Ralph the Heir. Anthony Trollope
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suppose I must be off," he said, jumping up on his legs, and flinging his jacket over his arm. "Patience will be in soon."
"I expect her every minute."
"If I were to say—something uncivil about Patience, I suppose you wouldn't like it?"
"Certainly, I shouldn't like it."
"Only just to wish she were at—Jericho?"
"Nonsense, Ralph."
"Yes; that would be nonsense. And the chances are, you know, that you would be at Jericho with her. Dear, dear Clary—you know I love you." Then he put his right arm round her waist, pipe and all, and kissed her.
She certainly had expected no such assault—had not only not thought of it, but had not known it to be among the possibilities that might occur to her. She had never been so treated before. One other lover she had had—as we know; but by him she had been treated with the deference due by an inferior to a superior being. It would have been very nice if Ralph would have told her that he loved her—but this was not nice. That had been done which she would not dare to tell to Patience—which she could not have endured that Patience should have seen. She was bound to resent it;—but how? She stood silent for a moment, and then burst into tears. "You are not angry with me, Clary?" he said.
"I am angry;—very angry. Go away. I will never speak to you again."
"You know how dearly I love you."
"I don't love you at all. You have insulted me, and I will never forgive you. Go away." At this moment the step of Patience coming up from the gate was heard upon the gravel. Clarissa's first thought when she heard it was to hide her tears. Though the man had injured her—insulted her—her very last resource would be to complain to others of the injury or the insult. It must be hidden in her own breast—but remembered always. Forgotten it could not be—nor, as she thought at the moment, forgiven. But, above all, it must not be repeated. As to any show of anger against the sinner, that was impossible to her—because it was so necessary that the sin should be hidden.
"What;—Ralph? Have you been here long?" asked Patience, looking with somewhat suspicious eyes at Clarissa's back, which was turned to her.
"About half an hour—waiting for you, and smoking and drinking soda-water. I have a boat here, and I must be off now."
"You'll have the tide with you," said Clarissa, with an effort.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men," said Ralph, with a forced laugh. "My affairs shall at once take advantage of this tide. I'll come again very soon to see the new cousin. Good-bye, girls." Then he inserted himself into his boat, and took himself off, without bestowing even anything of a special glance upon Clarissa.
"Is there anything the matter?" Patience asked.
"No;—only why did you stay all the evening with that stupid old woman, when you promised me that you would be back in ten minutes?"
"I said nothing about ten minutes, Clary; and, after all, I haven't been an hour gone. Miss Spooner is in trouble about her tenant, who won't pay the rent, and she had to tell me all about it."
"Stupid old woman!"
"Have you and Ralph been quarrelling, Clary?"
"No;—why should we quarrel?"
"There seems to have been something wrong."
"It's so stupid being found all alone here. It makes one feel that one is so desolate. I do wish papa would live with us like other girls' fathers. As he won't, it would be much better not to let people come at all."
Patience was sure that something had happened—and that that something must have reference to the guise of lover either assumed or not assumed by Ralph Newton. She accused her sister of no hypocrisy, but she was aware that Clarissa's words were wild, not expressing the girl's thoughts, and spoken almost at random. Something must be said, and therefore these complaints had been made. "Clary, dear; don't you like Ralph?" she asked.
"No. That is;—oh yes, I like him, of course. My head aches and I'll go to bed."
"Wait a few minutes, Clary. Something has disturbed you. Has it not?"
"Everything disturbs me."
"But if there is anything special, won't you tell me?" There had been something very special, which Clarissa certainly would not tell. "What has he said to you? I don't think he would be simply cross to you."
"He has not been cross at all."
"What is it then? Well;—if you won't tell me, I think that you are afraid of me. We never yet have been afraid of each other." Then there was a pause. "Clary, has he said that—he loves you?" There was another pause. Clarissa thought it all over, and for a moment was not quite certain whether any such sweet assurance had or had not been given to her. Then she remembered his words;—"You know how dearly I love you." But ought they to be sweet to her now? Had he not so offended her that there could never be forgiveness? And if no forgiveness, how then could his love be sweet to her? Patience waited, and then repeated her question. "Tell me, Clary; what has he said to you?"
"I don't know."
"Do you love him, Clary?"
"No. I hate him."
"Hate him, Clary? You did not use to hate him. You did not hate him yesterday? You would not hate him without a cause. My darling, tell me what it means! If you and I do not trust each other what will the world be to us? There is no one else to whom we can tell our troubles." Nevertheless Clarissa would not tell this trouble. "Why do you say that you hate him?"
"I don't know why. Oh, dear Patty, why do you go on so? Yes; he did say that he loved me;—there."
"And did that make you unhappy? It need not make you unhappy, though you should refuse him. When his brother asked you to marry him, that did not make you unhappy."
"Yes it did;—very."
"And is this the same?"
"No;—it is quite different."
"I am afraid, Clary, that Ralph Newton would not make a good husband. He is extravagant and in debt, and papa would not like it."
"Then papa should not let him come here just as he pleases and whenever he likes. It is papa's fault;—that is to say it would be if there were anything in it."
"Is there nothing in it, Clary? What answer did you make when he told you that he loved you?"
"You came, and I made no answer. I do so wish that you had come before." She wanted to tell her sister everything but the one thing, but was unable to do so because the one thing affected the other things so vitally. As it was, Patience, finding that she could press her questions no further, was altogether in the dark. That Ralph had made a declaration of love to her sister she did know; but in what manner Clarissa had received it she could not guess. She had hitherto feared that Clary was too fond of the young man, but Clary would now only say that she hated him. But the matter would soon be set at rest. Ralph Newton would now, no doubt, go to their father. If Sir Thomas would permit it, this new-fangled hatred of Clary's would, Patience thought, soon be overcome. If, however—as was more probable—Sir Thomas should violently disapprove, then there would be no more visits from Ralph Newton to the villa. As there had been a declaration of love, of course their father would be informed of it at once. Patience, having so resolved, allowed her sister to go to her bed without further questioning.
In Clarissa's own bosom the great offence had been forgiven—or rather condoned before the morning. Her lover had been very cruel to her, very wicked, and most unkind;—especially unkind in this, that he had turned to absolute pain a moment of life which might have been of all moments the fullest of joy; and especially cruel in this, that he had so treated her that she could not look forward to future joy without alloy. She could forgive him;—yes. But she could not endure that he should think that she would forgive him. She was willing to blot out the offence,