"I'LL BE A HYPOCRITE IF YOU CHOOSE."
There could hardly be a more unhappy man than was the Squire on his
journey home. He had buoyed himself up with hope till he had felt
certain that he would return to Newton Priory its real and permanent
owner, no longer a lodger in the place, as he had called himself to
the lawyer, but able to look upon every tree as his own, with power
to cut down every oak upon the property; though, as he knew very
well, he would rather spill blood from his veins than cut down one of
them. But in that case he would preserve the oaks,--preserve them by
his own decision,--because they were his own, and because he could
give them to his own son. His son should cut them down if he pleased.
And then the power of putting up would be quite as sweet to him as
the power of pulling down. What pleasure would he have in making
every deficient house upon the estate efficient, when he knew that
the stones as he laid them would not become the property of his
enemy. He was a man who had never spent his full income. The property
had been in his hands now for some fifteen years, and he had already
amassed a considerable sum of money,--a sum which would have
enabled him to buy out his nephew altogether, without selling an
acre,--presuming the price already fixed to have been sufficient. He
had determined to sell something, knowing that he could not do as he
would do with the remainder if his hands were empty. He had settled
it all in his mind;--how Ralph, his Ralph, must marry, and have a
separate income. There would be no doubt about his Ralph's marriage
when once it should be known that his Ralph was the heir to Newton.
The bar sinister would matter but little then;--would be clean
forgotten. His mind had been full of all this as he had come up
to London. It had all been settled. He had decided upon ignoring
altogether those cautions which his son and nephew and lawyer had
croaked into his ears. This legitimate heir was a ruined spendthrift,
who had no alternative but to raise money, no ambition but to spend
money, no pursuit but to waste money. His temperament was so sanguine
that when he entered Mr. Carey's office he had hardly doubted. Now
everything had been upset, and he was cast down from triumph into an
abyss of despondency by two lines from this wretched, meaningless,
poor-spirited spendthrift! "I believe he'd take a pleasure in seeing
the property going to the dogs, merely to spite me," said the Squire
to his son, as soon as he reached home,--having probably forgotten
his former idea, that his nephew was determined, with the pertinacity
of a patient, far-sighted Jew money-lender, to wring from him the
last possible shilling.
Ralph, who was not the heir, was of his nature so just, that he could
not hear an accusation which he did not believe to be true, without
protesting against it. The Squire had called the heir a spiritless
spendthrift, and a malicious evil-doer, intent upon ruining the
estate, and a grasping Jew, all in the same breath.
"I think you are hard upon him, sir," said the son to the father.
"Of course you think so. At any rate you'll say so," said the Squire.
"One would suppose I was thinking only of myself to hear you talk."
"I know what you're thinking of," said Ralph slowly; "and I know how
much I owe you."
"I sometimes think that you ought to curse me," said the Squire.
After this, at this moment, with such words ringing in his ears,
Ralph found it to be impossible to expostulate with his father. He
could only take his father's arm, and whisper a soft feminine word or
two. He would be as happy as the day was long, if only he could see
his father happy.
"I can never be happy till I have placed you where you would have
been," said the Squire. "The gods are just, and our pleasant vices
make instruments to scourge us." He did not quote the line to
himself, but the purport of it hung heavy on him. And yet he thought
it hard that because he had money in his pocket he could not
altogether make himself free of the scourge.
On the following morning he was less vituperative and less
unreasonable, but he was still intent upon the subject. After
breakfast he got his son into his own room,--the room in which he did
his magistrate's work, and added up his accounts, and kept his spuds
and spurs,--and seriously discussed the whole matter. What would it
be wise that they should do next? "You don't mean to tell me that you
don't wish me to buy it?" said the Squire. No; Ralph would not say
that. If it were in the market, to be bought, and if the money were
forthcoming, of course such a purchase would be expedient. "The money
is forthcoming," said the Squire. "We can make it up one way or
another. What matter if we did sell Brownriggs? What matter if we
sold Brownriggs and Twining as well?" Ralph quite acceded to this.
As far as buying and selling were concerned he would have acceded
to anything that would have made his father happy. "I won't say a
word against this fellow, since you are so fond of him," continued
the Squire. Ralph, though his father paused, made no reply to the
intended sarcasm. "But you must allow that he had a reason for
writing such a letter as he did."
"Of course he had a reason," said Ralph.
"Well;--we'll say that he wants to keep it."
"That's not unnatural."
"Not at all. Everybody likes to keep what he's got, and to get as
much as he can. That's nature. But a man can't eat his cake and have
it. He has been slow to learn that, no doubt; but I suppose he has
learned it. He wouldn't have gone to Sir Thomas Underwood, in the
way he did, crying to be helped,--if he hadn't learned it. Remember,
Ralph, I didn't go to him first;--he came to me. You always forget
that. What was the meaning then of Sir Thomas writing to me in that
pitiful way,--asking me to do something for him;--and he who had I
don't know how much, something like £800 a year, I take it, the day
he came of age?"
