In this strait he had been tempted to make another effort in political life, and he had made it. There had been no difficulty in this,—only that the work itself had been so disagreeable, and that he had failed in it so egregiously. During his canvass, and in all his intercourse with the Griffenbottomites, he had told himself, falsely, how pleasant to him it would be to return to his books;—how much better for him would be a sedentary life, if he could only bring himself to do, or even attempt to do, the work which he had appointed for himself. Now he had returned to his solitude, had again dragged out his papers, his note-book, his memoranda, his dates, and yet he could not in truth get into his harness, put his neck to the collar, and attempt to drag the burden up the hill.
He was sitting alone in his room in this condition, with a book in his hand of no value to his great purpose, hating himself and wretched, when Stemm opened his door, ushering Patience and Mary Bonner into his room. "Ah, my dears," he said, "what has brought you up to London? I did not think of seeing you here." There was no expression of positive displeasure in his voice, but it was understood by them all, by the daughter, by the cousin, by old Stemm, and by Sir Thomas himself, that such a visit as this was always to be regarded more or less as an intrusion. However, he kissed them both, and handed them chairs, and was more than usually civil to them.
"We do so want to hear about Percycross, papa," said Patience.
"There is nothing to be told about Percycross."
"Are you to stand again, papa?"
"Nobody will ever stand for Percycross again. It will lose its members altogether. The thing is settled."
"And you have had all the trouble for nothing, uncle?" Mary asked.
"All for nothing,—and the expense. But that is a very common thing, and I have no ground of complaint beyond many others."
"It does seem so hard," said Patience.
"So very hard," said Mary. And then they were silent. They had not come without a purpose; but, as is common with young ladies, they kept their purpose for the end of the interview.
"Are you coming home, papa?" Patience asked.
"Well, yes; I won't settle any day now, because I am very busy just at present. But I shall be home soon,—very soon."
"I do so hope you'll stay some time with us, papa."
"My dear, you know—" And then he stopped, having been pounced upon so suddenly that he had not resolved what excuse he would for the moment put forward. "I've got my papers and things in such confusion here at present,—because of Percycross and the trouble I have had,—that I cannot leave them just now."
"But why not bring the papers with you, papa?"
"My dear, you know I can't."
Then there was another pause. "Papa, I think you ought," said Patience. "Indeed I do, for Clary's sake,—and ours." But even this was not the subject which had specially brought them on that morning to Southampton Buildings.
"What is there wrong with Clary?" asked Sir Thomas.
"There is nothing wrong," said Patience
"What do you mean then?"
"I think it would be so much more comfortable for her that you should see things as they are going on."
"I declare I don't know what she means. Do you know what she means, Mary?"
"Clary has not been quite herself lately," said Mary.
"I suppose it's something about that scamp, Ralph Newton," said Sir Thomas.
"No, indeed, papa; I am sure she does not think of him now." On this very morning, as the reader may perhaps remember, the scamp had gone down to Fulham, and from Fulham back to Brompton, in search of Clarissa; but of the scamp's energy and renewed affections, Patience as yet knew nothing. "Gregory has been up in London and has been down at Fulham once or twice. We want him to come again before he goes back on Saturday, and we thought if you would come home on Thursday, we could ask him to dinner." Sir Thomas scratched his head, and fidgeted in his chair. "Their cousin is in London also," continued Patience.
"The other Ralph; he who has bought Beamingham Hall?"
"Yes, papa; we saw him at the Academy. I told him how happy you would be to see him at Fulham."
"Of course I should be glad to see him; that is, if I happened to be at home," said Sir Thomas.
"But I could not name a day without asking you, papa."
"He will have gone back by this time," said Sir Thomas.
"I think not, papa."
"And what do you say, Mary?"
"I have nothing to say at all, uncle. If Mr. Newton likes to come to the villa, I shall be glad to see him. Why should I not? He has done nothing to offend me." There was a slight smile on her face as she spoke, and the merest hint of a blush on her cheek.
"They tell me that Beamingham Hall isn't much of a place after all," said Sir Thomas.
"From what Mr. Newton says, it must be a very ugly place," said Mary, with still the same smile and the same hint of a blush;—"only I don't quite credit all he tells us."
"If there is anything settled you ought to tell me," said Sir Thomas.
"There is nothing settled, uncle, or in any way of being settled. It so happened that Mr. Newton did speak to me about his new house. There is nothing more."
"Nevertheless, papa, pray let us ask him to dinner on Thursday." It was for the purpose of making this request that Patience had come to Southampton Buildings, braving her father's displeasure. Sir Thomas scratched his head, and rubbed his face, and yielded. Of course he had no alternative but to yield, and yet he did it with a bad grace. Permission, however, was given, and it was understood that Patience would write to the two young men, Ralph of Beamingham Hall and the parson, asking them to dinner for the day but one following. "As the time is so short, I've written the notes ready," said Patience, producing them from her pocket. Then the bell was rung, and the two notes were confided to Stemm. Patience, as she was going, found a moment in which to be alone with her father, and to speak one more word to him. "Dear papa, it would be so much better for us that you should come and live at home. Think of those two, with nobody, as it were, to say a word for them." Sir Thomas groaned, and again scratched his head; but Patience left him before he had arranged his words for an answer.
When they were gone, Sir Thomas sat for hours in his chair without moving, making the while one or two faint attempts at the book before him, but in truth giving up his mind to contemplation of the past and to conjectures as to the future, burdened by heavy regrets, and with hopes too weak to afford him any solace. The last words which Patience had spoken rang in his ears,—"Think of those two, with nobody, as it were, to say a word for them." He did think of them, and of the speaker also, and knew that he had neglected his duty. He could understand that such a girl as his own Clarissa did require some one "to say a word for her," some stalwart arm to hold her up, some loving strength to support her, some counsel to direct her. Of course those three girls were as other girls, looking forward to matrimony as their future lot in life, and it would not be well that they should be left to choose or to be chosen, or left to reject and be rejected, without any aid from their remaining parent. He knew that he had been wrong, and he almost resolved that the chambers in Southampton Buildings should be altogether abandoned, and his books removed to Popham Villa.
