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Ralph the Heir

<h3>CHAPTER L.</h3> <h4>ANOTHER FAILURE.  </h4> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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