ifI did not point out to you that such a proceeding would be quiteromantic,--quite so; what the world would call Quixotic. People don'texpect such things as that. They don't, indeed."
"People don't often have such reasons as I have," said Lady Ongar.Mr. Turnbull sat silent for a while, looking as though he wereunhappy. The proposition made to him was one which, as a lawyer, hefelt to be very distasteful to him. He knew that his client had nomale friends in whom she confided, and he felt that the world wouldblame him if he allowed this lady to part with her property in theway she had suggested. "You will find that I am in earnest," shecontinued, smiling. "And you may as well give way to my vagaries witha good grace."
"They would not take it, Lady Ongar."
"At any rate we can try them. If you will make them understand thatI don't at all want the place, and that it will go to rack and ruinbecause there is no one to live there, I am sure they will take it."
Then Mr. Turnbull again sat silent and unhappy, thinking with whatwords he might best bring forward his last and strongest argumentagainst this rash proceeding.
"Lady Ongar," he said, "in your peculiar position there are doublereasons why you should not act in this way."
"What do you mean, Mr. Turnbull? What is my peculiar position?"
"The world will say that you have restored Ongar Park because youwere afraid to keep it. Indeed, Lady Ongar, you had better let itremain as it is."
"I care nothing for what the world says," she exclaimed, risingquickly from her chair;--"nothing; nothing!"
"You should really hold by your rights; you should, indeed. Who canpossibly say what other interests may be concerned? You may marry,and live for the next fifty years, and have a family. It is my duty,Lady Ongar, to point out these things to you."
"I am sure you are quite right, Mr. Turnbull," she said, strugglingto maintain a quiet demeanour. "You, of course, are only doing yourduty. But whether I marry or whether I remain as I am, I shall giveup this place. And as for what the world, as you call it, may say, Iwill not deny that I cared much for that on my immediate return. Whatpeople said then made me very unhappy. But I care nothing for it now.I have established my rights, and that has been sufficient. To meit seems that the world, as you call it, has been civil enough inits usage of me lately. It is only of those who should have been myfriends that I have a right to complain. If you will please to dothis thing for me, I will be obliged to you."
"If you are quite determined about it--"
"I am quite determined. What is the use of the place to me? I nevershall go there. What is the use even of the money that comes to me?I have no purpose for it. I have nothing to do with it."
There was something in her tone as she said this which well filledhim with pity.
"You should remember," he said, "how short a time it is since youbecame a widow. Things will be different with you soon."
"My clothes will be different, if you mean that," she answered; "butI do not know that there will be any other change in me. But I amwrong to trouble you with all this. If you will let Mr. Courton'slawyer know, with my compliments to Mrs. Courton, that I have heardthat she would like to have the place, and that I do not want it, Iwill be obliged to you." Mr. Turnbull having by this time perceivedthat she was quite in earnest, took his leave, having promised to doher bidding.
In this interview she had told her lawyer only a part of the planwhich was now running in her head. As for giving up Ongar Park, shetook to herself no merit for that. The place had been odious to herever since she had endeavoured to establish herself there and hadfound that the clergyman's wife would not speak to her,--that evenher own housekeeper would hardly condescend to hold converse withher. She felt that she would be a dog in the manger to keep the placein her own possession. But she had thoughts beyond this,--resolutionsonly as yet half-formed as to a wider surrender. She had disgracedherself, ruined herself, robbed herself of all happiness by themarriage she had made. Her misery had not been simply the misery ofthat lord's lifetime. As might have been expected, that was soonover. But an enduring wretchedness had come after that from whichshe saw no prospect of escape. What was to be her future life, leftas she was and would be, in desolation? If she were to give it allup,--all the wealth that had been so ill-gotten,--might there notthen be some hope of comfort for her?
She had been willing enough to keep Lord Ongar's money, and use itfor the purposes of her own comfort, while she had still hoped thatcomfort might come from it. The remembrance of all that she had togive had been very pleasant to her, as long as she had hoped thatHarry Clavering would receive it at her hands. She had not at oncefelt that the fruit had all turned to ashes. But now,--now that Harrywas gone from her,--now that she had no friend left to her whom shecould hope to make happy by her munificence,--the very knowledge ofher wealth was a burden to her. And as she thought of her riches inthese first days of her desertion, as she had indeed been thinkingsince Cecilia Burton had been with her, she came to understand thatshe was degraded by their acquisition. She had done that which hadbeen unpardonably bad, and she felt like Judas when he stood with theprice of his treachery in his hand. He had given up his money, andwould not she do as much? There had been a moment in which she hadnearly declared all her purpose to the lawyer, but she was held backby the feeling that she ought to make her plans certain before shecommunicated them to him.
She must live. She could not go out and hang herself as Judas haddone. And then there was her title and rank, of which she did notknow whether it was within her power to divest herself. She sorelyfelt the want of some one from whom in her present need she mightask counsel; of some friend to whom she could trust to tell her inwhat way she might now best atone for the evil she had done. Plansran through her head which were thrown aside almost as soon as made,because she saw that they were impracticable. She even longed inthese days for her sister's aid, though of old she had thought butlittle of Hermy as a counsellor. She had no friend whom she mightask;--unless she might still ask Harry Clavering.
If she did not keep it all might she still keep something,--enoughfor decent life,--and yet comfort herself with the feeling that shehad expiated her sin? And what would be said of her when she had madethis great surrender? Would not the world laugh at her instead ofpraising her,--that world as to which she had assured Mr. Turnbullthat she did not care what its verdict about her might be? She hadmany doubts. Ah! why had not Harry Clavering remained true to her?But her punishment had come upon her with all its severity, and sheacknowledged to herself now that it was not to be avoided.