But what was he to do in regard to Julia?  He was bound to let her know at once what was his position, and to tell her that in treating her as he had treated her, he had simply insulted her.  That look of gratified contentment with which she had greeted him as he was leaving her, clung to his memory and tormented him.  Of that contentment he must now rob her, and he was bound to do so with as little delay as was possible.  Early in the morning before he started on his journey he did make an attempt, a vain attempt, to write, not to Florence but to Julia.  The letter would not get itself written.  He had not the hardihood to inform her that he had amused himself with her sorrows, and that he had injured her by the exhibition of his love.  And then that horrid Franco-Pole, whose prying eyes Julia had dared to disregard, because she had been proud of his love!  If she had not been there, the case might have been easier.  Harry, as he thought of this, forgot to remind himself that if Sophie had not interrupted him he would have floundered on from one danger to another till he would have committed himself more thoroughly even than he had done, and have made promises which it would have been as shameful to break as it would be to keep them.  But even as it was, had he not made such promises?  Was there not such a promise in that embrace, in the half-forgotten word or two which he had spoken while she was in his arms, and in the parting grasp of his hand?  He could not write that letter then, on that morning, hurried as he was with the necessity of his journey; and he started for Clavering resolving that it should be written from his father’s house.

It was a tedious, sad journey to him, and he was silent and out of spirits when he reached his home; but he had gone there for the purpose of his cousin’s funeral, and his mood was not at first noticed, as it might have been had the occasion been different.  His father’s countenance wore that well-known look of customary solemnity which is found to be necessary on such occasions, and his mother was still thinking of the sorrows of Lady Clavering, who had been at the rectory for the last day or two.

“Have you seen Lady Ongar since she heard of the poor child’s death?” his mother asked.

“Yes; I was with her yesterday evening.”

“Do you see her often?” Fanny inquired.

“What do you call often?  No; not often.  I went to her last night because she had given me a commission.  I have seen her three or four times altogether.”

“Is she as handsome as she used to be?” said Fanny.

“I cannot tell; I do not know.”

“You used to think her very handsome, Harry.”

“Of course she is handsome.  There has never been a doubt about that; but when a woman is in deep mourning one hardly thinks about her beauty.”  Oh, Harry, Harry, how could you be so false?

“I thought young widows were always particularly charming,” said Fanny; “and when one remembers about Lord Ongar one does not think of her being a widow so much as one would do if he had been different.”