He smiled and looked foolish, and declared that he
only offered his assistance because perhaps it might
be convenient at the present moment. What could
he do for her? How could he show his friendship
for her now at once?
“You have done it, Harry, in listening to me
and giving me your sympathy. It is seldom that
we want any great thing from our friends. I want
nothing of that kind. No one can hurt me much
further now. My money and my rank are safe; and,
perhaps, by degrees, acquaintances, if not friends,
will form themselves round me again. At present,
of course, I see no one; but because I see no one,
I wanted some one to whom I could speak. Poor
Hermy is worse than no one. Good-by, Harry; you
look surprised and bewildered now, but you will soon
get over that. Don’t be long before I see
you again.” Then, feeling that he was bidden
to go, he wished her good-by, and went.
The House in Onslow Crescent
Harry, as he walked away from the house in Bolton
street, hardly knew whether he was on his heels or
his head. Burton had told him not to dress—“We
don’t give dress dinner parties, you know.
It’s all in the family way with us”—and
Harry, therefore, went direct from Bolton street to
Onslow Crescent. But, though he managed to keep
the proper course down Piccadilly, he was in such
confusion of mind that he hardly knew whither he was
going. It seemed as though a new form of life
had been opened to him, and that it had been opened
in such a way as almost necessarily to engulf him.
It was not only that Lady Ongar’s history was
so terrible, and her life so strange, but that he himself
was called upon to form a part of that history, and
to join himself in some sort with that life.
This countess, with her wealth, her rank, her beauty,
and her bright intellect, had called him to her, and
told him that he was her only friend. Of course
he had promised his friendship. How could he
have failed to give such a promise to one whom he had
loved so well? But to what must such a promise
lead, or rather to what must it not have led had it
not been for Florence Burton? She was young, free,
and rich. She made no pretence of regret for
the husband she had lost, speaking of him as though
in truth she hardly regarded herself as his wife.
And she was the same Julia whom he had loved, who
had loved him, who had jilted him, and in regret for
whom he had once resolved to lead a wretched, lonely
life! Of course she must expect that he would
renew it all—unless, indeed, she knew of
his engagement. But if she knew it, why had she
not spoken of it?
