Such were the two rival claimants for the hand of
Harry Clavering.
“Judge Not That Ye Be Not Judged”
A week had passed since the evening which Harry had
spent in Bolton Street, and he had not again seen
Lady Ongar. He had professed to himself that
his reason for not going there was the non-performance
of the commission which Lady Ongar had given him with
reference to Count Pateroff. He had not yet succeeded
in catching the Count, though he had twice asked for
him in Mount Street and twice at the club in Pall Mall.
It appeared that the Count never went to Mount Street,
and was very rarely seen at the club. There was
some other club which he frequented, and Harry did
not know what club. On both the occasions of Harry’s
calling in Mount Street, the servant had asked him
to go up and see madame; but he had declined to do
so, pleading that he was hurried. He was, however,
driven to resolve that he must go direct to Sophie,
as otherwise he could find no means of doing as he
had promised. She probably might put him on the
scent of her brother.
But there had been another reason why Harry had not
gone to Bolton Street, though he had not acknowledged
it to himself. He did not dare to trust himself
with Lady Ongar. He feared that he would be led
on to betray himself and to betray Florence—to
throw himself at Julia’s feet and sacrifice
his honesty, in spite of all his resolutions to the
contrary. He felt when there as the accustomed
but repentant dram-drinker might feel, when, having
resolved to abstain, he is called upon to sit with
the full glass offered before his lips. From such
temptations as that the repentant dram-drinker knows
that he must fly. But though he did not go after
the fire-water of Bolton Street, neither was he able
to satisfy himself with the cool fountain of Onslow
Crescent. He was wretched at this time—ill-satisfied
with himself and others—and was no fitting
companion for Cecilia Burton. The world, he thought,
had used him ill. He could have been true to Julia
Brabazon when she was well-nigh penniless. It
was not for her money that he had regarded her.
Had he been now a free man—free from those
chains with which he had fettered himself at Stratton—he
would again have asked this woman for her love, in
spite of her past treachery; but it would have been
for her love, and not for her money, that he would
have sought her. Was it his fault that he had
loved her, that she had been false to him, and that
she had now come back and thrown herself before him?
or had he been wrong because he had ventured to think
that he loved another when Julia had deserted him?
Or could he help himself if he now found that his
love in truth belonged to her whom he had known first?
The world had been very cruel to him, and he could
not go to Onslow Crescent, and behave there prettily,
hearing the praises of Florence with all the ardor
of a discreet lover.
