She must live.  She could not go out and hang herself as Judas had done.  And then there was her title and rank, of which she did not know whether it was within her power to divest herself.  She sorely felt the want of some one from whom in her present need she might ask counsel; of some friend to whom she could trust to tell her in what way she might now best atone for the evil she had done.  Plans ran through her head which were thrown aside almost as soon as made, because she saw that they were impracticable.  She even longed in these days for her sister’s aid, though of old she had thought but little of Hermy as a counsellor.  She had no friend whom she might ask—­unless she might still ask Harry Clavering.

If she did not keep it all, might she still keep something—­enough for decent life—­and yet comfort herself with the feeling that she had expiated her sin?  And what would be said of her when she had made this great surrender?  Would not the world laugh at her instead of praising her—­that world as to which she had assured Mr. Turnbull that she did not care what its verdict about her might be?  She had many doubts.  Ah! why had not Harry Clavering remained true to her?  But her punishment had come upon her with all its severity, and she acknowledged to herself now that it was not to be avoided.

Chapter XLVIII

Lady Ongar’s Revenge

At last came the night which Harry had fixed for his visit to Bolton Street.  He had looked forward certainly with no pleasure to the interview, and, now that the time for it had come, was disposed to think that Lady Ongar had been unwise in asking for it.  But he had promised that he would go, and there was no possible escape.

He dined that evening in Onslow Crescent, where he was now again established with all his old comfort.  He had again gone up to the children’s nursery with Cecilia, had kissed them all in their cots, and made himself quite at home in the establishment.  It was with them there as though there had been no dreadful dream about Lady Ongar.  It was so altogether with Cecilia and Florence, and even Mr. Burton was allowing himself to be brought round to a charitable view of Harry’s character.  Harry on this day had gone to the chambers in the Adelphi for an hour, and, walking away with Theodore Burton, had declared his intention of working like a horse.  “If you were to say like a man, it would perhaps be better,” said Burton.  “I must leave you to say that,” answered Harry; “for the present I will content myself with the horse.”  Burton was willing to hope, and allowed himself once more to fill into his old pleasant way of talking about the business, as though there were no other subject under the sun so full of manifold interest.  He was very keen at the present moment about Metropolitan railways, and was ridiculing the folly of those who feared that the railway projectors were going too