YOU ARE ONE OF US NOW.
The first week after Mary Bonner's arrival at Popham Villa went by
without much to make it remarkable, except the strangeness arising
from the coming of a stranger. Sir Thomas did stay at home on that
Sunday, but when the time came for going to morning church, shuffled
out of that disagreeable duty in a manner that was satisfactory
neither to himself nor his daughters. "Oh, papa; I thought you would
have gone with us!" said Patience at the last moment.
"I think not to-day, my dear," he said, with that sort of smile which
betokens inward uneasiness. Patience reproached him with a look, and
then the three girls went off together. Even Patience herself had
offered to excuse Mary, on the score of fatigue, seasickness, and the
like; but Mary altogether declined to be excused. She was neither
fatigued, she said, nor sick; and of course she would go to church.
Sir Thomas stayed at home, and thought about himself. How could he
go to church when he knew that he could neither listen to the sermon
nor join in the prayers? "I suppose people do," he said to himself;
"but I can't. I'd go to church all day long, if I found that it would
serve me."
He went up to London on the Monday, and returned to the villa to
dinner. He did the same on the Tuesday. On the Wednesday he remained
in London. On the Thursday he came home, but dined in town. After
that he found himself to be on sufficiently familiar terms with his
niece to fall back into his old habits of life.
Patience was very slow in speaking to their cousin of her father's
peculiarities; but Clarissa soon told the tale. "You'll get to know
papa soon," she said.
"He has been so kind to me."
"He is very good; but you must know, dear, that we are the most
deserted and disconsolate ladies that ever lived out of a poem. Papa
has been home now four days together; but that is for your beaux
yeux. We are here for weeks together without seeing him;--very often
for more than a week."
"Where does he go?"
"He has a place in London;--such a place! You shall go and see it
some day, though he won't thank us a bit for taking you there. He has
the queerest old man to wait upon him, and he never sees anybody from
day to day."
"But what does he do?"
"He is writing a book. That is the great secret. He never speaks
about it, and does not like to be asked questions. But the truth is,
he is the most solitude-loving person in the world. He does find its
charms, though Alexander Selkirk never could."
"And does nobody come here to you?"
"In the way of taking care of us? Nobody! We have to take care of
ourselves. Of course it is dull. People do come and see us sometimes.
Miss Spooner, for instance."
"Why should you laugh at poor Miss Spooner?" asked Patience.
"I don't laugh at her. We have other friends, you know; but not
enough to make the house pleasant to you." After that, when Patience
was not with them, she told something of Ralph Newton and his visits,
though she said nothing to her cousin of her own cherished hopes. "I
wonder what you'll think of Ralph Newton?" she said. Ralph Newton's
name had been mentioned before in Mary's hearing more than once.
"Why should I think anything particular of Ralph Newton?"
"You'll have to think something particular about him as he is a sort
of child of the house. Papa was his guardian, and he comes here just
when he pleases."
"Who is he, and what is he, and where is he, and why is he?"
"He's a gentleman at large who does nothing. That's who he is."
"He thinks ever so much of himself, then?"
"No;--he doesn't. And he is nephew to an old squire down in
Hampshire, who won't give him a penny. He oughtn't to want it,
however, because when he came of age he had ever so much money of his
own. But he does want it,--sometimes. He must have the property when
his uncle dies."
"Dear me;--how interesting!"
"As for the where he is, and why he is,--he comes here just when it
suits him, and because we were almost brought up together. He doesn't
dine here, and all that kind of thing, because papa is never at home.
Nobody ever does dine here."
Then there was a short pause. "This Mr. Newton isn't a lover then?"
asked Miss Bonner.
There was another pause before Clarissa could answer the question.
"No," she said; "no; he isn't a lover. We don't have any lovers at
Popham Villa." "Only that's not quite true," she said, after a pause.
"And as you are to live with us just like a sister, I'll tell you
about Gregory Newton, Ralph's brother." Then she did tell the story
of the clergyman's love and the clergyman's discomfiture; but she
said not a word of Ralph's declaration and Ralph's great sin on that
fatal evening. And the way in which she told her story about the one
brother altogether disarmed Mary Bonner's suspicion as to the other.
In truth Clarissa did not know whether it was or was not her
privilege to regard Ralph Newton as her lover. He had not been to the
cottage since that evening; and though the words he had spoken were
still sweet in her ears,--so sweet that she could not endure the
thought of abandoning their sweetness,--still she had a misgiving
that they were in some sort rendered nugatory by his great fault. She
had forgiven the fault;--looking back at it now over the distance
of eight or ten days, had forgiven it with all her heart; but still
there remained with her an undefined and unpleasant feeling that the
spoken words, accompanied by a deed so wicked, were absorbed, and,
as it were, drowned in the wickedness of the deed. What if the words
as first spoken were only a prelude to the deed,--for, as she well
remembered, they had been spoken twice,--and if the subsequent words
were only an excuse for it! There was a painful idea in her mind that
such might possibly be the case, and that if so, the man could never
be forgiven, or at least ought never to be spoken to again. Acting
on this suggestion from within, she absolutely refused to tell her
father what had happened when Patience urged her to do so. "He'll
come and see papa himself,--if he means anything," said Clary.
