"But what, dear?"
"You do mean to accept Mr. Newton?"
Now it was time for Mary to pause. "If I were to tell you my whole heart," she said, "I should be ashamed of what I was saying; and yet I do not know that there is any cause for shame."
"There can be none," said Clary. "I am sure of that."
"My acquaintance with Mr. Newton is very, very slight. I liked him,--oh, so much. I thought him to be high-spirited, manly, and a fine gentleman. I never saw any man who so much impressed me."
"Of course not," said Clarissa, making a gesture as though she would stop on the high road and clasp her hands together, in which, however, she was impeded by her parasol and her remembrance of her present position.
"But it is so much to say that one will love a man better than all the world, and go to him, and belong to him, and be his wife."
"Ah;--but if one does love him!"
"I can hardly believe that love can grow so quickly."
"Tell the truth, Mary; has it not grown?"
"Indeed I cannot say. There; you shall have the whole truth. When he comes to me,--and I suppose he will come."
"There isn"t much doubt of that."
"If he does come--"
"Well?"
"I hardly know what I shall say to him. I shall try to--to love him."
"Of course you will love him,--better than all the world."
"I know that he is paying me the greatest compliment that a man can pay to a woman. And there is no earthly reason why I should not be proud to accept all that he offers me. I have nothing of my own to bestow in return."
"But you are so beautiful."
Mary would make no pretence of denying this. It was true that that one great feminine possession did belong to her. "After all," she said, "how little does beauty signify! It attracts, but it can make no man happy. He has everything to give to a wife, and he ought to have much in return for what he gives."
"You don"t mean that a girl should refuse a rich man because she has no fortune of her own?"
"No; not quite that. But she ought to think whether she can be of use to him."
"Of course you will be of use, my dear;--of the greatest use in the world. That"s his affair, and he is the best judge of what will be of use. You will love him, and other men will envy him, and that will be everything. Oh dear, I do so hope he will come soon."
"And I,--I almost hope he will not. I shall be so afraid to see him.
The first meeting will be so awful. I shall not dare to look him in the face."
"But it is all settled."
"No;--not settled, Clary."
"Yes; it is settled. And now I will tell you what I mean when I say I do not begrudge him to you. That is--; I do not know whether you will care to be told."
"I care very much, Clary. I should be very unhappy if you did begrudge me anything."
"Of course you know that our Ralph Newton, as we call him, ought to have been the heir."
"Oh, yes."
"I needn"t explain it all; only,--only--"
"Only he is everything to you. Is it that, Clary?"
"Yes; it is that. He is everything to me. I love him--. Oh, yes, I do love him! But, Mary, I am not such a happy girl as you are. Sometimes I think he hardly cares for me."
"But he has asked you to care for him?"
"Well;--I don"t know. I think he has. He has told me, I know, that he loved me dearly,--better than any one."
"And what answer did you make to him, Clary?"
Clarissa had the whole scene on the lawn at Popham Villa so clearly impressed upon her memory, that an eternity of years, as she thought, could obliterate no one of its incidents and render doubtful no tone of his voice, no word that her lover had spoken. His conduct had at that time been so violent that she had answered him only with tears and protestations of undying anger. But her tears had been dried, and her anger had pa.s.sed away;--while the love remained. Ralph, her Ralph, of course knew well enough that the tears were dry and the anger gone. She could understand that he would understand that. But the love which he had protested, if it were real love, would remain.
And why should she doubt him? The very fact that he was so dear to her, made such doubts almost disgraceful. And yet there was so much cause for doubt. Patience doubted. She knew herself that she feared more than she hoped. She had resolved gallantly that she would be true to her own heart, even though by such truth she should be preparing for herself a life of disappointment. She had admitted the pa.s.sion, and she would stand by it. In all her fears, too, she consoled herself by the reflection that her lover was hindered, not by want of earnestness or want of truth,--but by the state of his affairs. While he was still in debt, striving to save his inheritance, but tormented by the growing certainty that it must pa.s.s away from him, how could he give himself up to love-making and preparations for marriage? Clary made excuses for him which no one else would have made, and so managed to feed her hopes. "I made him no answer," she said at last.
"And yet you knew you loved him."
"Yes; I knew that. I can tell you, and I told Patience. But I could not tell him." She paused a moment thinking whether she could describe the whole scene; but she found that she could not do that.
"I shall tell him, perhaps, when he comes again; that is, if he does come."
"If he loves you he will come."
"I don"t know. He has all these troubles on him, and he will be very poor;--what will seem to him to be very poor. It would not be poor for me, but for him it would."
"Would that hinder him?"
"How can I say? There are so many things a girl cannot know. He may still be in debt, and then he has been brought up to want so much. But it will make no more difference in me. And now you will understand why I should tell you that I will never begrudge you your good fortune. If all should come right, you shall give us a little cottage near your grand house, and you will not despise us." Poor Clary, when she spoke of her possible future lord, and the little cottage on the Newton demesne, hardly understood the feelings with which a disinherited heir must regard the property which he has lost.
"Dear, dearest Clary," said Mary Bonner, pressing her cousin"s arm.
They had now reached Mrs. Brownlow"s house, and the old lady was delighted to receive them. Of course she began to discuss at once the great news. Sir Thomas had had his arm broken, and was now again a member of Parliament. Mrs. Brownlow was a thorough-going Tory, and was in an ecstasy of delight that her old friend should have been successful. The success seemed to be so much the greater in that the hero had suffered a broken bone. And then there were many questions to be asked? Would Sir Thomas again be Solicitor-General by right of his seat in Parliament?--for on such matters Mrs. Brownlow was rather hazy in her conceptions as to the working of the British Const.i.tution. And would he live at home? Clarissa would not say that she and Patience expected such a result. All that she could suggest of comfort on this matter was that there would be now something of a fair cause for excusing their father"s residence at his London chambers.
But there was a subject more enticing to the old lady even than Sir Thomas"s triumphs; a subject as to which there could not be any triumph,--only dismay; but not, on that account, the less interesting. Ralph Newton had sold his inheritance. "I believe it is all settled," said Clarissa, demurely.
"Dear, dear, dear, dear!" groaned the old lady. And while she groaned Clarissa furtively cast a smile upon her cousin. "It is the saddest thing I ever knew," said Mrs. Brownlow. "And, after all, for a young man who never can be anybody, you know."
"Oh yes," said Clarissa, "he can be somebody."
"You know what I mean, my dear. I think it very shocking, and very wrong. Such a fine estate, too!"