GUS EARDHAM.
Whether Mr. Neefit broke Ralph Newton's little statuette,--a
miniature copy in porcelain of the Apollo Belvidere, which stood in a
corner of Ralph's room, and in the possession of which he took some
pride,--from awkwardness in his wrath or of malice prepense, was
never known. He told the servant that he had whisked it down with
his coat tails; but Ralph always thought that the breeches-maker had
intended to make a general ruin, but had been cowed by the noise of
his first attack. He did, at any rate, abstain from breaking other
things, and when the servant entered the room, condescended to make
some careless apology. "A trifle like that ain't nothing between me
and your master, Jack," said Mr. Neefit, after accounting for the
accident by his coat-tails.
"I am not Jack," said the indignant valet, with a strong foreign
accent. "I am named--Adolphe."
"Adolphe, are you? I don't think much of Adolphe for a name;--but it
ain't no difference to me. Just pick up them bits; will you?"
The man turned a look of scorn on Mr. Neefit, and did pick up the
bits. He intended to obey his master as far as might be possible,
but was very unwilling to wait upon the breeches-maker. He felt that
the order which had been given to him was very cruel. It was his
duty,--and his pleasure to wait upon gentlemen; but this man he
knew to be a tradesman who measured customers for hunting apparel
in his own shop. It was hard upon him that his master should go
and leave him to be insulted, ordered about, and trodden upon by
a breeches-maker. "Get me a bit of steak, will you?" demanded
Neefit;--"a bit of the rump, not too much done, with the gravy in
it,--and an onion. What are you staring at? Didn't you hear what your
master said to you?"
"Onion,--and romp-steak!"
"Yes; rump-steak and onion. I ain't going out of this till I've had a
bit of grub. Your master knows all about it. I'm going to have more
nor that out of him before I've done with him."
Neefit did at last succeed, and had his rump-steak and onion,
together with more brandy and soda-water, eating and drinking as he
sat in Ralph's beautiful new easy chair,--not very much to his own
comfort. A steak at the Prince's Feathers in Conduit Street would
have been very much more pleasant to him, and he would have preferred
half-and-half in the pewter to brandy and soda-water;--but he felt a
pride in using his power in a fashion that would be disgraceful to
his host. When he had done his steak he pulled his pipe out of his
pocket, and smoked. Against this Adolphe remonstrated stoutly, but
quite in vain. "The Captain won't mind a little baccy-smoke out of my
pipe," he said. "He always has his smoke comfortable when he comes
down to me." At last, about four o'clock, he did go away, assuring
Adolphe that he would repeat his visit very soon. "I means to see
a deal of the Captain this season," he said. At last, however, he
retreated, and Adolphe opened the door of the house for him without
speaking a word. "Bye, bye," said Neefit. "I'll be here again before
long."
Ralph on that afternoon came home to dress for dinner at about seven,
in great fear lest Neefit should still be found in his rooms. "No,
saar; he go away at last!" said Adolphe, with a melancholy shake of
his head.
"Has he done much harm?"
"The Apollo gone!--and he had romp-steak,--and onions,--and a pipe.
Vat vas I to do? I hope he vill never come again." And so also did
Mr. Newton hope that Neefit would never come again.
He was going to dine with Lady Eardham, the wife of a Berkshire
baronet, who had three fair daughters. At this period of his life he
found the aristocracy of Berkshire and Hampshire to be very civil to
him; and, indeed, the world at large was disposed to smile on him.
But there was very much in his lot to make him unhappy. He had on
that morning been utterly rejected by Clarissa Underwood. It may,
perhaps, be true that he was not a man to break his heart because a
girl rejected him. He was certainly one who could have sung the old
song, "If she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be." And
yet Clarissa's conduct had distressed him, and had caused him to go
about throughout the whole afternoon with his heart almost in his
boots. He had felt her coldness to him much more severely than he had
that of Mary Bonner. He had taught himself to look upon that little
episode with Mary as though it had really meant nothing. She had just
crossed the sky of his heaven like a meteor, and for a moment had
disturbed its serenity. And Polly also had been to him a false light,
leading him astray for awhile under exceptional, and, as he thought,
quite pardonable circumstances. But dear little Clary had been his
own peculiar star,--a star that was bound to have been true to him,
even though he might have erred for a moment in his worship,--a
star with a sweet, soft, enduring light, that he had always assured
himself he might call his own when he pleased. And now this soft,
sweet star had turned upon him and scorched him. "When I get home,"
she had said to him, "I shall find that you have already made an
offer to Patience!" He certainly had not expected such scorn from
her. And then he was so sure in his heart that if she would have
accepted him, he would have been henceforth so true to her, so good
to her! He would have had such magnanimous pleasure in showering upon
her pretty little head all the good things at his disposal, that,
for her own sake, the pity was great. When he had been five minutes
in his cab, bowling back towards his club, he was almost minded to
return and give her one more chance. She would just have suited him.
