ANOTHER FAILURE.
The day after the meeting at the Academy, as Ralph, the young Squire,
was sitting alone in his room over a late breakfast, a maid-servant
belonging to the house opened the door and introduced Mr. Neefit.
It was now the middle of May, and Ralph had seen nothing of the
breeches-maker since the morning on which he had made his appearance
in the yard of the Moonbeam. There had been messages, and Mr. Carey
had been very busy endeavouring to persuade the father that he
could benefit neither himself nor his daughter by persistence in so
extravagant a scheme. Money had been offered to Mr. Neefit,--most
unfortunately, and this offer had added to his wrongs. And he had
been told by his wife that Polly had at last decided in regard to her
own affections, and had accepted her old lover, Mr. Moggs. He had
raved at Polly to her face. He had sworn at Moggs behind his back. He
had called Mr. Carey very hard names;--and now he forced himself once
more upon the presence of the young Squire. "Captain," he said, as
soon as he had carefully closed the door behind him, "are you going
to be upon the square?" Newton had given special orders that Neefit
should not be admitted to his presence; but here he was, having made
his way into the chamber in the temporary absence of the Squire's own
servant.
"Mr. Neefit," said Newton, "I cannot allow this."
"Not allow it, Captain?"
"No;--I cannot. I will not be persecuted. I have received favours
from you--"
"Yes, you have, Captain."
"And I will do anything in reason to repay them."
"Will you come out and see our Polly?"
"No, I won't."
"You won't?"
"Certainly not. I don't believe your daughter wants to see me. She
is engaged to another man." So much Mr. Carey had learned from Mrs.
Neefit. "I have a great regard for your daughter, but I will not go
to see her."
"Engaged to another man;--is she?"
"I am told so."
"Oh;--that's your little game, is it? And you won't see me when I
call,--won't you? I won't stir out of this room unless you sends
for the police, and so we'll get it all into one of the courts of
law. I shall just like to see how you'll look when you're being
cross-hackled by one of them learned gents. There'll be a question or
two about the old breeches-maker as the Squire of Newton mayn't like
to see in the papers the next morning. I shall take the liberty of
ringing the bell and ordering a bit of dinner here, if you don't
mind. I shan't go when the police comes without a deal of row, and
then we shall have it all out in the courts."
This was monstrously absurd, but at the same time very annoying.
Even though he should disregard that threat of being "cross-hackled
by a learned gent," and of being afterwards made notorious in the
newspapers,--which it must be confessed he did not find himself able
to disregard,--still, independently of that feeling, he was very
unwilling to call for brute force to remove Mr. Neefit from the
arm-chair in which that worthy tradesman had seated himself. He
had treated the man otherwise than as a tradesman. He had borrowed
the man's money, and eaten the man's dinners; visited the man at
Ramsgate, and twice offered his hand to the man's daughter. "You are
very welcome to dine here," he said, "only I am sorry that I cannot
dine here with you."
"I won't stir from the place for a week."
"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 glass 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 passed 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 incumbent 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 assistance 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 passion 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."
"Well, my dear?"
"He is an empty, vain, inconstant man."
"Is he, Clarissa?"
"And yet he is so good-humoured, and so gay, and so pleasant, that I
do not see why he should not make a very good husband to some girl."
"What do you mean, Clarissa? You have not refused him?"
"I did not say he had offered;--did I?"
"But he has?"
"If he did,--then I refused him. He is good-natured; but he has no
more heart than a log of wood. Don't talk about it any more, dear
Mrs. Brownlow. I dare say we shall all be friends again before long,
and he'll almost forget everything that he said this morning."
Throughout the afternoon she was gay and almost happy, and before she
went home she had made up her mind that she would tell Patience, and
then get rid of it from her thoughts for ever. Not to tell Patience
would be a breach of faith between them, and would moreover render
future sisterly intercourse between them very difficult. But had
it been possible she would have avoided the expression of triumph
without which it would be almost impossible for her to tell the
story. Within her own bosom certainly there was some triumph. The man
for whose love she had sighed and been sick had surrendered to her at
last. The prize had been at her feet, but she had not chosen to lift
it. "Poor Ralph," she said to herself; "he means to do as well as he
can, but he is so feeble." She certainly would not tell Mary Bonner,
nor would she say a word to her father. And when she should meet
Ralph again,--as she did not doubt but that she would meet him
shortly, she would be very careful to give no sign that she was
thinking of his disgrace. He should still be called Ralph,--till
he was a married man; and when it should come to pass that he was
about to marry she would congratulate him with all the warmth of old
friendship.
That night she did tell it all to Patience. "You don't mean," she
said, "that I have not done right?"
"I am sure you have done quite right."
"Then why are you so sober about it, Patty?"
"Only if you do love him--! I would give my right hand, Clary, that
you might have that which shall make you happy in life."
"If you were to give your right and left hand too, a marriage with
Ralph Newton would not make me happy. Think of it, Patty;--to both
of us within two months! He is just like a child. How could I ever
have respected him, or believed in him? I could never have respected
myself again. No, Patty, I did love him dearly. I fancied that life
without him must all be a dreary blank. I made him into a god;--but
his feet are of the poorest clay! Kiss me, dear, and congratulate
me;--because I have escaped."
Her sister did kiss her and did congratulate her;--but still there
was a something of regret in the sister's heart. Clarissa was, to her
thinking, so fit to be the mistress of Newton Priory.