If this kind of thing were to go on, life wouldn\'t be worth having. That was the feeling of Ralph, the squire of Newton, as he returned on that Saturday from London to the Moonbeam; and so far Mr. Neefit had been successful in carrying out his threat. Neefit had sworn that he would make the young man\'s life a burden to him, and the burden was already becoming unbearable. Mr. Carey had promised to do something. He would, at any rate, see the infatuated breeches-maker of Conduit Street. In the meantime he had suggested one remedy of which Ralph had thought before,—"If you were married to some one else he\'d give it up," Mr. Carey had suggested. That no doubt was true.
Ralph completed his sojourn at the Moonbeam, leaving that place at the end of the first week in April, took a run down to his own place, and then settled himself up to London for the season. His brother Gregory had at this time returned to the parsonage at Newton; but there was an understanding that he was to come up to London and be his brother\'s guest for the first fortnight in May. Ralph the heir had taken larger rooms, and had a spare chamber. When Ralph had given this invitation, he had expressed his determination of devoting his spring in town to an assiduous courtship of Mary Bonner. At the moment in which he made that assertion down at Newton, the nuisance of the Neefit affair was less intolerable to him than it had since become. He had spoken cheerily of his future prospects, declaring himself to be violently in love with Mary, though he declared at the same time that he had no idea of breaking his heart for any young woman. That last assertion was probably true.
As for living in the great house at the Priory all alone, that he had declared to be impossible. Of course he would be at home for the hunting next winter; but he doubted whether he should be there much before that time, unless a certain coming event should make it necessary for him to go down and look after things. He thought it probable that he should take a run abroad in July; perhaps go to Norway for the fishing in June. He was already making arrangements with two other men for a move in August. He might be at home for partridge shooting about the middle of September, but he shouldn\'t "go into residence" at Newton before that. Thus he had spoken of it in describing his plans to his brother, putting great stress on his intention to devote the spring months to the lovely Mary. Gregory had seen nothing wrong in all this. Ralph was now a rich man, and was entitled to amuse himself. Gregory would have wished that his brother would at once make himself happy among his own tenants and dependents, but that, no doubt, would come soon. Ralph did spend two nights at Newton after the scene with Neefit in the Moonbeam yard,—just that he might see his nags safe in their new quarters,—and then went up to London. He was hardly yet strong in heart, because such a trouble as that which vexed him in regard to Polly does almost make a man\'s life a burden. Ralph was gifted with much aptitude for throwing his troubles behind, but he hardly was yet able to rid himself of this special trouble. That horrid tradesman was telling his story to everybody. Sir Thomas Underwood knew the story; and so, he thought, did Mary Bonner. Mary Bonner, in truth, did not know it; but she had thrown in Ralph\'s teeth, as an accusation against him, that he owed himself and his affections to another girl; and Ralph, utterly forgetful of Clarissa and that now long-distant scene on the lawn, had believed, and still did believe, that Mary had referred to Polly Neefit. On the 10th of April he established himself at his new rooms in Spring Gardens, and was careful in seeing that there was a comfortable little bed-room for his brother Greg. His uncle had now been dead just six months, but he felt as though he had been the owner of the Newton estate for years. If Mr. Carey could only settle for him that trouble with Mr. Neefit, how happy his life would be to him. He was very much in love with Mary Bonner, but his trouble with Mr. Neefit was of almost more importance to him than his love for Mary Bonner.
In the meantime the girls were living, as usual, at Popham Villa, and Sir Thomas was living, as usual, in Southampton Buildings. He and his colleague had been unseated, but it had already been decided by the House of Commons that no new writ should be at once issued, and that there should be a commission appointed to make extended inquiry at Percycross in reference to the contemplated disfranchisement of the borough. There could be no possible connexion between this inquiry and the expediency of Sir Thomas living at home; but, after some fashion, he reconciled further delay to his conscience by the fact that the Percycross election was not even yet quite settled. No doubt it would be necessary that he should again go to Percycross during the sitting of the Commission.