But such men do not quite resolve. Before he could lay his hand upon the table and assure himself that the thing should be done, the volume had been taken up again, used for a few minutes, and then the man's mind had run away again to that vague contemplation which is so much easier than the forming of a steady purpose. It was one of those almost sultry days which do come to us occasionally amidst the ordinary inclemency of a London May, and he was sitting with his window open, though there was a fire in the grate. As he sat, dreaming rather than thinking, there came upon his ear the weak, wailing, puny sound of a distant melancholy flute. He had heard it often before, and had been roused by it to evil wishes, and sometimes even to evil words, against the musician. It was the effort of some youth in the direction of Staple's Inn to soothe with music the savageness of his own bosom. It was borne usually on the evening air, but on this occasion the idle swain had taken up his instrument within an hour or two of his early dinner. His melody was burdened with no peculiar tune, but consisted of a few low, wailing, melancholy notes, such as may be extracted from the reed by a breath and the slow raising and falling of the little finger, much, we believe, to the comfort of the player, but to the ineffable disgust of, too often, a large circle of hearers.
Sir Thomas was affected by the sound long before he was aware that he was listening to it. To-whew, to-whew; to-whew, to-whew; whew-to-to, whew-to-to, whew, to-whew. On the present occasion the variation was hardly carried beyond that; but so much was repeated with a persistency which at last seemed to burden the whole air round Southampton Buildings. The little thing might have been excluded by the closing of the window; but Sir Thomas, though he suffered, did not reflect for a while whence the suffering came. Who does not know how such sounds may serve to enhance the bitterness of remorse, to add a sorrow to the present thoughts, and to rob the future of its hopes?
There come upon us all as we grow up in years, hours in which it is impossible to keep down the conviction that everything is vanity, that the life past has been vain from folly, and that the life to come must be vain from impotence. It is the presence of thoughts such as these that needs the assurance of a heaven to save the thinker from madness or from suicide. It is when the feeling of this pervading vanity is strongest on him, that he who doubts of heaven most regrets his incapacity for belief. If there be nothing better than this on to the grave,—and nothing worse beyond the grave, why should I bear such fardels?
Sir Thomas, as he sat there listening and thinking, unable not to think and not to listen, found that the fardels were very heavy. What good had come to him of his life,—to him or to others? And what further good did he dare to promise to himself? Had it not all been vanity? Was it not all vain to him now at the present? Was not life becoming to him vainer and still vainer every day? He had promised himself once that books should be the solace of his age, and he was beginning to hate his books, because he knew that he did no more than trifle with them. He had found himself driven to attempt to escape from them back into public life; but had failed, and had been inexpressibly dismayed in the failure. While failing, he had promised himself that he would rush at his work on his return to privacy and to quiet; but he was still as the shivering coward, who stands upon the brink, and cannot plunge in among the bathers. And then there was sadness beyond this, and even deeper than this. Why should he have dared to arrange for himself a life different from the life of the ordinary men and women who lived around him? Why had he not contented himself with having his children around him; walking with them to church on Sunday morning, taking them to the theatre on Monday evening, and allowing them to read him to sleep after tea on the Tuesday? He had not done these things, was not doing them now, because he had ventured to think himself capable of something that would justify him in leaving the common circle. He had left it, but was not justified. He had been in Parliament, had been in office, and had tried to write a book. But he was not a legislator, was not a statesman, and was not an author. He was simply a weak, vain, wretched man, who, through false conceit, had been induced to neglect almost every duty of life! To-whew, to-whew, to-whew, to-whew! As the sounds filled his ears, such were the thoughts which lay heavy on his bosom. So idle as he had been in thinking, so inconclusive, so frail, so subject to gusts of wind, so incapable of following his subject to the end, why had he dared to leave that Sunday-keeping, church-going, domestic, decent life, which would have become one of so ordinary a calibre as himself? There are men who may doubt, who may weigh the evidence, who may venture to believe or disbelieve in compliance with their own reasoning faculties,—who may trust themselves to think it out; but he, too clearly, had not been, was not, and never would be one of these. To walk as he saw other men walking around him,—because he was one of the many; to believe that to be good which the teachers appointed for him declared to be good; to do prescribed duties without much personal inquiry into the causes which had made them duties; to listen patiently, and to be content without excitement; that was the mode of living for which he should have known himself to be fit. But he had not known it, and had strayed away, and had ventured to think that he could think,—and had been ambitious. And now he found himself stranded in the mud of personal condemnation,—and that so late in life, that there remained to him no hope of escape. Whew-to-to; whew-to-to; whew,—to-whew. "Stemm, why do you let that brute go on with his cursed flute?" Stemm at that moment had opened the door to suggest that as he usually dined at one, and as it was now past three, he would go out and get a bit of something to eat.
"He's always at it, sir," said Stemm, pausing for a moment before he alluded to his own wants.
"Why the deuce is he always at it? Why isn't he indited for a nuisance? Who's to do anything with such a noise as that going on for hours together? He has nearly driven me mad."
"It's young Wobble as has the back attic, No. 17, in the Inn," said Stemm.
"They ought to turn him out," said Sir Thomas.
"I rather like it myself," said Stemm. "It suits my disposition, sir." Then he made his little suggestion in regard to his own personal needs, and of course was blown up for not having come in two hours ago to remind Sir Thomas that it was dinner-time. "It's because I wouldn't disturb you when you has the Bacon papers out, Sir Thomas," said Stemm serenely. Sir Thomas winced and shook his head; but such scenes as this were too common to have much effect. "Stemm!" he called aloud, as soon as the old clerk had closed the door; "Stemm!" Whereupon Stemm reappeared. "Stemm, have some one here next week to pack all these books."
