stand that she was degraded by their acquisition. She
had done that which had been unpardonably bad, and she felt like Judas
when he stood with the price of his treachery in his hand. He had given
up his money, and would not she do as much? There had been a moment in
which she had nearly declared all her purpose to the lawyer, but she was
held back by the feeling that she ought to make her plans certain before
she communicated them to him.

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 ab