The reader will remember the interview between Gregory Newton and Clarissa, in which poor Clary had declared with so much emphasis her certainty that his brother\'s suit to Mary must be fruitless. This she had said, with artless energy, in no degree on her own behalf. She was hopeless now in that direction, and had at last taught herself to feel that the man was unworthy. The lesson had reached her, though she herself was ignorant not only of the manner of the teaching, but of the very fact that she had been taught. She had pleaded, more than once, that men did such things, and were yet held in favour and forgiven, let their iniquities have been what they might. She had hoped to move others by the doctrine; but gradually it had ceased to be operative, even on herself. She could not tell how it was that her passion faded and died away. It can hardly be said that it died away; but it became to herself grievous and a cause of soreness, instead of a joy and a triumph. She no longer said, even to herself, that he was to be excused. He had come there, and had made a mere plaything of her,—wilfully. There was no earnestness in him, no manliness, and hardly common honesty. A conviction that it was so had crept into her poor wounded heart, in spite of those repeated assertions which she had made to Patience as to the persistency of her own affection. First dismay and then wrath had come upon her when the man who ought to be her lover came to the very house in which she was living, and there offered his hand to another girl, almost in her very presence. Had the sin been committed elsewhere, and with any rival other than her own cousin, she might have still clung to that doctrine of forgiveness, because the sinner was a man, and because it is the way of the world to forgive men. But the insult had been too close for pardon; and now her wrath was slowly changing itself to contempt. Had Mary accepted the man\'s offer this phase of feeling would not have occurred. Clarissa would have hated the woman, but still might have loved the man. But Mary had treated him as a creature absolutely beneath her notice, had evidently despised him, and Mary\'s scorn communicated itself to Clarissa. The fact that Ralph was now Newton of Newton, absolutely in harbour after so many dangers of shipwreck, assisted her in this. "I would have been true to him, though he hadn\'t had a penny," she said to herself: "I would never have given him up though all the world had been against him." Debts, difficulties, an inheritance squandered, idle habits, even profligacy, should not have torn him from her heart, had he possessed the one virtue of meaning what he said when he told her that he loved her. She remembered the noble triumph she had felt when she declared to Mary that that other Ralph, who was to have been Mary\'s lover, was welcome to the fine property. Her sole ambition had been to be loved by this man; but the man had been incapable of loving her. She herself was pretty, and soft, bright on occasions, and graceful. She knew so much of herself; and she knew, also, that Mary was far prettier than herself, and more clever. This young man to whom she had devoted herself possessed no power of love for an individual,—no capability of so joining himself to another human being as to feel, that in spite of any superiority visible to the outside world, that one should be esteemed by him superior to all others,—because of his love. The young man had liked prettiness and softness and grace and feminine nicenesses; and seeing one who was prettier and more graceful,—all which poor Clary allowed, though she was not so sure about the softness and niceness,—had changed his aim without an effort! Ah, how different was poor Gregory!
She thought much of Gregory, reminding herself that as was her sorrow in regard to her own crushed hopes, so were his. His hopes, too, had been crushed, because she had been so obdurate to him. But she had never been false. She had never whispered a word of love to Gregory. It might be that his heart was as sore, but he had not been injured as she had been injured. She despised the owner of Newton Priory. She would scorn him should he come again to her and throw himself at her feet. But Gregory could not despise her. She had, indeed, preferred the bad to the good. There had been lack of judgment. But there had been on her side no lack of truth. Yes;—she had been wrong in her choice. Her judgment had been bad. And yet how glorious he had looked as he lay upon the lawn, hot from his rowing, all unbraced, brown and bold and joyous as a young god, as he bade her go and fetch him drink to slake his thirst! How proud, then, she had been to be ordered by him, as though their mutual intimacies and confidences and loves were sufficient, when they too were alone together, to justify a reversal of those social rules by which the man is ordered to wait upon the woman. There is nothing in the first flush of acknowledged love that is sweeter to the woman than this. All the men around her are her servants; but in regard to this man she may have the inexpressibly greater pleasure of serving him herself. Clarissa had now thought much of these things, and had endeavoured to define to herself what had been those gifts belonging to Ralph which had won from her her heart. He was not, in truth, handsomer than his brother Gregory, was certainly less clever, was selfish in small things from habit, whereas Gregory had no thought for his own comfort. It had all come from this,—that a black coat and a grave manner of life and serious pursuits had been less alluring to her than idleness and pleasure. It had suited her that her young god should be joyous, unbraced, brown, bold, and thirsty. She did not know Pope\'s famous line, but it all lay in that. She was innocent, pure, unknowing in the ways of vice, simple in her tastes, conscientious in her duties, and yet she was a rake at heart,—till at last sorrow and disappointment taught her that it is not enough that a man should lie loose upon the grass with graceful negligence and call for soda-water with a pleasant voice. Gregory wore black clothes, was sombre, and was a parson;—but, oh, what a thing it is that a man should be true at heart!