Patience only shook her head. She thought that Sir Thomas should be
told at once; but she could not take upon herself to divulge her
sister's secret, which had been imparted to her in trust.
Clarissa was obstinate. She would not tell her father, nor would
she say what would be her own answer if her father were to give his
permission for the match. As to this Patience had not much doubt. She
saw that her sister's heart was set upon this lover. She had feared
it before this late occurrence, and now she could hardly have a
doubt. But if Ralph really meant it he would hardly have told her
that he loved her, and then not waited for an answer,--not have come
back for an answer,--not have gone to their father for an answer.
And then, Patience thought, Sir Thomas would never consent to this
marriage. Ralph was in debt, and a scapegrace, and quite unfit to
undertake the management of a wife. Such was the elder sister's
belief as to her father's mind. But she could not force upon Clary
the necessity of taking any action in the matter. She was not strong
enough in her position as elder to demand obedience. Clarissa's
communication had been made in confidence; and Patience, though she
was unhappy, would not break the trust.
At last this young Lothario appeared among them again; but, as it
happened, he came in company with Sir Thomas. Such a thing had not
happened before since the day on which Sir Thomas had given up all
charge of his ward's property. But it did so happen now. The two men
had met in London, and Sir Thomas had suggested that Ralph should
come and be introduced to the new cousin.
"What are you doing now?" Sir Thomas had asked.
"Nothing particular just at present."
"You can get away this evening?"
"Yes,--I think I can get away." It had been his intention to dine
at his club with Captain Cox; but as he had dined at the club with
Captain Cox on the previous day, the engagement was not felt to be
altogether binding. "I can get away for dinner that is, but I've got
to go out in the evening. It's a bore, but I promised to be at Lady
McMarshal's to-night. But if I show there at twelve it will do." Thus
it happened that Sir Thomas and Ralph Newton went down to Popham
Villa in a cab together.
It was clear, both to Patience and Clarissa, that he was much struck
with the new cousin; but then it was quite out of the question
that any man should not be struck with her. Her beauty was of that
kind,--like the beauty of a picture,--which must strike even if
it fails to charm. And Mary had a way of exciting attention with
strangers, even by her silence. It was hardly intentional, and there
certainly was no coquetry in it; but it was the case that she carried
herself after a fashion which made it impossible for any stranger to
regard her place in the room as being merely a chair with a young
lady in it. She would speak hardly a word; but her very lack of
speech was eloquent. At the present time she was of course in deep
mourning, and the contrast between the brilliance of her complexion
and the dark dress which covered her throat;--between the black
scarf and the profusion of bright hair which fell upon it, was so
remarkable as of itself to excite attention. Clarissa, watching
everything, though, with feminine instinct, seeming to watch nothing,
could see that he was amazed. But then she had known that he would be
amazed. And of what matter would be his amazement, if he were true?
If, indeed, he were not true,--then, then,--then nothing mattered!
Such was the light in which Clary viewed the circumstances around her
at the present moment.
The evening did not pass very pleasantly. Ralph was introduced to the
cousin, and asked some questions about the West Indies. Then there
was tea. Ralph was dressed, with a black coat and white cravat, and
Clary could not keep herself from thinking how very much nicer he was
with a pipe in his mouth, and his neck bare, drinking soda-water and
sherry out on the lawn. Ah,--in spite of all that had then happened,
that was the sweetest moment in her existence, when he jumped up from
the ground and told her that he might do a great deal better than
marry the West Indian cousin. She thought now of his very words, and
suggested to herself that perhaps he would never say them again.
Nay;--might it not be possible that he would say the very reverse,
that he would declare his wish to marry the West Indian cousin. Clary
could not conceive but that he might have her should he so wish.
Young ladies, when they are in love, are prone to regard their lovers
as being prizes so valuable as to be coveted by all female comers.
Before Ralph had taken his leave Sir Thomas took Mary apart to make
some communication to her as to her own affairs. Everything was now
settled, and Sir Thomas had purchased stock for her with her little
fortune. "You have £20 2_s._ 4_d._ a year, quite your own," he said,
laughing;--as he might have done to one of his own girls, had an
unexpected legacy been left to her.
"That means that I must be altogether dependent on your charity," she
said, looking into his face through her tears.