"Of course he has been imprudent."
"He cannot eat his cake and have it. He wants to eat it, and I want
to have it. I am sure it may be managed. I suppose you mean to go up
and see him."
"See Ralph?"
"Why not? You are not afraid of him." The son smiled, but made
no answer. "You might find out from him what it is he really
wants;--what he will really do. Those attorneys don't understand.
Carey isn't a bad fellow, and as for honesty, I'd trust him with
anything. I've known him and his father all my life, and in any
ordinary piece of business there is no one whose opinion I would take
so soon. But he talks of my waiting, telling me that the thing will
come round after a few years,--as if what one wanted was merely an
investment for one's money. It isn't that."
"No, sir;--it isn't that."
"Not that at all. It's the feeling of the thing. Your lawyer may be
the best man in the world to lay out your money in a speculation, but
he doesn't dare to buy contentment for you. He doesn't see it, and
one hardly dares to try and make him see it. I'd give the half of
it all to have the other half, but I cannot tell him that. I'd give
one half so long as that fellow wasn't to be the owner of the other.
We'll have no opposition Newton in the place."
The Squire's son was of course willing enough to go up to London.
He would see the heir at any rate, and endeavour to learn what were
the wishes of the heir. "You may say what money you like," said the
Squire. "I hardly care what I pay, so long as it is possible to pay
it. Go up to £10,000 more, if that will do it."
"I don't think I can bargain," said the son.
"But he can," said the father. "At any rate you can find out whether
he will name a price. I'd go myself, but I know I should quarrel with
him."
Ralph prepared himself for the journey, and, as a matter of course,
took the parson into his confidence; not telling the parson anything
of the absolute sum named, but explaining that it was his purpose to
become acquainted with the heir, and if possible to learn his views.
"You'll find Ralph a very different fellow from what my uncle thinks
him," said the parson. "I shall be much mistaken if he does not tell
you quite openly what he intends. He is careless about money, but he
never was greedy." And then they got to other matters. "You will of
course see the girls at Fulham," said the parson.
"Yes;--I shall manage to get down there."
The story of Gregory's passion for Clarissa was well known to the
other. Gregory, who would not for worlds have spoken of such a matter
among his general acquaintance, who could not have brought himself to
mention it in the presence of two hearers, had told it all to the one
companion who was nearest and dearest to him,--"I wish I were going
with you," said the parson.
"Why not come with me then?"
"And yet I don't wish it. If I were in London I doubt whether I would
go there. There could be no use in it."
"It is one of those things," said Ralph, "in which a man should never
despair as long as there is a possibility."
"Ah, yes; people say so. I don't believe in that kind of perseverance
myself;--at any rate not with her. She knows her own mind,--as well
as I know mine. I think I promised her that I would trouble her no
more."
"Promises like that are mere pie-crusts," said Ralph.
"Give her my love;--that's all. And don't do that unless you're alone
with her. I shall live it down some day, no doubt, but to tell the
truth I have made up my mind not to marry. I'm half inclined to think
that a clergyman shouldn't marry. There are some things which our
ancestors understood pretty well, although we think they were such
fools. I should like to see the new cousin, certainly."
Ralph said nothing more about the new cousin; and was perhaps hardly
aware how greatly the idea of again seeing the new cousin had
enhanced the pleasure of his journey to London. About a week after
this he started, having devoted nearly all the afternoon before
he went to the packing of a large basket of ferns,--to each root
or small bundle of which was appended a long name in Latin,--as an
offering to Patience Underwood. And yet he did not care very much for
Patience Underwood.
It was just the end of September,--the last day of September, when
he reached London. Ralph the heir was out of town, and the servant
at his lodging professed she did not know where he was. She thought
it probable that he was "at Mr. 'Orsball's,--Mr. 'Orsball of the
Moonbeam, Barnfield,--a-looking after his 'orses." She suggested
this, not from any knowledge in her possession, but because Ralph was
always believed to go to the Moonbeam when he left town. He would,
however, be back next week. His namesake, therefore, did not consider
that it would be expedient for him to follow the heir down to the
Moonbeam.
But the Underwood girls would certainly be at Fulham, and he started
at once with his ferns for Popham Villa. He found them at home, and,
singular to say, he found Sir Thomas there also. On the very next
morning Sir Thomas was to start for Percycross, to commence the
actual work of his canvass. The canvass was to occupy a fortnight,
and on Monday the sixteenth the candidates were to be nominated.
Tuesday the seventeenth was the day of the election. The whole
household was so full of the subject that at first there was hardly
room for the ferns. "Oh, Mr. Newton, we are so much obliged to you.