And as for her,--would it not be a heaven on earth for her if she
would only consent to forget that foolish, unmeaning little episode.
Could Clary have forgotten the episode, and been content to care
little or nothing for that easiness of feeling which made our Ralph
what he was, she might, probably, have been happy as the mistress of
the Priory. But she would not have forgotten, and would not have been
content. She had made up her little heart stoutly that Ralph the heir
should sit in it no longer, and it was well for him that he did not
go back.
He went to his club instead,--not daring to go to his rooms. The
insanity of Neefit was becoming to him a terrible bane. It was, too,
a cruelty which he certainly had done nothing to deserve. He could
lay his hand on his heart and assure himself that he had treated that
mad, pig-headed tradesman well in all respects. He knew himself to
be the last man to make a promise, and then to break it wilfully. He
had certainly borrowed money of Neefit;--and at the probable cost
of all his future happiness he had, with a nobleness which he could
not himself sufficiently admire, done his very best to keep the
hard terms which in his distress he had allowed to be imposed upon
himself. He had been loyal, even to the breeches-maker;--and this was
the return which was made to him!
What was he to do, should Neefit cling to his threat and remain
permanently at his chambers? There were the police, and no doubt
he could rid himself of his persecutor. But he understood well the
barbarous power which some underbred, well-trained barrister would
have of asking him questions which it would be so very disagreeable
for him to answer! He lacked the courage to send for the police.
Jacky Joram had just distinguished himself greatly, and nearly
exterminated a young gentleman who had married one girl while he was
engaged to another. Jacky Joram might ask him questions as to his
little dinners at Alexandra Lodge, which it would nearly kill him
to answer. He was very unhappy, and began to think that it might
be as well that he should travel for twelve months. Neefit could
not persecute him up the Nile, or among the Rocky Mountains. And
perhaps Clary's ferocity would have left her were he to return after
twelve months of glorious journeyings, still constant to his first
affections. In the meantime he did not dare to go home till it would
be absolutely necessary that he should dress for dinner.
In the billiard-room of his club he found Lord Polperrow,--the eldest
son of the Marquis of Megavissey,--pretty Poll, as he was called by
many young men, and by some young ladies, about town. Lord Polperrow
had become his fast friend since the day on which his heirship was
established, and now encountered him with friendly intimacy. "Halloa,
Newton," said the young lord, "have you seen old Neefit lately?"
There were eight or ten men in the room, and suddenly there was
silence among the cues.
Ralph would have given his best horse to be able to laugh it off, but
he found that he could not laugh. He became very hot, and knew that
he was red in the face. "What about old Neefit?" he said.
"I've just come from Conduit Street, and he says that he has been
dining with you. He swears that you are to marry his daughter."
"He be d----!" said Newton. It was a poor way of getting out of the
scrape, and so Ralph felt.
"But what's the meaning of it all? He's telling everybody about
London that you went down to stay with him at Margate."
"Neefit has gone mad lately," said Captain Fooks, with a good-natured
determination to stand by his friend in misfortune.
"But how about the girl, Newton?" asked his lordship.
"You may have her yourself, Poll,--if she don't prefer a young
shoemaker, to whom I believe she's engaged. She's very pretty, and
has got a lot of money--which will suit you to a T." He tried to put
a good face on it; but, nevertheless, he was very hot and red in the
face.
"I'd put a stop to this if I were you," said another friend,
confidentially and in a whisper. "He's not only telling everybody,
but writing letters about it."
"Oh, I know," said Ralph. "How can I help what a madman does? It's a
bore of course." Then he sauntered out again, feeling sure that his
transactions with Mr. Neefit would form the subject of conversation
in the club billiard-room for the next hour and a half. It would
certainly become expedient that he should travel abroad.
He felt it to be quite a relief when he found that Mr. Neefit was not
waiting for him at his chambers. "Adolphe," he said as soon as he was
dressed, "that man must never be allowed to put his foot inside the
door again."
"Ah;--the Apollo gone! And he did it express!"