"Pack all the books, Sir Thomas!"
"Yes;—to pack all the books. There must be cases. Now, go and get your dinner."
"New cases, Sir Thomas!"
"That will do. Go and get your dinner." And yet his mind was not quite made up.
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, asfollows:—
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.
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.
Rumours, well-supported rumours, as to the kind of life which Mr. Neefit was leading reached Alexandra Cottage, filling Mrs. Neefit's mind with dismay, and making Polly very angry indeed. He came home always somewhat the worse for drink, and would talk of punching the heads both of Mr. Newton and of Mr. Ontario Moggs. Waddle, who was very true to his master's interests, had taken an opportunity of seeing Mrs. Neefit, and of expressing a very distinct idea that the business was going to the mischief. Mrs. Neefit was of opinion that in this emergency the business should be sold, and that they might safely remove themselves to some distant country,—to Tunbridge, or perhaps to Ware. Polly, however, would not accede to her mother's views. The evil must, she thought, be cured at once. "If father goes on like this, I shall just walk straight out of the house, and marry Moggs at once," Polly said. "Father makes no account of my name, and so I must just look out for myself." She had not as yet communicated these intentions to Ontario, but she was quite sure that she would be supported in her views by him whenever she should choose to do so.
Once or twice Ontario came down to the cottage, and when he did so, Mr. Neefit was always told of the visit. "I ain't going to keep anything from father, mother," Polly would say. "If he chooses to misbehave, that isn't my fault. I mean to have Mr. Moggs, and it's only natural I should like to see him." Neefit, when informed of these visits, after swearing that Moggs junior was a sneaking scoundrel to come to his house in his absence, would call upon Moggs senior, and swear with many threats that his daughter should have nothing but what she stood up in. Moggs senior would stand quite silent, cutting the skin on his hand with his shoemaker's knife, and would simply bid the infuriated breeches-maker good morning, when he left the shop. But, in truth, Mr. Moggs senior had begun to doubt. "I'd leave it awhile, Onty, if I was you," he said. "May be, after all, he'll give her nothing."
"I'll take her the first day she'll come to me,—money or no money," said Moggs junior.
Foiled ambition had, in truth, driven the breeches-maker to madness. But there were moments in which he was softened, melancholy, and almost penitent. "Why didn't you have him when he come down to Margate," he said, with the tears running down his cheek, that very evening after eating his rump-steak in Mr. Newton's rooms. The soda-water and brandy, with a little gin-and-water after it, had reduced him to an almost maudlin condition, so that he was unable to support his parental authority.
"Because I didn't choose, father. It wasn't his fault. He spoke fair enough,—though I don't suppose he ever wanted it. Why should he?"
"You might have had him then. He'd 've never dared to go back. I'd a killed him if he had."
"What good would it have done, father? He'd never have loved me, and he'd have despised you and mother."
"I wouldn't 've minded that," said Mr. Neefit, wiping his eyes.
"But I should have minded. What should I have felt with a husband as wouldn't have wanted me ever to have my own father in his house? Would that have made me happy?"
"It 'd 've made me happy to know as you was there."
"No, father; there would have been no happiness in it. When I came to see what he was I knew I should never love him. He was just willing to take me because of his word;—and was I going to a man like that? No, father;—certainly not." The poor man was at that moment too far gone in his misery to argue the matter further, and he lay on the old sofa, very much at Polly's mercy. "Drop it, father," she said. "It wasn't to be, and it couldn't have been. You'd better say you'll drop it." But, sick and uncomfortable as he was on that evening, he couldn't be got to say that he would drop it.
Nor could he be got to drop it for some ten days after that;—but on a certain evening he had come home very uncomfortable from the effects of gin-and-water, and had been spoken to very sensibly both by his wife and daughter.
By seven on the following morning Ontario Moggs was sitting in the front parlour of the house at Hendon, and Polly Neefit was sitting with him. He had never been there at so early an hour before, and it was thought afterwards by both Mr. and Mrs. Neefit that his appearance, so unexpected by them, had not surprised their daughter Polly. Could it have been possible that she had sent a message to him after that little scene with her father? There he was, at any rate, and Polly was up to receive him. "Now, Onty, that'll do. I didn't want to talk nonsense, but just to settle something."
"But you'll tell a fellow that you're glad to see him?"
"No, I won't. I won't tell a fellow anything he doesn't know already. You and I have got to get married."
"Of course we have."
"But we want father's consent. I'm not going to have him made unhappy, if I can help it. He's that wretched sometimes at present that my heart is half killed about him."
"The things he says are monstrous," asserted Moggs, thinking of the protestation lately made by the breeches-maker in his own hearing, to the effect that Ralph Newton should yet be made to marry his daughter.
"All the same I've got to think about him. There's a dozen or so of men as would marry me, Mr. Moggs; but I can never have another father."
"I'll be the first of the dozen any way," said the gallant Ontario.
"That depends. However, mother says so, and if father 'll consent, I won't go against it. I'll go to him now, before he's up, and I'll tell him you're here. I'll bring him to his senses if I can. I don't know whatever made him think so much about gentlemen."
"He didn't learn it from you, Polly."
"Perhaps he did, after all; and if so, that's the more reason why I'd forgive him." So saying, Polly went up-stairs upon her mission. On the landing she met her mother, and made known the fact that Ontario was in the parlour. "Don't you go to him, mother;—not yet," said Polly. Whereby it may be presumed that Mrs. Neefit had been informed of Mr. Moggs's visit before Polly had gone to him.
