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 absolutel............