“It is easy to say, speak.  What shall I say?”

“Say that you will be my wife.”

“No—­I will not say it.”  She rose again from her chair, and took her hand away from him.  “I will not say it.  Go now and think over all that you have done; and I also will think of it.  God help me.  What evil comes when evil has been done.  But, Harry, I understand you now, and I at least will blame you no more.  Go and see Florence Burton; and if when you see her, you find that you can love her, take her to your heart, and be true to her.  You shall never hear another reproach from me.  Go now, go; there is nothing more to be said.”

He paused a moment as though he were going to speak, but he left the room without another word.  As he went along the passage and turned on the stairs he saw her standing at the door of the room, looking at him, and it seemed that her eyes were imploring him to be true to her in spite of the words that she had spoken.  “And I will be true to her,” he said to himself.  “She was the first that I ever loved, and I will be true to her.”

He went out, and for an hour or two wandered about the town, hardly knowing whither his steps were taking him.  There had been a tragic seriousness in what had occurred to him this evening, which seemed to cover him with care, and make him feel that his youth was gone from him.  At any former period of his life his ears would have tingled with pride to hear such a woman as Lady Ongar speak of her love for him in such terms as she had used; but there was no room now for pride in his bosom.  Now at least he thought nothing of her wealth or rank.  He thought of her as a woman between whom and himself there existed so strong a passion as to make it impossible that he should marry another, even though his duty plainly required it.  The grace and graciousness of his life were over; but love still remained to him, and of that he must make the most.  All others whom he regarded would revile him, and now he must live for this woman alone.  She had said that she had injured him.  Yes, indeed, she had injured him!  She had robbed him of his high character, of his unclouded brow, of that self-pride which had so often told him that he was living a life without reproach among men.  She had brought him to a state in which misery must be his bedfellow, and disgrace his companion; but still she loved him, and to that love he would be true.

And as to Florence Burton—­how was he to settle matters with her?  That letter for which he had been preparing the words as he went to Bolton Street, before the necessity for it had become irrevocable, did not now appear to him to be very easy.  At any rate he did not attempt it on that night.

Chapter XXX

The Man Who Dusted His Boots With His Handkerchief