Mr. Neefit was in bed, and his condition apparently was not a happy one. He was lying with his head between his hands, and was groaning, not loudly, but very bitterly. His mode of life for the last month had not been of a kind to make him comfortable, and his conscience, too, was ill at ease. He had been a hard-working man, who had loved respectability and been careful of his wife and child. He had been proud to think that nobody could say anything against him, and that he had always paid his way. Up to the time of this disastrous fit of ambition on Polly's behalf he had never made himself ridiculous, and had been a prosperous tradesman, well thought of by his customers. Suddenly he had become mad, but not so mad as to be unconscious of his own madness. The failure of his hopes, joined to the inexpressibly bitter feeling that in their joint transactions young Newton had received all that had been necessary to him, whereas he, Neefit, had got none of that for which he had bargained,—these together had so upset him that he had lost his balance, had travelled out of his usual grooves, and had made an ass of himself. He knew he had made an ass of himself,—and was hopelessly endeavouring to show himself to be less of an ass than people thought him, by some success in his violence. If he could only punish young Newton terribly, people would understand why he had done all this. But drink had been necessary to give him courage for his violence, and now as he lay miserable in bed, his courage was very low.
"Father," said Polly, "shall I give you a drink?" Neefit muttered something, and took the cold tea that was offered to him. It was cold tea, with just a spoonful of brandy in it to make it acceptable. "Father, there ought to be an end of all this;—oughtn't there?"
"I don't know about no ends. I'll be down on him yet."
"No you won't, father. And why should you? He has done nothing wrong to you or me. I wouldn't have him if it was ever so."
"It's all been your fault, Polly."
"Yes;—my fault; that I wouldn't be made what you call a lady; to be taken away, so that I'd never see any more of you and mother!" Then she put her hand gently on his shoulder. "I couldn't stand that, father."
"I'd make him let you come to us."
"A wife must obey her husband, father. Mother always obeyed you."
"No, she didn't. She's again me now."
"Besides, I don't want to be a lady," said Polly, seeing that she had better leave that question of marital obedience; "and I won't be a lady. I won't be better than you and mother."
"You've been brought up better."
"I'll show my breeding, then, by being true to you, and true to the man I love. What would you think of your girl, if she was to give her hand to a—gentleman, when she'd given her heart to a—shoemaker?"
"Oh, d—— the shoemaker!"
"No, father, I won't have it. What is there against Ontario? He's a fine-hearted fellow, as isn't greedy after money,—as 'd kiss the very ground I stand on he's that true to me, and is a tradesman as yourself. If we had a little place of our own, wouldn't Ontario be proud to have you there, and give you the best of everything; and wouldn't I wait upon you, just only trying to know beforehand every tittle as you'd like to have. And if there was to be babies, wouldn't they be brought up to love you. If I'd gone with that young man down to his fine place, do you think it would have been like that? How 'd I've felt when he was too proud to let his boy know as you was my father?" Neefit turned on his bed and groaned. He was too ill at ease as to his inner man to argue the subject from a high point of view, or to assert that he was content to be abased himself in order that his child and grandchildren might be raised in the world. "Father," said Polly, "you have always been kind to me. Be kind to me now."
"The young 'uns is always to have their own way," said Neefit.
"Hasn't my way been your way, father?"
"Not when you wouldn't take the Captain when he come to Margate."
"I didn't love him, father. Dear father, say the word. We haven't been happy lately;—have we, father?"
"I ain't been very 'appy," said Neefit, bursting out into sobs.
She put her face upon his brow and kissed it. "Father, let us be happy again. Ontario is down-stairs,—in the parlour now."
"Ontario Moggs in my parlour!" said Neefit, jumping up in bed.
"Yes, father; Ontario Moggs,—my husband, as will be; the man I honour and love; the man that will honour and love you; as true a fellow as ever made a young woman happy by taking her. Let me tell him that you will have him for a son." In truth, Neefit did not speak the word;—but when Polly left the room, which she presently did after a long embrace, Mr. Neefit was aware that his consent to the union would be conveyed to Ontario Moggs in less than five minutes.
"And now you can name the day," said Ontario.
"I cannot do any such thing," replied Polly; "and I think that quite enough has been settled for one morning. It's give an inch and take an ell with some folks."
Ontario waited for breakfast, and had an interview with his future father-in-law. It was an hour after the scene up-stairs before Mr. Neefit could descend, and when he did come down he was not very jovial at the breakfast-table. "It isn't what I like, Moggs," was the first word that he spoke when the young politician rose to grasp the hand of his future father-in-law.
"I hope you'll live to like it, Mr. Neefit," said Ontario, who, now that he was to have his way in regard to Polly, was prepared to disregard entirely any minor annoyances.
"I don't know how that may be. I think my girl might have done better. I told her so, and I just tell you the same. She might a' done a deal better, but women is always restive."
"We like to have our own way about our young men, father," said Polly, who was standing behind her father's chair.
"Bother young men," said the breeches-maker. After that the interview passed off, if not very pleasantly, at least smoothly,—and it was understood that Mr. Neefit was to abandon that system of persecution against Ralph Newton, to which his life had been devoted for the last few weeks.
After that there was a pretty little correspondence between Polly and Ralph, with which the story of Polly's maiden life may be presumed to be ended, and which shall be given to the reader, although by doing so the facts of our tale will be somewhat anticipated. Polly, with her father's permission, communicated the fact of her engagement to her former lover.
Hendon, Saturday.Dear Sir,—Father thinks it best that I should tell you that I am engaged to marry Mr. Ontario Moggs,—whom you will remember. He is a most respectable tradesman, and stood once for a member of Parliament, and I think he will make me quite happy; and I'm quite sure that's what I'm fitted for.
Hendon, Saturday.
Dear Sir,—
Father thinks it best that I should tell you that I am engaged to marry Mr. Ontario Moggs,—whom you will remember. He is a most respectable tradesman, and stood once for a member of Parliament, and I think he will make me quite happy; and I'm quite sure that's what I'm fitted for.
