"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, as a thing by itself, in an island of her life,—of which no one should ever think again. Was she to lose her lover for ever because she did not forgive him! If they could only come to some agreement that the offence should be acknowledged to be heinous, unpardonable, but committed in temporary madness, and that henceforward it should be buried in oblivion! Such agreement, however, was impossible. There could be no speech about the matter. Was she or was she not to lose her lover for ever because he had done this wicked thing? During the night she made up her mind that she could not afford to pay such a price for the sake of avenging virtue. For the future she would be on her guard! Wicked and heartless man, who had robbed her of so much! And yet how charming he had been to her as he looked into her eyes, and told her that he could do very much better than fall in love with her West Indian cousin. Then she thought of the offence again. Ah, if only a time might come in which they should be engaged together as man and wife with the consent of everybody! Then there would be no more offences.