Papa is going to stand for Percycross." That, or nearly that, was the
form in which the ferns were received. Newton was quite contented. An
excuse for entering the house was what he had wanted, and his excuse
was deemed ample. Sir Thomas, who was disposed to be very civil to
the stranger, had not much to say about his own prospects. To a
certain degree he was ashamed of Percycross, and had said very little
about it even to Stemm since his personal acquaintance had been made
with Messrs. Spiveycomb, Pile, and Pabsby. But the girls were not
ashamed of Percycross. To them as yet Percycross was the noblest of
all British boroughs. Had not the Conservatives of Percycross chosen
their father to be their representative out of all British subjects?
Sir Thomas had tried, but had tried quite in vain, to make them
understand the real fashion of the selection. If Percycross would
only send him to Parliament, Percycross should be divine. "What d'you
think?" said Clary; "there's a man of the name of--. I wish you'd
guess the name of this man who is going to stand against papa, Mr.
Newton."
"The name won't make much difference," said Sir Thomas.
"Ontario Moggs!" said Clary. "Do you think it possible, Mr. Newton,
that Percycross,--the town where one of the Percys set up a cross in
the time of the Crusaders,--didn't he, papa?--"
"I shall not consider myself bound to learn all that unless they
elect me," said Sir Thomas; "but I don't think there were Percys in
the days of the Crusaders."
"At any rate, the proper name is Percy St. Cross," said Clary. "Could
such a borough choose Ontario Moggs to be one of its members, Mr.
Newton?"
"I do like the name," said Mary Bonner.
"Perhaps papa and Ontario Moggs may be the two members," said Clary,
laughing. "If so, you must bring him down here, papa. Only he's a
shoemaker."
"That makes no difference in these days," said Sir Thomas.
The ferns were at last unpacked, and the three girls were profuse in
their thanks. Who does not know how large a space a basket of ferns
will cover when it is unpacked and how large the treasure looms.
"They'll cover the rocks on the other side," said Mary. It seemed to
Newton that Mary Bonner was more at home than she had been when he
had seen her before, spoke more freely of what concerned the house,
and was beginning to become one of the family. But still she was, as
it were, overshadowed by Clarissa. In appearance, indeed, she was the
queen among the three, but in active social life she did not compete
with Clary. Patience stood as a statue on a pedestal, by no means
unobserved and ignored; beautiful in form, but colourless. Newton, as
he looked at the three, wondered that a man so quiet and gentle as
the young parson should have chosen such a love as Clary Underwood.
He remained half the day at the villa, dining there at the invitation
of Sir Thomas. "My last dinner," said Sir Thomas, "unless I am lucky
enough to be rejected. Men when they are canvassing never dine;--and
not often after they're elected."
The guest had not much opportunity of ingratiating himself specially
with the beauty; but the beauty did so far ingratiate herself with
him,--unconsciously on her part,--that he half resolved that should
his father be successful in his present enterprise, he would ask Mary
Bonner to be the Queen of Newton Priory. His father had often urged
him to marry,--never suggesting that any other quality beyond good
looks would be required in his son's wife. He had never spoken of
money, or birth, or name. "I have an idea," he had said, laughing,
"that you'll marry a fright some day. I own I should like to have a
pretty woman about the house. One doesn't expect much from a woman,
but she is bound to be pretty." This woman was at any rate pretty.
Pretty, indeed! Was it possible that any woman should be framed more
lovely than this one? But he must bide his time. He would not ask any
girl to marry him till he should know what position he could ask her
to fill. But though he spoke little to Mary, he treated her as men do
treat women whom they desire to be allowed to love. There was a tone
in his voice, a worship in his eye, and a flush upon his face, and a
hesitation in his manner, which told the story, at any rate to one
of the party there. "He didn't come to bring you the ferns," said
Clarissa to Patience.
"He brought them for all of us," said Patience.
"Young men don't go about with ferns for the sake of the ferns," said
Clary. "They were merely an excuse to come and see Mary."
"Why shouldn't he come and see Mary?"
"He has my leave, Patty. I think it would be excellent. Isn't it odd
that there should be two Ralph Newtons. One would be Mrs. Newton and
the other Mrs. Ralph."
"Clarissa, Clarissa!" said Patience, almost in a tone of agony.
"I'll be a hypocrite if you choose, Patty," said Clarissa, "or I'll
be true. But you can't have me both at once." Patience said nothing
further then. The lesson of self-restraint which she desired to teach
was very hard of teaching.
There was just a word spoken between Sir Thomas and Newton about the
property. "I intend to see Ralph Newton, if I can find him," said
Ralph who was not the heir.
"I don't think he is far from town," said Sir Thomas.
"My father thinks that we might come to an understanding."
"Perhaps so," said Sir Thomas.
"I have no strong anxiety on the subject myself," said Newton; "but
my father thinks that if he does wish to sell his reversion--"
"He doesn't wish it. How can a man wish it?"
"Under the circumstances it may be desirable."
"You had better see him, and I think he will tell you," said Sir
Thomas. "You must understand that a man thinks much of such a
position. Pray come to us again. We shall always be glad to see you
when you are in town."