“It is easy to say, speak. What shall I
say?”
“Say that you will be my wife.”
“No—I will not say it.”
She rose again from her chair, and took her hand away
from him. “I will not say it. Go now
and think over all that you have done; and I also
will think of it. God help me. What evil
comes when evil has been done. But, Harry, I
understand you now, and I at least will blame you
no more. Go and see Florence Burton; and if when
you see her, you find that you can love her, take her
to your heart, and be true to her. You shall
never hear another reproach from me. Go now,
go; there is nothing more to be said.”
He paused a moment as though he were going to speak,
but he left the room without another word. As
he went along the passage and turned on the stairs
he saw her standing at the door of the room, looking
at him, and it seemed that her eyes were imploring
him to be true to her in spite of the words that she
had spoken. “And I will be true to her,”
he said to himself. “She was the first
that I ever loved, and I will be true to her.”
He went out, and for an hour or two wandered about
the town, hardly knowing whither his steps were taking
him. There had been a tragic seriousness in what
had occurred to him this evening, which seemed to
cover him with care, and make him feel that his youth
was gone from him. At any former period of his
life his ears would have tingled with pride to hear
such a woman as Lady Ongar speak of her love for him
in such terms as she had used; but there was no room
now for pride in his bosom. Now at least he thought
nothing of her wealth or rank. He thought of her
as a woman between whom and himself there existed so
strong a passion as to make it impossible that he
should marry another, even though his duty plainly
required it. The grace and graciousness of his
life were over; but love still remained to him, and
of that he must make the most. All others whom
he regarded would revile him, and now he must live
for this woman alone. She had said that she had
injured him. Yes, indeed, she had injured him!
She had robbed him of his high character, of his unclouded
brow, of that self-pride which had so often told him
that he was living a life without reproach among men.
She had brought him to a state in which misery must
be his bedfellow, and disgrace his companion; but
still she loved him, and to that love he would be true.
And as to Florence Burton—how was he to
settle matters with her? That letter for which
he had been preparing the words as he went to Bolton
Street, before the necessity for it had become irrevocable,
did not now appear to him to be very easy. At
any rate he did not attempt it on that night.
The Man Who Dusted His Boots With His Handkerchief