"I don't mind the figure;--but he must never be allowed to enter the
place again. I shall not stay up long, but while we are here you must
not leave the place till six. He won't come in the evening." Then he
put a sovereign into the man's hand, and went out to dine at Lady
Eardham's.
Lady Eardham had three fair daughters, with pretty necks, and
flaxen hair, and blue eyes, and pug noses, all wonderfully alike.
They ranged from twenty-seven to twenty-one, there being sons
between,--and it began to be desirable that they should be married.
Since Ralph had been in town the Eardham mansion in Cavendish Square
had been opened to him with almost maternal kindness. He had accepted
the kindness; but being fully alive to the purposes of matronly
intrigue, had had his little jokes in reference to the young ladies.
He liked young ladies generally, but was well aware that a young man
is not obliged to offer his hand and heart to every girl that is
civil to him. He and the Eardham girls had been exceedingly intimate,
but he had had no idea whatever of sharing Newton Priory with an
Eardham. Now, however, in his misery he was glad to go to a house in
which he would be received with an assured welcome.
Everybody smiled upon him. Sir George in these days was very cordial,
greeting him with that genial esoteric warmth which is always felt by
one English country gentleman with a large estate for another equally
blessed. Six months ago, when it was believed that Ralph had sold
his inheritance to his uncle, Sir George when he met the young man
addressed him in a very different fashion. As he entered the room he
felt the warmth of the welcoming. The girls, one and all, had ever so
many things to say to him. They all hunted, and they all wanted him
to look at horses for them. Lady Eardham was more matronly than ever,
and at the same time was a little fussy. She would not leave him
among the girls, and at last succeeded in getting him off into a
corner of the back drawing-room. "Now, Mr. Newton," she said, "I am
going to show you that I put the greatest confidence in you."
"So you may," said Ralph, wondering whether one of the girls was to
be offered to him, out of hand. At the present moment he was so low
in spirits that he would probably have taken either.
"I have had a letter," said Lady Eardham, whispering the words into
his ear;--and then she paused. "Such a strange letter, and very
abominable. I've shown it to no one,--not even to Sir George. I
wouldn't let one of the girls see it for ever so much." Then there
was another pause. "I don't believe a word of it, Mr. Newton; but I
think it right to show it to you,--because it's about you."
"About me?" said Ralph, with his mind fixed at once upon Mr. Neefit.
"Yes, indeed;--and when I tell you it refers to my girls too, you
will see how strong is my confidence in you. If either had been
specially named, of course I could not have shown it." Then she
handed him the letter, which poor Ralph read, as follows:--
MY LADY,--I'm told as Mr. Ralph Newton, of Newton Priory,
is sweet upon one of your ladyship's daughters. I think
it my duty to tell your ladyship he's engaged to marry my
girl, Maryanne Neefit.
Yours most respectful,
THOMAS NEEFIT,
Breeches-Maker, Conduit Street.
"It's a lie," said Ralph.
"I'm sure it's a lie," said Lady Eardham, "only I thought it right to
show it you."
Ralph took Gus Eardham down to dinner, and did his very best to make
himself agreeable. Gus was the middle one of the three, and was
certainly a fine girl. The Eardham girls would have no money; but
Ralph was not a greedy man,--except when he was in great need. It
must not be supposed, however, that on this occasion he made up his
mind to marry Gus Eardham. But, as on previous occasions, he had been
able to hold all the Eardhams in a kind of subjection to himself,
feeling himself to be bigger than they,--as hitherto he had been
conscious that he was bestowing and they receiving,--so now, in his
present misfortune, did he recognise that Gus was a little bigger
than himself, and that it was for her to give and for him to take.
And Gus was able to talk to him as though she also entertained the
same conviction. Gus was very kind to him, and he felt grateful to
her.
Lady Eardham saw Gus alone in her bedroom that night. "I believe he's
a very good young man," said Lady Eardham, "if he's managed rightly.
And as for all this about the horrid man's daughter, it don't matter
at all. He'd live it down in a month if he were married."
"I don't think anything about that, mamma. I dare say he's had his
fun,--just like other men."
"Only, my dear, he's one of that sort that have to be fixed."
"It's so hard to fix them, mamma."
"It needn't be hard to fix him,--that is, if you'll only be steady.
He's not sharp and hard and callous, like some of them. He doesn't
mean any harm, and if he once speaks out, he isn't one that can't be
kept to time. His manners are nice. I don't think the property is
involved; but I'll find out from papa; and he's just the man to think
his wife the pink of perfection." Lady Eardham had read our hero's
character not inaccurately.