CLARISSA'S FATE.
In the following October, while Newton of Newton and his bride
were making themselves happy amidst the glories of Florence, she
with her finery from Paris, and he with a newly-acquired taste for
Michael Angelo and the fine arts generally, Gregory the parson again
went up to London. He had, of course, "assisted" at his brother's
marriage,--in which the heavy burden of the ceremony was imposed
on the shoulders of a venerable dean, who was related to Lady
Eardham,--and had since that time been all alone at his parsonage.
Occasionally he had heard of the Underwoods from Ralph Newton of
Beamingham, whose wedding had been postponed till Beamingham Hall had
been made fit for its mistress; and from what he had heard Gregory
was induced,--hardly to hope,--but to dream it to be possible
that even yet he might prevail in love. An idea had grown upon
him, springing from various sources, that Clarissa had not been
indifferent to his brother, and that this feeling on her part had
marred, and must continue to mar, his own happiness. He never
believed that there had been fault on his brother's part; but still,
if Clarissa had been so wounded,--he could hardly hope,--and perhaps
should not even wish,--that she would consent to share with him his
parsonage in the close neighbourhood of his brother's house. During
all that September he told himself that the thing should be over, and
he began to teach himself,--to try to teach himself,--that celibacy
was the state in which a clergyman might best live and do his duty.
But the lesson had not gone far with him before he shook himself, and
determined that he would try yet once again. If there had been such
a wound, why should not the wound be cured? Clarissa was at any rate
true. She would not falsely promise him a heart, when it was beyond
her power to give it. In October, therefore, he went again up to
London.
The cases for packing the books had not even yet been made, and Sir
Thomas was found in Southampton Buildings. The first words had, of
course, reference to the absent Squire. The squire of one's parish,
the head of one's family, and one's elder brother, when the three
are united in the same personage, will become important to one, even
though the personage himself be not heroic. Ralph had written home
twice, and everything was prospering with him. Sir Thomas, who had
become tired of his late ward, and who had thought worse of the
Eardham marriage than the thing deserved, was indifferent to the joys
of the Italian honeymoon. "They'll do very well, no doubt," said Sir
Thomas. "I was delighted to learn that Augusta bore her journey so
well," said Gregory. "Augustas always do bear their journeys well,"
said Sir Thomas; "though sometimes, I fancy, they find the days a
little too long."
But his tone was very different when Gregory asked his leave to make
one more attempt at Popham Villa. "I only hope you may succeed,--for
her sake, as well as for your own," said Sir Thomas. But when he was
asked as to the parson's chance of success, he declared that he could
say nothing. "She is changed, I think, from what she used to be,--is
more thoughtful, perhaps, and less giddy. It may be that such
change will turn her towards you." "I would not have her changed in
anything," said Gregory,--"except in her feelings towards myself."
He had been there twice or thrice before he found what he thought to
be an opportunity fit for the work that he had on hand. And yet both
Patience and Mary did for him and for her all that they knew how
to do. But in such a matter it is so hard to act without seeming
to act! She who can manoeuvre on such a field without displaying
her manoeuvres is indeed a general! No man need ever attempt the
execution of a task so delicate. Mary and Patience put their heads
together, and resolved that they would say nothing. Nor did they
manifestly take steps to leave the two alone together. It was a
question with them, especially with Patience, whether the lover had
not come too soon.
But Clarissa at last attacked her sister. "Patience," she said, "why
do you not speak to me?"
"Not speak to you, Clary?"
"Not a word,--about that which is always on my mind. You have not
mentioned Ralph Newton's name once since his marriage."
"I have thought it better not to mention it. Why should I mention
it?"
"If you think that it would pain me, you are mistaken. It pains me
more that you should think that I could not bear it. He was welcome
to his wife."
"I know you wish him well, Clary."
"Well! Oh, yes, I wish him well. No doubt he will be happy with her.
She is fit for him, and I was not. He did quite right."
"He is not half so good as his brother," said Patience.
"Certainly he is not so good as his brother. Men, of course, will be
different. But it is not always the best man that one likes the best.
It ought to be so, perhaps."
"I know which I like the best," said Patience. "Oh, Clary, if you
could but bring yourself to love him."
"How is one to change like that? And I do not know that he cares for
me now."
"Ah;--I think he cares for you."
"Why should he? Is a man to be sacrificed for always because a girl
will not take him? His heart is changed. He takes care to show me so
when he comes here. I am glad that it should be changed. Dear Patty,
if papa would but come and live at home, I should want nothing else."
"I want something else," said Patience.
"I want nothing but that you should love me;--and that papa should be
with us. But, Patty, do not make me feel that you are afraid to speak
to me."
