ONCE MORE.
At the end of February Ralph declared his purpose of returning to the
Moonbeam, for the rest of the hunting season. "I'm not going to be
such an ass," he said to his brother, "as to keep two sets of horses
going. I bought my uncle's because it seemed to suit just at the
time; and there are the others at Horsball's, because I've not had
time to settle down yet. I'll go over for March, and take a couple
with me; and, at the end of it, I'll get rid of those I don't like.
Then that'll be the end of the Moonbeam, as far as I am concerned."
So he prepared to start, and on the evening before he went his
brother declared that he would go as far as London with him. "That's
all right," said Ralph, "but what's taking you up now?" The parson
said that he wanted to get a few things, and to have his hair cut. He
shouldn't stay above one night. Ralph asked no more questions, and
the two brothers went up to London together.
We fear that Patience Underwood may not have been in all respects a
discreet preserver of her sister's secrets. But then there is nothing
more difficult of attainment than discretion in the preservation
of such mysteries. To keep a friend's secret well the keeper of it
should be firmly resolved to act upon it in no way,--not even for the
advantage of the owner of it. If it be confided to you as a secret
that your friend is about to make his maiden speech in the House, you
should not even invite your acquaintances to be in their places,--not
if secrecy be the first object. In all things the knowledge should be
to you as though you had it not. Great love is hardly capable of such
secrecy as this. In the fulness of her love Patience had allowed her
father to learn the secret of poor Clary's heart; and in the fulness
of her love she had endeavoured to make things smooth at Newton.
She had not told the young clergyman that Clarissa had given to his
brother that which she could not give to him; but, meaning to do a
morsel of service to both of them, if that might be possible, she had
said a word or two, with what effect the reader will have seen from
the conversation given in the last chapter.
"She'll come to the parsonage yet," Ralph had said; and Gregory in
one word had implied his assured conviction that any such coming was
a thing not to be hoped for,--an event not even to be regarded as
possible. Nevertheless, he made up his mind that he would go up to
London,--to have his hair cut. In so making up his mind he did not
for a moment believe that it could be of any use to him. He was not
quite sure that when in London he would go to Popham Villa. He was
quite sure that if he did go to Popham Villa he would make no further
offer to Clarissa. He knew that his journey was foolish, simply
the result of an uneasy, restless spirit,--that it would be better
for him to remain in his parish and move about among the old women
and bed-ridden men; but still he went. He would dine at his club,
he said, and perhaps he might go down to Fulham on the following
morning. And so the brothers parted. Ralph, as a man of property,
with many weighty matters on hand, had, of course, much to do.
He desired to inspect some agricultural implements, and a new
carriage,--he had ever so many things to say to Carey, the lawyer,
and wanted to order new harnesses for the horses. So he went to his
club, and played whist all the afternoon.
Gregory, as soon as he had secured a bed at a quiet inn, walked off
to Southampton Buildings. From the direct manner in which this was
done, it might have been argued that he had come up to London with
the purpose of seeing Sir Thomas; but it was not so. He turned his
steps towards the place where Clary's father was generally to be
found, because he knew not what else to do. As he went he told
himself that he might as well leave it alone;--but still he went.
Stemm at once told him, with a candour that was almost marvellous,
that Sir Thomas was out of town. The hearing of the petition was
going on at Percycross, and Sir Thomas was there, as a matter of
course. Stemm seemed to think it rather odd that an educated man,
such as was the Rev. Gregory Newton, should have been unaware that
the petition against the late election at Percycross was being
carried on at this moment. "We've got Serjeant Burnaby, and little
Mr. Joram down, to make a fight of it," said Mr. Stemm; "but, as
far as I can learn, they might just as well have remained up in town.
It's only sending good money after bad." The young parson hardly
expressed that interest in the matter which Stemm had expected, but
turned away, thinking whether he had not better have his hair cut at
once, and then go home.
But he did go to Popham Villa on the same afternoon, and,--such was
his fortune,--he found Clarissa alone. Since her father had seen her
in bed, and spoken to her of what he had called the folly of her
love, she had not again given herself up to the life of a sick-room.
She dressed herself and came down to breakfast of a morning, and then
would sit with a needle in her hand till she took her book, and then
with a book till she took her needle. She tried to work, and tried to
read, and perhaps she did accomplish a little of each. And then, when
Patience would tell her that exercise was necessary, she would put
on her hat and creep out among the paths. She did make some kind of
effort to get over the evil that had come upon her; but still no
one could watch her and not know that she was a wounded deer. "Miss
Clarissa is at home," said the servant, who well knew that the young
clergyman was one of the rejected suitors. There had been hardly a
secret in the house in reference to Gregory Newton's love. The two
other young ladies, the girl said, had gone to London, but would be
home to dinner. Then, with a beating heart, Gregory was ushered into
the drawing-room. Clarissa was sitting near the window, with a novel
in her lap, having placed herself there with the view of getting what
was left of the light of the early spring evening; but she had not
read a word for the last quarter of an hour. She was thinking of
that word scoundrel, with which her father had spoken of the man she
loved. Could it be that he was in truth so bad as that? And, if it
were true, would she not take him, scoundrel as he was, if he would
come to her? He might be a--scoundrel in that one thing, on that one
occasion, and yet be good to her. He might repent his scoundrelism,
and she certainly would forgive it. Of one thing she was quite
sure;--he had not looked like a scoundrel when he had given her that
assurance on the lawn! And so she thought of young men in general.