Whether Polly meant that she was fitted to be made happy, or fitted to be the wife of a tradesman who stood for Parliament, did not appear quite clearly.
There have been things which we are very sorry for, and hope you'll forgive and forget. Father bids me say how sorry he is he broke a figure of a pretty little man in your room. He would get another, only he would not know where to go for it.Wishing you always may be happy, believe me to remain,Yours most respectfully,Maryanne Neefit.
There have been things which we are very sorry for, and hope you'll forgive and forget. Father bids me say how sorry he is he broke a figure of a pretty little man in your room. He would get another, only he would not know where to go for it.
Wishing you always may be happy, believe me to remain,
Yours most respectfully,
Maryanne Neefit.
Ralph's answer was dated about a fortnightafterwards;—
—, Cavendish Square, 1 June, 186—.My dear Polly,—I hope you will allow me to call you so now for the last time. I am, indeed, happy that you are going to be married. I believe Mr. Moggs to be a most excellent fellow. I hope I may often see him,—and sometimes you. He must allow you to accept a little present which I send you, and never be jealous if you wear it at your waist.The pretty little man that your father broke by accident in my rooms did not signify at all. Pray tell him so from me.Believe me to be your very sincere friend,Ralph Newton.I may as well tell you my own secret. I am going to be married, too. The young lady lives in this house, and her name is Augusta Eardham.
—, Cavendish Square, 1 June, 186—.
My dear Polly,—
I hope you will allow me to call you so now for the last time. I am, indeed, happy that you are going to be married. I believe Mr. Moggs to be a most excellent fellow. I hope I may often see him,—and sometimes you. He must allow you to accept a little present which I send you, and never be jealous if you wear it at your waist.
The pretty little man that your father broke by accident in my rooms did not signify at all. Pray tell him so from me.
Believe me to be your very sincere friend,
Ralph Newton.
I may as well tell you my own secret. I am going to be married, too. The young lady lives in this house, and her name is Augusta Eardham.
This letter was sent by messenger from Cavendish Square, with a very handsome watch and chain. A month afterwards, when he was preparing to leave London for Brayboro' Park, he received a little packet, with a note asfollows;—
Linton, Devonshire, Wednesday.Dear Mr. Newton,—I am so much obliged for the watch, and so is Ontario, who will never be jealous, I'm sure. It is a most beautiful thing, and I shall value it, oh! so much. I am very glad you are going to be married, and should have answered before, only I wanted to finish making with my own hand a little chain which I send you. And I hope your sweetheart won't be jealous either. We looked her out in a book, and found she is the daughter of a great gentleman with a title. That is all just as it should be. Ontario sends his respects. We have come down here for the honeymoon.I remain, yours very sincerely,Maryanne Moggs.
Linton, Devonshire, Wednesday.
Dear Mr. Newton,—
I am so much obliged for the watch, and so is Ontario, who will never be jealous, I'm sure. It is a most beautiful thing, and I shall value it, oh! so much. I am very glad you are going to be married, and should have answered before, only I wanted to finish making with my own hand a little chain which I send you. And I hope your sweetheart won't be jealous either. We looked her out in a book, and found she is the daughter of a great gentleman with a title. That is all just as it should be. Ontario sends his respects. We have come down here for the honeymoon.
I remain, yours very sincerely,
Maryanne Moggs.
Both the invitations sent by Patience Underwood were accepted, and Sir Thomas, on the day named, was at home to receive them. Nothing had as yet been done as to the constructing of those cases which he so suddenly ordered to be made for his books; and, indeed, Stemm had resolved to take the order as meaning nothing. It would not be for him to accelerate his master's departure from Southampton Buildings, and he knew enough of the man to be aware that he must have some very strong motive indeed before so great a change could be really made. When Sir Thomas left Southampton Buildings for Fulham, on the day named for the dinner, not a word further had been said about packing the books.
There was no company at the villa besides Sir Thomas, the three girls, and the two young men. As to Clarissa, Patience said not a word, even to her father,—that must still be left till time should further cure the wound that had been made;—but she did venture to suggest, in private with Sir Thomas, that it was a pity that he who was certainly the more worthy of the two Ralphs should not be made to understand that others did not think so much of the present inferiority of his position in the world as he seemed to think himself.
"You mean that Mary would take him?" asked Sir Thomas.
"Why should she not, if she likes him? He is very good."
"I can't tell him to offer to her, without telling him also that he would be accepted."
"No;—I suppose not," said Patience.
Nevertheless, Sir Thomas did speak to Ralph Newton before dinner,—stuttering and muttering, and only half finishing his sentence. "We had a correspondence once, Mr. Newton. I dare say you remember."
"I remember it very well, Sir Thomas."
"I only wanted to tell you;—you seem to think more about what has taken place,—I mean as to the property,—than we do;—that is, than I do."
"It has made a change."
"Yes; of course. But I don't know that a large place like Newton is sure to make a man happy. Perhaps you'd like to wash your hands before dinner." Gregory, in the meantime, was walking round the garden with Mary and Clarissa.
The dinner was very quiet, but pleasant and cheerful. Sir Thomas talked a good deal, and so did Patience. Mary also was at her ease, and able to do all that was required of her. Ralph certainly was not gay. He was seated next to Clarissa, and spoke a few words now and again; but he was arranging matters in his mind; and Patience, who was observing them all, knew that he was pre-occupied. Clarissa, who now and again would forget her sorrow and revert to her former self,—as she had done in the picture-gallery,—could not now, under the eye as it were of her father, her sister, and her old lover, forget her troubles. She knew what was expected of her; but she could not do it;—she could not do it at least as yet. Nevertheless, Patience, who was the engineer in the present crisis, was upon the whole contented with the way in which things were going.
