“And I don’t think it right now.
You must listen to me for a moment, Captain Clavering—for
fear of a mistake. Believe me, any such plan as
this is quite out of the question; quite.”
In uttering that last word she managed to use a tone
of voice which did make an impression on him.
“I never can, under any circumstances, become
your wife. You might as well look upon that as
altogether decided, because it will save us both annoyance.”
“You needn’t be so sure yet, Julia.”
“Yes, I must be sure. And unless you will
promise to drop the matter, I must—to protect
myself—desire my servants not to admit you
into the house again. I shall be sorry to do
that, and I think you will save me from the necessity.”
He did save her from that necessity, and before he
went he gave her the required promise. “That’s
well,” said she, tendering him her hand; “and
now we shall part friends.”
“I shall like to be friends,” said he,
in a crestfallen voice, and with that he took his
leave. It was a great comfort to him that he had
the scheme of Jack Stuart’s yacht and the trip
to Norway for his immediate consolation.
What Lady Ongar Thought About It
Mrs. Burton, it may perhaps be remembered, had formed
in her heart a scheme of her own—a scheme
of which she thought with much trepidation, and in
which she could not request her husband’s assistance,
knowing well that he would not only not assist it,
but that he would altogether disapprove of it.
But yet she could not put it aside from her thoughts,
believing that it might be the means of bringing Harry
Clavering and Florence together. Her husband
had now thoroughly condemned poor Harry, and passed
sentence against him; not, indeed, openly to Florence
herself; but very often in the hearing of his wife.
Cecilia, womanlike, was more angry with circumstances
than with the offending man—with circumstances
and with the woman who stood in Florence’s way.
She was perfectly willing to forgive Harry, if Harry
could only be made to go right at last. He was
good-looking and pleasant, and had nice ways in a
house, and was altogether too valuable as a lover to
be lost without many struggles. So she kept to
her scheme, and at last she carried it into execution.
She started alone from her house one morning, and,
getting into an omnibus at Brompton, had herself put
down on the rising ground in Piccadilly, opposite
to the Green Park. Why she had hesitated to tell
the omnibus-man to stop at Bolton Street can hardly
be explained; but she had felt that there would be
almost a declaration of guilt in naming that locality.
So she got out on the little hill, and walked up in
front of the prime minister’s house—as
it was then—and of the yellow palace built
by one of our merchant princes, and turned into the
street that was all but interdicted to her by her
own conscience. She turned up Bolton Street,
and with a trembling hand knocked at Lady Ongar’s
door.