She said nothing of her changing feelings to Mary, or even to Patience. The household at this time was not very gay or joyous. Sir Thomas, after infinite vexation, had lost the seat of which they had all been proud. Mary Bonner\'s condition was not felt to be deplorable, as was that of poor Clary, and she certainly did not carry herself as a lovelorn maiden. Of Mary Bonner it may be said that no disappointment of that kind would affect her outward manner; nor would she in any strait of love be willing to make a confidence or to discuss her feelings. Whatever care of that kind might be present to her would be lightened, if not made altogether as nothing, by her conviction that such loads should be carried in silence, and without any visible sign to the world that the muscles are overtaxed. But it was known that the banished Ralph had, in the moment of his expected prosperity, declared his purpose of giving all that he had to give to this beauty, and it was believed that she would have accepted the gift. It had, therefore, come to pass that the name of neither Ralph could be mentioned at the cottage, and that life among these maidens was sober, sedate, and melancholy. At last there came a note from Sir Thomas to Patience. "I shall be home to dinner to-morrow. I found the enclosed from R. N. this morning. I suppose he must come. Affectionately, T. U." The enclosed note was as follows:—"Dear Sir Thomas, I called this morning, but old Stemm was as hard as granite. If you do not object I will run down to the villa to-morrow. If you are at home I will stay and dine. Yours ever, Ralph Newton."
The mind of Sir Thomas when he received this had been affected exactly as his words described. He had supposed that Ralph must come. He had learned to hold his late ward in low esteem. The man was now beyond all likelihood of want, and sailing with propitious winds; but Sir Thomas, had he been able to consult his own inclinations, would have had no more to do with him. And yet the young Squire had not done anything which, as Sir Thomas thought, would justify him in closing his doors against one to whom he had been bound in a manner peculiarly intimate. However, if his niece should choose at last to accept Ralph, the match would be very brilliant; and the uncle thought that it was not his duty to interfere between her and so great an advantage. Sir Thomas, in truth, did not as yet understand Mary Bonner,—knew very little of her character; but he did know that it was incumbent on him to give her some opportunity of taking her beauty to market. He wrote a line to Ralph, saying that he himself would dine at home on the day indicated.
"Impossible!" said Clary, when she was first told.
"You may be sure he\'s coming," said Patience.
"Then I shall go and spend the day with Mrs. Brownlow. I cannot stand it."
"My dear, he\'ll know why you are away."
"Let him know," said Clarissa. And she did as she said she would. When Sir Thomas came home at about four o\'clock on the Thursday which Ralph had fixed,—Thursday, the fourteenth of April,—he found that Clarissa had flown. The fly was to be sent for her at ten, and it was calculated that by the time she returned, Ralph would certainly have taken his leave. Sir Thomas expressed neither anger nor satisfaction at this arrangement,—"Oh; she has gone to Mrs. Brownlow\'s, has she? Very well. I don\'t suppose it will make much difference to Ralph." "None in the least," said Patience, severely. "Nothing of that kind will make any difference to him." But at that time Ralph had been above an hour in the house.
We will now return to Ralph and his adventures. He had come up to London with the express object of pressing his suit upon Mary Bonner; but during his first day or two in London had busied himself rather with the affairs of his other love. He had been with Mr. Carey, and Mr. Carey had been with Mr. Neefit. "He is the maddest old man that I ever saw," said Mr. Carey. "When I suggested to him that you were willing to make any reasonable arrangement............