It was very easy to call a young man a scoundrel, and yet to forgive
him all his iniquities when it suited to do so. Young men might get
in debt, and gamble, and make love wherever they pleased, and all at
once,--and yet be forgiven. All these things were very bad. It might
be just to call a man a scoundrel because he could not pay his debts,
or because he made bets about horses. Young men did a great many
things which would be horrid indeed were a girl to do them. Then one
papa would call such a man a scoundrel, because he was not wanted
to come to the house; while another papa would make him welcome,
and give him the best of everything. Ralph Newton might be a
scoundrel; but if so,--as Clarissa thought,--there were a great
many good-looking scoundrels about in the world, as to whom their
scoundrelism did very little to injure them in the esteem of all
their friends. It was thus that Clarissa was thinking over her own
affairs when Gregory Newton was shown into the room.
The greeting on both sides was at first formal and almost cold. Clary
had given a little start of surprise, and had then subsided into a
most demure mode of answering questions. Yes; papa was at Percycross.
She did not know when he was expected back. Mary and Patience were in
London. Yes;--she was at home all alone. No; she had not seen Ralph
since his uncle's death. The question which elicited this answer had
been asked without any design, and Clary endeavoured to make her
reply without emotion. If she displayed any, Gregory, who had his own
affairs upon his mind, did not see it. No;--they had not seen the
other Mr. Newton as he passed through town. They had all understood
that he had been very much disturbed by his father's horrible
accident and death. Then Gregory paused in his questions, and
Clarissa expressed a hope that there might be no more hunting in the
world.
It was very hard work, this conversation, and Gregory was beginning
to think that he had done no good by coming, when on a sudden he
struck a chord from whence came a sound of music. "Ralph and I have
been living together at the Priory," he said.
"Oh;--indeed; yes;--I think I heard Patience say that you were at the
Priory."
"I suppose I shall not be telling any secret to you in talking about
him and your cousin Mary?"
Clarissa felt that she was blushing up to her brow, but she made a
great effort to compose herself. "Oh, no," she said, "we all know of
it."
"I hope he may be successful," said Gregory.
"I do not know. I cannot tell."
"I never knew a man more thoroughly in love than he is."
"I don't believe it," said Clarissa.
"Not believe it! Indeed you may, Clary. I have never seen her, but
from what he says of her I suppose her to be most beautiful."
"She is,--very beautiful." This was said with a strong emphasis.
"And why should you not believe it?"
"It will not be of the slightest use, Mr. Newton; and you may tell
him so. Though I suppose it is impossible to make a man believe
that."
"Are we both so unfortunate?" he asked.
The poor girl with her wounded love, and every feeling sore within
her, had not intended to say anything that should be cruel or
injurious to Gregory himself, and it was not till the words were
out of her mouth that she herself perceived their effect. "Oh, Mr.
Newton, I was only thinking of him," she said, innocently. "I only
meant that Ralph is one of those who always think they are to have
everything they want."
"I am not one of those, Clarissa. And yet I am one who seem never to
be tired of asking for that which is not to be given to me. I said to
myself when last I went from here that I would never ask again;--that
I would never trouble you any more." She was sitting with the book in
her hand, looking out into the gloom, and now she made no attempt to
answer him. "And yet you see here I am," he continued. She was still
silent, and her head was still turned away from him; but he could see
that tears were streaming down her cheeks. "I have not the power not
to come to you while yet there is a chance," he said. "I can live and
work without you, but I can have no life of my own. When I first saw
you I made a picture to myself of what my life might be, and I cannot
get that moved from before my eyes. I am sorry, however, that my
coming should make you weep."
"Oh, Mr. Newton, I am so wretched!" she said, turning round sharply
upon him. For a moment she had thought that she would tell him
everything, and then she checked herself, and remembered how
ill-placed such a confidence would be.
"What should make you wretched, dearest?"
"I do not know. I cannot tell. I sometimes think the world is bad
altogether, and that I had better die. People are so cruel and so
hard, and things are so wrong. But you may tell your brother that
he need not think of my cousin, Mary. Nothing ever would move her.
H--sh--. Here they are. Do not say that I was crying."
He was introduced to the beauty, and as the lights came, Clarissa
escaped. Yes;--she was indeed most lovely; but as he looked on her,
Gregory felt that he agreed with Clarissa that nothing on earth would
move her. He remained there for another half-hour; but Clarissa did
not return, and then he went back to London.