The three girls sat with the gentlemen for a quarter of an hour after the decanters were put upon the table, and then withdrew. Sir Thomas immediately began to talk about Newton Priory, and to ask questions which might interest the parson without, as he thought, hurting the feelings of the disinherited Ralph. This went on for about five minutes, during which Gregory was very eloquent about his church and his people, when, suddenly, Ralph rose from his chair and withdrew. "Have I said anything that annoyed him?" asked Sir Thomas anxiously.
"It is not that, I think," said Gregory.
Ralph walked across the passage, opened the door of the drawing-room, in which the three girls were at work, walked up to the chair in which Mary Bonner was sitting, and said something in so low a voice that neither of the sisters heard him.
"Certainly I will," said Mary, rising from her chair. Patience glanced round, and could see that the colour, always present in her cousin's face, was heightened,—ever so little indeed; but still the tell-tale blush had told its tale. Ralph stood for a moment while Mary moved away to the door, and then followed her without speaking a word to the other girls, or bestowing a glance on either of them.
"He is going to propose to her," said Clarissa as soon as the door was shut.
"No one can be sure," said Patience.
"Only fancy,—asking a girl to go out of the room,—in that brave manner! I shouldn't have gone because I'm a coward; but it's just what Mary will like."
"Let me get my hat, Mr. Newton," said Mary, taking the opportunity to trip up-stairs, though her hat was hanging in the hall. When she was in her room she merely stood upright there, for half a minute, in the middle of the chamber, erect and stiff, with her arms and fingers stretched out, thinking how she would behave herself. Half a minute sufficed for her to find her clue, and then she came down as quickly as her feet would carry her. He had opened the front door, and was standing outside upon the gravel, and there she joined him.
"I had no other way but this of speaking to you," he said.
"I don't dislike coming out at all," she answered. Then there was silence for a moment or two as they walked along into the gloom of the shrubbery. "I suppose you are going down to Norfolk soon?" she said.
"I do not quite know. I thought of going to-morrow."
"So soon as that?"
"But I've got something that I want to settle. I think you must know what it is." Then he paused again, almost as though he expected her to confess that she did know. But Mary was well aware that it was not for her to say another word till he had fully explained in most open detail what it was that he desired to settle. "You know a good deal of my history, Miss Newton. When I thought that things were going well with me,—much better than I had ever allowed myself to expect in early days, I,—I,—became acquainted with you." Again he paused, but she had not a word to say. "I dare say you were not told, but I wrote to your uncle then, asking him whether I might have his consent to,—just to ask you to be my wife." Again he paused, but after that he hurried on, speaking the words as quickly as he could throw them forth from his mouth. "My father died, and of course that changed everything. I told your uncle that all ground for pretension that I might have had before was cut from under me. He knew the circumstances of my birth,—and I supposed that you would know it also."
Then she did speak. "Yes, I did," she said.
"Perhaps I was foolish to think that the property would make a difference. But the truth of it is, I have not got over the feeling, and shall never get over it. I love you with all my heart,—and though it be for no good, I must tell you so."
"The property can make no difference," she said. "You ought to have known that, Mr. Newton."
"Ah;—but it does. I tried to tell you the other day something of my present home."
"Yes;—I know you did;—and I remember it all."
"There is nothing more to be said;—only to ask you to share it with me."
She walked on with him in silence for a minute; but he said nothing more to press his suit, and certainly it was her turn to speak now. "I will share it with you," she said, pressing her arm upon his.
"My Mary!"
"Yes;—your Mary,—if you please." Then he took her in his arms, and pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips and forehead, and threw back her hat, and put his fingers among her hair. "Why did you say that the property would make a difference?" she asked, in a whisper. To this he made no answer, but walked on silently, with his arm round her waist, till they came out from among the trees, and stood upon the bank of the river. "There are people in the boats. You must put your arm down," she said.
"I wonder how you will like to be a farmer's wife?" he asked.
"I have not an idea."
"I fear so much that you'll find it rough and hard."
"But I have an idea about something." She took his hand, and looked up into his face as she continued. "I have an idea that I shall like to be your wife." He was in a seventh heaven of happiness, and would have stood there gazing on the river with her all night, if she would have allowed him. At last they walked back into the house together,—and into the room where the others were assembled, with very little outward show of embarrassment. Mary was the first to enter the room, and though she blushed she smiled also, and every one knew what had taken place. There was no secret or mystery, and in five minutes her cousins were congratulating her. "It's all settled for you now," said Clarissa laughing.
"Yes, it's all settled for me now, and I wouldn't have it unsettled for all the world."
While this was being said in the drawing-room,—being said even in the presence of poor Gregory, who could not but have felt how hard it was for him to behold such bliss, Sir Thomas and Ralph had withdrawn into the opposite room. Ralph began to apologise for his own misfortunes,—his misfortune in having lost the inheritance, his misfortune in being illegitimate; but Sir Thomas soon cut his apologies short. "You think a great deal more of it than she does, or than I do," said Sir Thomas.
"If she does not regard it, I will never think of it again," said Ralph. "My greatest glory in what had been promised me was in thinking that it might help to win her."
"You have won her without such help as that," said Sir Thomas, with his arm on the young man's shoulder.
There was another delicious hour in store for him as they sat over their late tea. "Do you still think of going to Norfolk to-morrow?" she said to him, with that composure which in her was so beautiful, and, at the same time, so expressive.
"By an early train in the morning."
"I thought that perhaps you might have stayed another day now."
"I thought that perhaps you might want me to come back again," said Ralph;—"and, if so, I could make arrangements;—perhaps for a week or ten days."
"Do come back," she said. "And do stay."
Ralph's triumph as he returned that evening to London received Gregory's fullest sympathy; but still it must have been hard to bear. Perhaps his cousin's parting words contained for him some comfort. "Give her a little time, and she will be yours yet. I shall find it all out from Mary, and you may be sure we shall help you."