On the day following Gregory was again at Fulham, and he had come
thither fully determined that he would now for the last time ask that
question, on the answer to which, as it now seemed to him, all his
future happiness must depend. He had told himself that he would shake
off this too human longing for a sweet face to be ever present with
him at his board, for a sweet heart to cherish him with its love, for
a dear head to lie upon his bosom. But he had owned to himself that
it could not be shaken off, and having so owned, was more sick than
ever with desire. Mary and Clarissa were both out when he arrived,
and he was closeted for a while with Patience. "How tired you must be
of seeing me," he said.
"Tired of seeing you? Oh no!"
"I feel myself to be going about like a phantom, and I am ashamed of
myself. My brother is successful and happy, and has all that he
desires."
"He is easily satisfied," said Patience, with something of sarcasm in
her voice.
"And my cousin Ralph is happy and triumphant. I ought not to pine,
but in truth I am so weak that I am always pining. Tell me at
once,--is there a chance for me?"
Did it occur to him to think that she to whom he was speaking, ever
asked herself why it was not given to her to have even a hope of that
joy for which he was craving? Did she ever pine because, when others
were mating round her, flying off in pairs to their warm mutual
nests, there came to her no such question of mating and flying off
to love and happiness? If there was such pining, it was all inward,
hidden from her friends so that their mirth should not be lessened by
her want of mirth, not expressed either by her eye or mouth because
she knew that on the expression of her face depended somewhat of the
comfort of those who loved her. A homely brow, and plain features,
and locks of hair that have not been combed by Love's attendant
nymphs into soft and winning tresses, seems to tell us that Love is
not wanted by the bosom that owns them. We teach ourselves to regard
such a one, let her be ever so good, with ever so sweet temper, ever
so generous in heart, ever so affectionate among her friends, as
separated alike from the perils and the privileges of that passion
without which they who are blessed or banned with beauty would regard
life but as a charred and mutilated existence. It is as though we
should believe that passion springs from the rind, which is fair
or foul to the eye, and not in the heart, which is often fairest,
freshest, and most free, when the skin is dark and the cheeks are
rough. This young parson expected Patience to sympathise with him, to
greet for him, to aid him if there might be aid, and to understand
that for him the world would be blank and wretched unless he could
get for himself a soft sweet mate to sing when he sang, and to wail
when he wailed. The only mate that Patience had was this very girl
that was to be thus taken from her. But she did sympathise with him,
did greet for him, did give him all her aid. Knowing what she was
herself and how God had formed her, she had learned to bury self
absolutely and to take all her earthly joy from the joys of others.
Shall it not come to pass that, hereafter, she too shall have a lover
among the cherubim? "What can I say to you?" replied Patience to the
young man's earnest entreaty. "If she were mine to give, I would give
her to you instantly."
"Then you think there is no chance. If I thought that, why should I
trouble her again?"
"I do not say so. Do you not know, Mr. Newton, that in such matters
even sisters can hardly tell their thoughts to each other? How can
they when they do not even know their own wishes?"
"She does not hate me then?"
"Hate you! no;--she does not hate you. But there are so many degrees
between hating and that kind of love which you want from her! You may
be sure of this, that she so esteems you that your persistence cannot
lessen you in her regard."
He was still pleading his case with the elder sister,--very uselessly
indeed, as he was aware; but having fallen on the subject of his love
it was impossible for him to change it for any other,--when Clarissa
came into the room swinging her hat in her hand. She had been over
at Miss Spooner's house and was full of Miss Spooner's woes and
complaints. As soon as she had shaken hands with her lover and spoken
the few words of courtesy which the meeting demanded of her, she
threw herself into the affairs of Miss Spooner as though they were of
vital interest. "She is determined to be unhappy, Patty, and it is no
use trying to make her not so. She says that Jane robs her, which I
don't believe is true, and that Sarah has a lover,--and why shouldn't
Sarah have a lover? But as for curing her grievances, it would be
the cruellest thing in the world. She lives upon her grievances.
Something has happened to the chimney-pot, and the landlord hasn't
sent a mason. She is revelling in her chimney-pot."
"Poor dear Miss Spooner," said Patience, getting up and leaving the
room as though it were her duty to look at once after her old friend
in the midst of these troubles.
Clarissa had not intended this. "She's asleep now," said Clarissa.
But Patience went all the same. It might be that Miss Spooner would
require to be watched in her slumbers. When Patience was gone Gregory
Newton got up from his seat and walked to the window. He stood
there for what seemed to be an endless number of seconds before he
returned, and Clarissa had time to determine that she would escape.
"I told Mary that I would go to her," she said, "you won't mind being
left alone for a few minutes, Mr. Newton."
"Do not go just now, Clarissa."
"Only that I said I would," she answered, pleading that she must keep
a promise which she had never made.
