“I think no ill of him,” said Florence,
proudly.
“That is well. But I am sure you do not.
You are not one to think evil, as I take it, of any
body, much less of him whom you love. When he
saw me again, free as I am, and when I saw him, thinking
him also to be free, was it strange that some memory
of old days should come back upon us? But the
fault, if fault there has been, was mine.”
“I have never said that there was any fault.”
“No, Miss Burton, but others have said so.
No doubt I am foolish to talk to you in this way,
and I have not yet said that which I desired to say.
It is simply this—that I do not begrudge
you your happiness. I wished the same happiness
to be mine, but it is not mine. It might have
been, but I forfeited it. It is past, and I will
pray that you may enjoy it long. You will not
refuse to receive my congratulations?”
“Indeed I will not.”
“Or to think of me as a friend of your husband’s?”
“Oh no.”
“That is all, then. I have shown you the
gardens, and now we may go in. Some day, perhaps,
when you are Lady Paramount here, and your children
are running about the place, I may come again to see
them—if you and he will have me.”
“I hope you will, Lady Ongar. In truth
I hope so.”
“It is odd enough that I said to him once that
I would never go to Clavering Park again till I went
there to see his wife. That was long before those
two brothers perished—before I had ever
heard of Florence Burton. And yet, indeed, it
was not very long ago. It was since my husband
died. But that was not quite true, for here I
am, and he has not yet got a wife. But it was
odd, was it not?”
“I can not think what should have made you say
that.”
“A spirit of prophecy comes on one sometimes,
I suppose. Well, shall we go in? I have
shown you all the wonders of the garden, and told you
all the wonders connected with it of which I know
aught. No doubt there would be other wonders
more wonderful, if one could ransack the private history
of all the Claverings for the last hundred years.
I hope, Miss Burton, that any marvels which may attend
your career here may be happy marvels.”
She then took Florence by the hand, and, drawing close
to her, stooped over and kissed her. “You
will think me a fool, of course,” said she,
“but I do not care for that.” Florence
now was in tears, and could make no answer in words;
but she pressed the hand which she still held, and
then followed her companion back into the house.
After that the visit was soon brought to an end, and
the three ladies from the rectory returned across
the park to their house.
Conclusion
