"That will be inconvenient," said Ralph,
"Uncommon inconvenient I should say, to a gent like you,--especially as I shall tell everybody that I"m on a visit to my son-in-law."
"I meant to yourself,--and to the business."
"Never you mind the business, Captain. There"ll be enough left to give my girl all the money I promised her, and I don"t think I shall have to ask you to keep your father-in-law neither. Sending an attorney to offer me a thousand pounds! It"s my belief I could buy you out yet, Captain, in regard to ready money."
"I daresay you could, Mr. Neefit."
"And I won"t stir from here till you name a day to come and see me and my missus and Polly."
"This is sheer madness, Mr. Neefit."
"You think so;--do you, Captain? You"ll find me madder nor you think for yet. I"m not agoing to be put upon by you, and nothing come of it. I"ll have it out of you in money or marbles, as the saying is. Just order me a gla.s.s of sherry wine, will you? I"m a thirsty talking. When you came a visiting me, I always give you lashings of drink." This was so true that Ralph felt himself compelled to ring the bell, and order up some wine. "Soda and brandy let it be, Jack,"
said Mr. Neefit to Mr. Newton"s own man. "It"ll be more comfortable like between near relations."
"Soda-water and brandy for Mr. Neefit," said the young Squire, turning angrily to the man. "Mr. Neefit, you are perfectly welcome to as much brandy as you can drink, and my man will wait upon you while I"m away. Good morning." Whereupon Newton took up his hat and left the room. He had not pa.s.sed into the little back room, in which he knew that the servant would be looking for soda-water, before he heard a sound as of smashed crockery, and he was convinced that Mr.
Neefit was preparing himself for forcible eviction by breaking his ornaments. Let the ornaments go, and the mirror, and the clock on the chimney-piece, and the windows. It was a frightful nuisance, but anything would be better than sending for the police to take away Mr.
Neefit. "Keep your eye on that man in the front room," said he, to his Swiss valet.
"On Mr. Neefit, saar?"
"Yes; on Mr. Neefit. He wants me to marry his daughter, and I can"t oblige him. Let him have what he wants to eat and drink. Get rid of him if you can, but don"t send for the police. He"s smashing all the things, and you must save as many as you can." So saying, he hurried down the stairs and out of the house. But what was he to do next?
If Mr. Neefit chose to carry out his threat by staying in the rooms, Mr. Neefit must be allowed to have his own way. If he chose to amuse himself by breaking the things, the things must be broken. If he got very drunk, he might probably be taken home in a cab, and deposited at the cottage at Hendon. But what should Ralph do at this moment?
He sauntered sadly down St. James"s Street with his hands in his trousers-pockets, and finding a crawling hansom at the palace-gate, he got into it and ordered the man to drive him down to Fulham. He had already made up his mind about "dear little Clary," and the thing might as well be done at once. None of the girls were at home. Miss Underwood and Miss Bonner had gone up to London to see Sir Thomas.
Miss Clarissa was spending the day with Mrs. Brownlow. "That will just be right," said Ralph to himself, as he ordered the cabman to drive him to the old lady"s house on the Brompton Road.
Mrs. Brownlow had ever been a great admirer of the young Squire, and did not admire him less now that he had come to his squireship.
She had always hoped that Clary would marry the real heir, and was sounding his praises while Ralph was knocking at her door. "He is not half so fine a fellow as his brother," said Clarissa.
"You did not use to think so," said Mrs. Brownlow. Then the door was opened and Ralph was announced.
With his usual easy manner,--with that unabashed grace which Clarissa used to think so charming,--he soon explained that he had been to Fulham, and had had himself driven back to Bolsover House because Clarissa was there. Clarissa, as she heard this, felt the blood tingle in her cheeks. His manner now did not seem to her to be so full of grace. Was it not all selfishness? Mrs. Brownlow purred out her applause. It was not to be supposed that he came to see an old woman;--but his coming to see a young woman, with adequate intentions, was quite the proper thing for such a young man to do!
They were just going to take lunch. Of course he would stop and lunch with them. He declared that he would like nothing better.
Mrs. Brownlow rang the bell, and gave her little orders. Clarissa"s thoughts referred quickly to various matters,--to the scene on the lawn, to a certain evening on which she had walked home with him from this very house, to the confessions which she had made to her sister, to her confidence with her cousin;--and then to the offer that had been made to Mary, now only a few weeks since. She looked at him, though she did not seem to be looking at him, and told herself that the man was nothing to her. He had caused her unutterable sorrow, with which her heart was still sore;--but he was nothing to her. She would eat her lunch with him, and endeavour to talk to him; but the less she might see of him henceforth the better. He was selfish, heartless, weak, and unworthy.
The lunch was eaten, and within three minutes afterwards, Mrs.