"Mary can spare you,--and I cannot. Mary is staying with you, and I
shall be gone,--almost immediately. I go back to Newton to-morrow,
and who can say when I shall see you again?"
"You will be coming up to London, of course."
"I am here now at any rate," he said smiling, "and will take what
advantage of it I can. It is the old story, Clarissa;--so old that I
know you must be sick of it."
"If you think so, you should not tell it again."
"Do not be ill-natured to me. I don't know why it is but a man gets
to be ashamed of himself, as though he were doing something mean
and paltry, when he loves with persistence, as I do." Had it been
possible that she should give him so much encouragement she would
have told him that the mean man, and paltry, was he who could love or
pretend to love with no capacity for persistency. She could not fail
to draw a comparison between him and his brother, in which there was
so much of meanness on the part of him who had at one time been as a
god to her, and so much nobility in him to whom she was and ever had
been as a goddess. "I suppose a man should take an answer and have
done with it," he continued. "But how is a man to have done with it,
when his heart remains the same?"
"A man should master his heart."
"I am, then, to understand that that which you have said so often
before must be said again?" He had never knelt to her, and he did not
kneel now; but he leaned over her so that she hardly knew whether
he was on his knees or still seated on his chair. And she herself,
though she answered him briskly,--almost with impertinence,--was so
little mistress of herself that she knew not what she said. She would
take him now,--if only she knew how to take him without disgracing
herself in her own estimation. "Dear Clary, think of it. Try to love
me. I need not tell you again how true is my love for you." He had
hold of her hand, and she did not withdraw it, and he ought to have
known that the battle was won. But he knew nothing. He hardly knew
that her hand was in his. "Clary, you are all the world to me. Must I
go back heart-laden, but empty-handed, with no comfort?"
"If you knew all!" she said, rising suddenly from her chair.
"All what?"
"If you knew all, you would not take me though I offered myself."
He stood staring at her, not at all comprehending her words, and
she perceived in the midst of her distress that it was needful that
she should explain herself. "I have loved Ralph always;--yes, your
brother."
"And he?"
"I will not accuse him in anything. He is married now, and it is
past."
"And you can never love again?"
"Who would take such a heart as that? It would not be worth the
giving or worth the taking. Oh--how I loved him!" Then he left her
side, and went back to the window, while she sank back upon her
chair, and, burying her face in her hands, gave way to tears and
sobs. He stood there perhaps for a minute, and then returning to her,
so gently that she did not hear him, he did kneel at her side. He
knelt, and putting his hand upon her arm, he kissed the sleeve of her
gown. "You had better go from me now," she said, amidst her sobs.
"I will never go from you again," he answered. "God's mercy can cure
also that wound, and I will be his minister in healing it. Clarissa,
I am so glad that you have told me all. Looking back I can understand
it now. I once thought that it was so."
"Yes," she said, "yes; it was so."
Gradually one hand of hers fell into his, and though no word of
acceptance had been spoken he knew that he was at last accepted. "My
own Clary," he said. "I may call you my own?" There was no answer,
but he knew that it was so. "Nothing shall be done to trouble
you;--nothing shall be said to press you. You may be sure of this, if
it be good to be loved,--that no woman was ever loved more tenderly
than you are."
"I do know it," she said, through her tears.
Then he rose and stood again at the window, looking out upon the lawn
and the river. She was still weeping, but he hardly heeded her tears.
It was better for her that she should weep than restrain them. And,
as to himself and his own feelings,--he tried to question himself,
whether, in truth, was he less happy in this great possession, which
he had at last gained, because his brother had for a while interfered
with him in gaining it? That she would be as true to him now, as
tender and as loving, as though Ralph had never crossed her path,
he did not for a moment doubt. That she would be less sweet to him
because her sweetness had been offered to another he would not admit
to himself,--even though the question were asked. She would be all
his own, and was she not the one thing in the world which he coveted?
He did think that for such a one as his Clarissa he would be a better
mate than would have been his brother, and he was sure that she
herself would learn to know that it was so. He stood there long
enough to resolve that this which had been told him should be no
drawback upon his bliss. "Clary," he said, returning to her, "it is
settled?" She made him no answer. "My darling, I am as happy now
as though Ralph had never seen your sweet face, or heard your dear
voice. Look up at me once." Slowly she looked up into his eyes, and
then stood before him almost as a suppliant, and gave him her face to
be kissed. So at last they became engaged as man and wife;--though
it may be doubted whether she spoke another word before he left the
room.
It was, however, quite understood that they were engaged; and, though
he did not see Clarissa again, he received the congratulations both
of Patience and Mary Bonner before he left the house; and that very
night succeeded in hunting down Sir Thomas, so that he might tell the
father that the daughter had at last consented to become his wife.