We have been obliged to anticipate in some degree the course of our story by the necessity which weighed upon us of completing the history of Polly Neefit. In regard to her we will only further express an opinion,—in which we believe that we shall have the concurrence of our readers,—that Mr. Moggs junior had chosen well. Her story could not be adequately told without a revelation of that correspondence, which, while it has explained the friendly manner in which the Neefit-Newton embarrassments were at last brought to an end, has, at the same time, disclosed the future lot in life of our hero,—as far as a hero's lot in life may be said to depend on his marriage.
Mr. Neefit had been almost heart-broken, because he was not satisfied that his victim was really punished by any of those tortures which his imagination invented, and his energy executed. Even when the "pretty little man" was smashed, and was, in truth, smashed of malice prepense by a swinging blow from Neefit's umbrella, Neefit did not feel satisfied that he would thereby reach his victim's heart. He could project his own mind with sufficient force into the bosom of his enemy to understand that the onions and tobacco consumed in that luxurious chamber would cause annoyance;—but he desired more than annoyance;—he wanted to tear the very heart-strings of the young man who had, as he thought, so signally outwitted him. He did not believe that he was successful; but, in truth, he did make poor Ralph very unhappy. The heir felt himself to be wounded, and could not eat and drink, or walk and talk, or ride in the park, or play billiards at his club, in a manner befitting the owner of Newton Priory. He was so injured by Neefit that he became pervious to attacks which would otherwise have altogether failed in reaching him. Lady Eardham would never have prevailed against him as she did,—conquering by a quick repetition of small blows,—had not all his strength been annihilated for the time by the persecutions of the breeches-maker.
Lady Eardham whispered to him as he was taking his departure on the evening of the dinner in Cavendish Square. "Dear Mr. Newton,—just one word," she said, confidentially,—"that must be a very horrid man,"—alluding to Mr. Neefit.
"It's a horrid bore, you know, Lady Eardham."
"Just so;—and it makes me feel,—as though I didn't quite know whether something ought not to be done. Would you mind calling at eleven to-morrow? Of course I shan't tell Sir George,—unless you think he ought to be told." Ralph promised that he would call, though he felt at the moment that Lady Eardham was an interfering old fool. Why should she want to do anything; and why should she give even a hint as to telling Sir George? As he walked across Hanover Square and down Bond Street to his rooms he did assert to himself plainly that the "old harridan," as he called her, was at work for her second girl, and he shook his head and winked his eye as he thought of it. But, even in his solitude, he did not feel strong against Lady Eardham, and he moved along the pavement oppressed by a half-formed conviction that her ladyship would prevail against him. He did not, however, think that he had any particular objection to Gus Eardham. There was a deal of style about the girl, a merit in which either Clarissa or Mary would have been sadly deficient. And there could be no doubt in this,—that a man in his position ought to marry in his own class. The proper thing for him to do was to make the daughter of some country gentleman,—or of some nobleman, just as it might happen,—mistress of the Priory. Dear little Clary would hardly have known how to take her place properly down in Hampshire. And then he thought for a moment of Polly! Perhaps, after all, fate, fashion, and fortune managed marriage for young men better than they could manage it for themselves. What a life would his have been had he really married Polly Neefit! Though he did call Lady Eardham a harridan, he resolved that he would keep his promise for the following morning.
Lady Eardham when he arrived was mysterious, eulogistic, and beneficent. She was clearly of opinion that something should be done. "You know it is so horrid having these kind of things said." And yet she was almost equally strong in opinion that nothing could be done. "You know I wouldn't have my girl's name brought up for all the world;—though why the horrid wretch should have named her I cannot even guess." The horrid wretch had not, in truth, named any special her, though it suited Lady Eardham to presume that allusion had been made to that hope of the flock, that crowning glory of the Eardham family, that most graceful of the Graces, that Venus certain to be chosen by any Paris, her second daughter, Gus. She went on to explain that were she to tell the story to her son Marmaduke, her son Marmaduke would probably kill the breeches-maker. As Marmaduke Eardham was, of all young men about town, perhaps the most careless, the most indifferent, and the least ferocious, his mother was probably mistaken in her estimate of his resentful feelings. "As for Sir George, he would be for taking the law of the wretch for libel, and then we should be—! I don't know where we should be then; but my dear girl would die."
Of course there was nothing done. During the whole interview Lady Eardham continued to press Neefit's letter under her hand upon the table, as though it was of all documents the most precious. She handled it as though to tear it would be as bad as to tear an original document bearing the king's signature. Before the interview was over she had locked it up in her desk, as though there were something in it by which the whole Eardham race might be blessed or banned. And, though she spoke no such word, she certainly gave Ralph to understand that by this letter he, Ralph Newton, was in some mysterious manner so connected with the secrets, and the interests, and the sanctity of the Eardham family, that, whether such connection might be for weal or woe, the Newtons and the Eardhams could never altogether free themselves from the link. "Perhaps you had better come and dine with us in a family way to-morrow," said Lady Eardham, giving her invitation as though it must necessarily be tendered, and almost necessarily accepted. Ralph, not thanking her, but taking it in the same spirit, said that he would be there at half past seven. "Just ourselves," said Lady Eardham, in a melancholy tone, as though they two were doomed to eat family dinners together for ever after.
"I suppose the property is really his own?" said Lady Eardham to her husband that afternoon.
Sir George was a stout, plethoric gentleman, with a short temper and many troubles. Marmaduke was expensive, and Sir George himself had spent money when he was young. The girls, who knew that they had no fortunes, expected that everything should be done for them, at least during the period of their natural harvest,—and they were successful in having their expectations realised. They demanded that there should be horses to ride, servants to attend them, and dresses to wear; and they had horses, servants, and dresses. There were also younger children; and Sir George was quite as anxious as Lady Eardham that his daughters should become wives. "His own?—of course it's his own. Who else should it belong to?"
