there was a short pause. "This Mr. Newton isn't a lover then?" asked Miss Bonner.
There was another pause before Clarissa could answer the question. "No," she said; "no; he isn't a lover. We don't have any lovers at Popham Villa." "Only that's not quite true," she said, after a pause. "And as you are to live with us just like a sister, I'll tell you about Gregory Newton, Ralph's brother." Then she did tell the story of the clergyman's love and the clergyman's discomfiture; but she said not a word of Ralph's declaration and Ralph's great sin on that fatal evening. And the way in which she told her story about the one brother altogether disarmed Mary Bonner's suspicion as to the other.
In truth Clarissa did not know whether it was or was not her privilege to regard Ralph Newton as her lover. He had not been to the cottage since that evening; and though the words he had spoken were still sweet in her ears—so sweet that she could not endure the thought of abandoning their sweetness—still she had a misgiving that they were in some sort rendered nugatory by his great fault. She had forgiven the fault;—looking back at it now over the distance of eight or ten days, had forgiven it with all her heart; but still there remained with her an undefined and unpleasant feeling that the spoken words, accompanied by a deed so wicked, were absorbed, and, as it were, drowned in the wickedness of the deed. What if the words as first spoken were only a prelude to the deed—for, as she well remembered, they had been spoken twice—and if the subsequent words were only an excuse for it! There was a painful idea in her mind that such might possibly be the case, and that if so, the man could never be forgiven, or at least ought never to be spoken to again. Acting on this suggestion from within, she absolutely refused to tell her father what had happened when Patience urged her to do so. "He'll come and see papa himself—if he means anything," said Clary. Patience only shook her head. She thought that Sir Thomas should be told at once; but she could not take upon herself to divulge her sister's secret, which had been imparted to her in trust.
Clarissa was obstinate. She would not tell her father, nor would she say what would be her own answer if her father were to give his permission for the match. As to this Patience had not much doubt. She saw that her sister's heart was set upon this lover. She had feared it before this late occurrence, and now she could hardly have a doubt. But if Ralph really meant it he would hardly have told her that he loved her, and then not waited for an answer—not have come back for an answer—not have gone to their father for an answer. And then, Patience thought, Sir Thomas would never consent to this marriage. Ralph was in debt, and a scapegrace, and quite unfit to undertake the management of a wife. Such was the elder sister's belief as to her father's mind. But she could not force upon Clary the necessity of taking any action in the matter. She was not strong enough in her position as elder to demand obedience. Clarissa's communication had been made in confidence; and Patience, though she was unhappy, would not break the trust.
At last this young Lothario appeared among them again; but, as it happened, he came in company with Sir Thomas. Such a thing had not happened before since the day on which Sir Thomas had given up all charge of his ward's property. But it did so happen now. The two men had met in London, and Sir Thomas had suggested that Ralph should come and be introduced to the new cousin.
"What are you doing now?" Sir Thomas had asked.
"Nothing particular just at present."
"You can get away this evening?"
"Yes—I think I can get away." It had been his intention to dine at his club with Captain Cox; but as he had dined at the club with Captain Cox on the previous day, the engagement was not felt to be altogether binding. "I can get away for dinner that is, but I've got to go out in the evening. It's a bore, but I promised to be at Lady McMarshal's to-night. But if I show there at twelve it will do." Thus it happened that Sir Thomas and Ralph Newton went down to Popham Villa in a cab together.
It was clear, both to Patience and Clarissa, that he was much struck with the new cousin; but then it was quite out of the question that any man should not be struck with her. Her beauty was of that kind—like the beauty of a picture—which must strike even if it fails to charm. And Mary had a way of exciting attention with strangers, even by her silence. It was hardly intentional, and there certainly was no coquetry in it; but it was the case that she carried herself after a fashion which made it impossible for any stranger to regard her place in the room as being merely a chair with a young lady in it. She would speak hardly a word; but her very lack of speech was eloquent. At the present time she was of course in deep mourning, and the contrast between the brilliance of her complexion and the dark dress which covered her throat;—between the black scarf and the profusion of bright hair which fell upon it, was so remarkable as of itself to excite attention. Clarissa, watching everything, though, with feminine instinct, seeming to watch nothing, could see that he was amazed. But then she had known that he would be amazed. And of what matter would be his amazement, if he were true? If, indeed, he were not true—then, then—then nothing mattered! Such was the light in which Clary viewed the circumstances around her at the present moment.
The evening did not pass very pleasantly. Ralph was introduced to the cousin, and asked some questions about the West Indies. Then there was tea. Ralph was dressed, with a black coat and white cravat, and Clary could not keep herself from thinking how very much nicer he was with a pipe in his mouth, and his neck bare, drinking soda-water and sherry out on the lawn. Ah—in spite of all that had then happened, that was the sweetest moment in her existence, when he jumped up from the ground and told her that he might do a great deal better than marry the West Indian cousin. She thought now of his very words, and suggested to herself that perhaps he would never say them again. Nay;—might it not be possible that he would say the very reverse, that he would declare his wish to marry the West Indian cousin. Clary could not conceive but that he might have her should he so wish. Young ladies, when they are in love, are prone to regard their lovers as being prizes so valuable as to be coveted by all female comers.
Before Ralph had taken his leave Sir Thomas took Mary apart to make some communication to her as to her own affairs. Everything was now settled, and Sir Thomas had purchased stock for her with her little fortune. "You have £20 2s. 4d. a year, quite your own," he said, laughing;—as he might have done to one of his own girls, had an unexpected legacy been left to her.
"That means that I must be altogether dependent on your charity," she said, looking into his face through her tears.
"It means nothing of the kind," he said, with almost the impetuosity of anger. "There shall be no such cold word as charity between you and me. You are one of us now, and of my cup and of my loaf it is your right to partake, as it is the right of those girls there. I shall never think of it, or speak of it again."
"But I must think of it, uncle."
"The less the better;—but never use that odious word again between you and me. It is a word for strangers. What is given as I give to you should be taken without even an acknowledgment. My payment is to be your love."
"You shall be paid in full," she said as she kissed him. This was all very well, but still on his part there was some misgiving—some misgiving, though no doubt. If he were to die what would become of her? He must make a new will—which in itself was to him a terrible trouble; and he must take something from his own girls in order that he might provide for this new daughter. That question of adopting is very difficult. If a man have no children of his own—none others that are dependent on him—he can give all, and there is an end of his trouble. But a man feels that he owes his property to his children; and, so feeling, may he take it from them and give it to others? Had she been in truth his daughter, he would have felt that there was enough for three; but she was not his daughter, and yet he was telling her that she should be to him the same as a child of his house!
In the meantime Ralph was out on the lawn with the two sisters, and was as awkward as men always are in such circumstances. When he spoke those words to Clarissa he had in truth no settled purpose in his mind. He had always liked her—loved her after a fashion—felt for her an affection different to that which he entertained for her sister. Nevertheless, most assuredly he had not come down to Fulham on that evening prepared to make her an offer. He had been there by chance, and it had been quite by chance that he found Clarissa alone. He knew that