"It means nothing of the kind," he said, with almost the impetuosity
of anger. "There shall be no such cold word as charity between you
and me. You are one of us now, and of my cup and of my loaf it is
your right to partake, as it is the right of those girls there. I
shall never think of it, or speak of it again."
"But I must think of it, uncle."
"The less the better;--but never use that odious word again between
you and me. It is a word for strangers. What is given as I give to
you should be taken without even an acknowledgment. My payment is to
be your love."
"You shall be paid in full," she said as she kissed him. This was
all very well, but still on his part there was some misgiving,--some
misgiving, though no doubt. If he were to die what would become of
her? He must make a new will,--which in itself was to him a terrible
trouble; and he must take something from his own girls in order that
he might provide for this new daughter. That question of adopting is
very difficult. If a man have no children of his own,--none others
that are dependent on him,--he can give all, and there is an end
of his trouble. But a man feels that he owes his property to his
children; and, so feeling, may he take it from them and give it to
others? Had she been in truth his daughter, he would have felt that
there was enough for three; but she was not his daughter, and yet he
was telling her that she should be to him the same as a child of his
house!
In the meantime Ralph was out on the lawn with the two sisters, and
was as awkward as men always are in such circumstances. When he spoke
those words to Clarissa he had in truth no settled purpose in his
mind. He had always liked her,--loved her after a fashion,--felt
for her an affection different to that which he entertained for her
sister. Nevertheless, most assuredly he had not come down to Fulham
on that evening prepared to make her an offer. He had been there by
chance, and it had been quite by chance that he found Clarissa alone.
He knew that the words had been spoken, and he knew also that he
had drawn down her wrath upon his head by his caress. He was man
enough also to feel that he had no right to believe himself to have
been forgiven, because now, in the presence of others, she did not
receive him with a special coldness which would have demanded special
explanation. As it was, the three were all cold. Patience half felt
inclined to go and leave them together. She would have given a finger
off her hand to make Clary happy;--but would it be right to make
Clary happy in such fashion as this? She had thought at first when
she saw her father and Ralph together, that Ralph had spoken of his
love to Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had allowed him to come; but
she soon perceived that this was not the case: and so they walked
about together, each knowing that their intercourse was not as it
always had been, and each feeling powerless to resume an appearance
of composure.
"I have got to go and be at Lady McMarshal's," he said, after having
suffered in this way for a quarter of an hour. "If I did not show
myself there her ladyship would think that I had given over all ideas
of propriety, and that I was a lost sheep past redemption."
"Don't let us keep you if you ought to go," said Clary, with dismal
propriety.
"I think I'll be off. Good-bye, Patience. The new cousin is radiant
in beauty. No one can doubt that. But I don't know whether she is
exactly the sort of girl I admire most. By-the-bye, what do you mean
to do with her?"
"Do with her?" said Patience. "She will live here, of course."
"Just settle down as one of the family? Then, no doubt, I shall see
her again. Good-night, Patience. Good-bye, Clary. I'll just step in
and make my adieux to Sir Thomas and the beauty." This he did;--but
as he went he pressed Clary's hand in a manner that she could but
understand. She did not return the pressure, but she did not resent
it.
"Clarissa," said Patience, when they were together that night, "dear
Clarissa!"
Clary knew that when she was called Clarissa by her sister something
special was meant. "What is it?" she asked. "What are you going to
say now?"
"You know that I am thinking only of your happiness. My darling, he
doesn't mean it."
"How do you know? What right have you to say so? Why am I to be
thought such a fool as not to know what I ought to do?"
"Nobody thinks that you are a fool, Clary. I know how clever you
are,--and how good. But I cannot bear that you should be unhappy.
If he had meant it, he would have spoken to papa. If you will only
tell me that you are not thinking of him, that he is not making you
unhappy, I will not say a word further."
"I am thinking of him, and he is making me unhappy," said Clarissa,
bursting into tears. "But I don't know why you should say that he is
a liar, and dishonest, and everything that is bad."
"I have neither said that, nor thought it, Clary."
"That is what you mean. He did say that he loved me."
"And you,--you did not answer him?"
"No;--I said nothing. I can't explain it, and I don't want to explain
it. I did not say a word to him. You came; and then he went away. If
I am to be unhappy, I can't help it. He did say that he loved me, and
I do love him."
"Will you tell papa?"
"No;--I will not. It would be out of the question. He would go to
Ralph, and there would be a row, and I would not have it for worlds."
Then she tried to smile. "Other girls are unhappy, and I don't see
why I'm to be better off than the rest. I know I am a fool. You'll
never be unhappy, because you are not a fool. But, Patience, I have
told you everything, and if you are not true to me I will never
forgive you." Patience promised that she would be true; and then they
embraced and were friends.