"There was something about that other young man."
"The bastard! It was the greatest sin that ever was thought of to palm such a fellow as that off on the county;—but it didn't come to anything."
"I'm told, too, he has been very extravagant. No doubt he did get money from the,—the tailor who wants to make him marry his daughter."
"A flea-bite," said Sir George. "Don't you bother about that." Thus authorised, Lady Eardham went to the work with a clear conscience and a good will.
On the next morning Ralph received by post an envelope from Sir Thomas Underwood containing a letter addressed to him from Mr. Neefit. "Sir,—Are you going to make your ward act honourable to me and my daughter?—Yours, respectful,Thomas Neefit." The reader will understand that this was prior to Polly's triumph over her father. Ralph uttered a deep curse, and made up his mind that he must either throw himself entirely among the Eardhams, or else start at once for the Rocky Mountains. He dined in Cavendish Square that day, and again took Gus down to dinner.
"I'm very glad to see you here," said Sir George, when they two were alone together after the ladies had left them. Sir George, who had been pressed upon home service because of the necessity of the occasion, was anxious to get off to his club.
"You are very kind, Sir George," said Ralph.
"We shall be delighted to see you at Brayboro', if you'll come for a week in September and look at the girls' horses. They say you're quite a pundit about horseflesh."
"Oh, I don't know," said Ralph.
"You'll like to go up to the girls now, I dare say, and I've got an engagement." Then Sir George rang the bell for a cab, and Ralph went up-stairs to the girls. Emily had taken herself away; Josephine was playing bésique with her mother, and Gus was thus forced into conversation with the young man. "Bésique is so stupid," said Gus.
"Horribly stupid," said Ralph.
"And what do you like, Mr. Newton?"
"I like you," said Ralph. But he did not propose on that evening. Lady Eardham thought he ought to have done so, and was angry with him. It was becoming almost a matter of necessity with her that young men should not take much time. Emily was twenty-seven, and Josephine was a most difficult child to manage,—not pretty, but yet giving herself airs and expecting everything. She had refused a clergyman with a very good private fortune, greatly to her mother's sorrow. And Gus had already been the source of much weary labour. Four eldest sons had been brought to her feet and been allowed to slip away; and all, as Lady Eardham said, because Gus would "joke" with other young men, while the one man should have received all her pleasantry. Emily was quite of opinion that young Newton should by no means have been allotted to Gus. Lady Eardham, who had played bésique with an energy against which Josephine would have mutinied but that some promise was made as to Marshall and Snelgrove, could see from her little table that young Newton was neither abject nor triumphant in his manner. He had not received nor had he even asked when he got up to take his leave. Lady Eardham could have boxed his ears; but she smiled upon him ineffably, pressed his hand, and in the most natural way in the world alluded to some former allusion about riding and the park.
"I shan't ride to-morrow," said Gus, with her back turned to them.
"Do," said Ralph.
"No; I shan't."
"You see what she says, Lady Eardham," said Ralph.
"You promised you would before dinner, my dear," said Lady Eardham, "and you ought not to change your mind. If you'll be good-natured enough to come, two of them will go." Of course it was understood that he would come.
"Nothing on earth, mamma, shall ever induce me to play bésique again," said Josephine, yawning.
"It's not worse for you than for me," said the old lady sharply.
"But it isn't fair," said Josephine, who was supposed to be the clever one of the family. "I may have to play my bésique a quarter of a century hence."
"He's an insufferable puppy," said Emily, who had come into the room, and had been pretending to be reading.
"That's because he don't bark at your bidding, my dear," said Gus.
"It doesn't seem that he means to bark at yours," said the elder sister.
"If you go on like that, girls, I'll tell your papa, and we'll go to Brayboro' at once. It's too bad, and I won't bear it."
"What would you have me do?" said Gus, standing up for herself fiercely.
Gus did ride, and so did Josephine, and there was a servant with them of course. It had been Emily's turn,—there being two horses for the three girls; but Gus had declared that no good could come if Emily went;—and Emily's going had been stopped by parental authority. "You do as you're bid," said Sir George, "or you'll get the worst of it." Sir George suffered much from gout, and had obtained from the ill-temper which his pangs produced a mastery over his daughters which some fathers might have envied.
"You behaved badly to me last night, Mr. Newton," said Gus, on horseback. There was another young man riding with Josephine, so that the lovers were alone together.
"Behaved badly to you?"
"Yes, you did, and I felt it very much,—very much indeed."
"How did I behave badly?"
"If you do not know, I'm sure that I shall not tell you." Ralph did not know;—but he went home from his ride an unengaged man, and may perhaps have been thought to behave badly on that occasion also.
But Lady Eardham, though she was sometimes despondent and often cross, was gifted with perseverance. A picnic party up the river from Maidenhead to Cookham was got up for the 30th of May, and Ralph Newton of course was there. Just at that time the Neefit persecution was at its worst. Letters directed by various hands came to him daily, and in all of them he was asked when he meant to be on the square. He knew the meaning of that picnic as well as does the reader,—as well as did Lady Eardham; but it had come to that with him that he was willing to yield. It cannot exactly be said for him that out of all the feminine worth that he had seen, he himself had chosen Gus Eardham as being the most worthy,—or even that he had chosen her as being to him the most charming. But it was evident to him that he must get married, and why not to her as well as to another? She had style, plenty of style; and, as he told himself, style for a man in his position was more than anything else. It can hardly be said that he had made up his mind to offer to her before he started for Cookham,—though doubtless through all the remaining years of his life he would think that his mind had been so fixed,—but he had concluded, that if she were thrown at his head very hard, he might as well take her. "I don't think he ever does drink champagne," said Lady Eardham, talking it all over with Gus on the morning of the picnic.