Brownlow was away. As they were returning to the little parlour in which they had been sitting during the morning, she contrived to escape, and Ralph found himself alone with his "dear, darling little Clary." In spite of his graceful ease, the task before him was not without difficulty. Clarissa, of course, knew that he had proposed to Mary, and probably knew that he had proposed to Polly. But Mary had told him that Clarissa was devoted to him,--had told him at least that which amounted to almost as much. And then it was inc.u.mbent on him to do something that might put an end to the Neefit abomination.
Clarissa would be contented to look back upon that episode with Mary Bonner, as a dream that meant nothing;--just as he himself was already learning to look at it. "Clary," he said, "I have hardly seen you to speak to you since the night we walked home together from this house."
"No, indeed, Mr. Newton," she said. Hitherto she had always called him Ralph. He did not observe the change, having too many things of his own to think of at the moment.
"How much has happened since that!"
"Very much, indeed, Mr. Newton."
"And yet it seems to be such a short time ago,--almost yesterday. My poor uncle was alive then."
"Yes, he was."
He did not seem to be getting any nearer to his object by these references to past events. "Clary," he said, "there are many things which I wish to have forgotten, and some perhaps which I would have forgiven."
"I suppose that is so with all of us," said Clarissa.
"Just so, though I don"t know that any of us have ever been so absurdly foolish as I have,--throwing away what was of the greatest value in the world for the sake of something that seemed to be precious, just for a moment." It was very difficult, and he already began to feel that the nature of the girl was altered towards him.
She had suddenly become hard, undemonstrative, and almost unkind.
Hitherto he had always regarded her, without much conscious thought about it, as a soft, sweet, pleasant thing, that might at any moment be his for the asking. And Mary Bonner had told him that he ought to ask. Now he was willing to beseech her pardon, to be in very truth her lover, and to share with her all his prosperity. But she would give him no a.s.sistance in his difficulty. He was determined that she should speak, and, trusting to Mrs. Brownlow"s absence, he sat still, waiting for her.
"I hope you have thrown away nothing that you ought to keep," she said at last. "It seems to me that you have got everything."
"No,--not as yet everything. I do not know whether I shall ever get that which I desire the most." Of course she understood him now; but she sat hard, and fixed, and stern,--so absolutely unlike the Clarissa whom he had known since they were hardly more than children together! "You know what I mean, Clarissa."
"No;--I do not," she said.
"I fear you mean that you cannot forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive."
"Oh yes, you have; whether you will ever forgive me I cannot say. But there is much to forgive;--very much. Your cousin Mary for a short moment ran away with us all."
"She is welcome,--for me."
"What do you mean, Clarissa?"
"Just what I say. She is welcome for me. She has taken nothing that I prize. Indeed I do not think she has condescended to take anything,--anything of the sort you mean. Mary and I love each other dearly. There is no danger of our quarrelling."
"Come, Clary," he got up as he spoke, and stood over her, close to her shoulder, "you understand well enough what I mean. We have known each other so long, and I think we have loved each other so well, that you ought to say that you will forgive me. I have been foolish.
I have been wrong. I have been false, if you will. Cannot you forgive me?"
Not for a moment was there a look of forgiveness in her eye, or a sign of pardon in the lines of her face. But in her heart there was a contest. Something of the old pa.s.sion remained there, though it was no more than the soreness it had caused. For half a moment she thought whether it might not be as he would have it. But if so, how could she again look any of her friends in the face and admit that she had surrendered herself to so much unworthiness? How could she tell Patience, who was beginning to be full of renewed hope for Gregory? How could she confess such a weakness to her father? How could she stand up before Mary Bonner? And was it possible that she should really give herself, her whole life, and all her future hopes, to one so weak and worthless as this man? "There is nothing to forgive," she said, "but I certainly cannot forget."
"You know that I love you," he protested.
"Love me;--yes, with what sort of love? But it does not matter. There need be no further talk about it. Your love to me can be nothing."
"Clarissa!"
"And to you it will be quite as little. Your heart will never suffer much, Ralph. How long is it since you offered your hand to my cousin?
Only that you are just a boy playing at love, this would be an insult." Then she saw her old friend through the window. "Mrs.
Brownlow," she said, "Mr. Newton is going, and I am ready for our walk whenever you please."
"Think of it twice, Clarissa;--must this be the end of it?" pleaded Ralph.
"As far as I am concerned it must be the end of it. When I get home I shall probably find that you have already made an offer to Patience."
Then he got up, took his hat, and having shaken hands cordially with Mrs. Brownlow through the window, went out to his hansom cab, which was earning sixpence a quarter of an hour out on the road, while he had been so absolutely wasting his quarter of an hour within the house.
"Has he said anything, my dear?" asked Mrs. Brownlow.
"He has said a great deal."