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RALPH THE HEIR
“Awfully grand, and beautifully soft, and all the rest of it,”
said Ralph, as he went on with Mary Bonner by his side.
“That fellow has got no touch of poetry in him!” said
Poojean to himself. In the meantime Clarissa, pausing a moment as she entered through the open window, heard Ralph’s
cheery voice. How well she knew its tones! And she still paused,
with ears erect, striving to catch some word from her cousin’s
mouth. But Mary’s words, if they were words spoken by her,
were too low and soft to be caught. “Oh, — if she should turn
out to be sly!” Clarissa said to herself. Was it true that Ralph
had been flirting with her, — as that odious man had said?
And why, why, why had Ralph not come to her, if he really
loved her, as he had twice told her that he did? Of course she
had not thrown herself into his arms when old Mrs. Brownlow
made that foolish fuss. But still he might have come to her.
He might have waited for her in the garden. He might have
saved her from the “odious vulgarity” of that “abominable old
wretch.” For in such language did Clarissa describe to herself
the exertions to amuse her which had been made by her late
companion. But had the Sydney Smith of the day been talking to her, he would have been dull, or the Count D’Orsay of
the day, he would have been vulgar, while the sound of Ralph
Newton’s voice, as he walked with another girl, was reaching her ears. And then, before she had seated herself in Mrs.
Brownlow’s drawing-room, another idea had struck her. Could
it be that Ralph did not come to her because she had told him
that she would never forgive him for that crime? Was it possible that his own shame was so great that he was afraid of
her? If so, could she not let him know that he was, — well, for-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
given? Poor Clarissa! In the meantime the voices still came to
her from the garden, and she still thought that she could distinguish Ralph’s low murmurings.
It may be feared that Ralph had no such deep sense of his
fault as that suggested. He did remember well enough, — had
reflected more than once or twice, — on those words which
he had spoken to Clary. Having spoken them he had felt his
crime to be their not unnatural accompaniment. At that moment, when he was on the lawn at Fulham, he had thought
that it would be very sweet to devote himself to dear
Clary, — that Clary was the best and prettiest girl he knew,
that, in short, it might be well for him to love her and cherish her and make her his wife. Had not Patience come upon
the scene, and disturbed them, he would probably then and
there have offered to her his hand and heart. But Patience had
come upon the scene, and the offer had not been, as he thought,
made. Since all that, which had passed ages ago, — weeks and
weeks ago, — there had fallen upon him the prosaic romance of
Polly Neefit. He had actually gone down to Hendon to offer
himself as a husband to the breeches-maker’s daughter. It is
true he had hitherto escaped in that quarter also, — or, at any
rate, had not as yet committed himself. But the train of incidents and thoughts which had induced him to think seriously of marrying Polly, had made him aware that he could
not propose marriage to Sir Thomas Underwood’s daughter.
From such delight as that he found, on calm reflection, that he
had debarred himself by the folly of his past life. It was well
that Patience had come upon the scene.
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RALPH THE HEIR
Such being the state of affairs with him, that little episode
with Clary being at an end, — or rather, as he thought, never
having quite come to a beginning, — and his little arrangement
as to Polly Neefit being in abeyance, he was free to amuse himself with this newcomer. Miss Bonner was certainly the most
lovely girl he had ever seen. He could imagine no beauty to
exceed hers. He knew well enough that her loveliness could be
nothing to him; — but a woman’s beauty is in one sense as free
as the air in all Christian countries. It is a light shed for the delight, not of one, but of many. There could be no reason why he
should not be among the admirers of Miss Bonner. “I expect,
you know, to be admitted quite on the terms of an old friend,”
he said. “I shall call you Mary, and all that kind of thing.”
“I don’t see your claim,” said Miss Bonner.
“Oh yes, you do, — and must allow it. I was almost a sort of
son of Sir Thomas’s, — till he turned me off when I came of age.
And Patience and Clarissa are just the same as sisters to me.”
“You are not even a cousin, Mr. Newton.”
“No; — I’m not a cousin. It’s more like a foster-brother, you
know. Of course I shan’t call you Mary if you tell me not. How
is it to be?”
“Just for the present I’ll be Miss Bonner.”
“For a week or so?”
“Say for a couple of years, and then we’ll see how it is.”
“You’ll be some lucky’s fellow’s wife long before that. Do
you like living at Fulham?”
“Very much. How should I not like it? They are so kind to
me. And you know, when I first resolved to come home,
I thought I should have to go out as a governess, — or, perhaps,
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
as a nursery-maid, if they didn’t think me clever enough to
teach. I did not expect my uncle to be so good to me. I had
never seen him, you know. Is it not odd that my uncle is so
little at home?”
“It is odd. He is writing a book, you see, and he finds that
the air of Fulham doesn’t suit his brains.”
“Oh, Mr. Newton!”
“And he likes to be quite alone. There isn’t a better fellow
going than your uncle. I am sure I ought to say so. But he isn’t
just what I should call, — sociable.”
“I think him almost perfection; — but I do wish he was
more at home for their sakes. We’ll go in now, Mr. Newton. Patience has gone in, and I haven’t seen Clarissa for ever so long.”
Soon after this the guests began to go away. Mr. Truepeny
gave Mrs. Brownlow’s hand the last squeeze, and Mr. Poojean
remarked that all terrestrial joys must have an end. “Not but
that such hours as these,” said he, “have about them a dash of
the celestial which almost gives them a claim to eternity.”
“Horrible fool!” said Clarissa to her sister, who was standing
close to her.
“Mrs. Brownlow would, perhaps, prefer going to bed,” said
Ralph. Then every one was gone except the Underwoods and
Ralph Newton. The girls had on their hats and shawls, and
all was prepared for their departure; — but there was some
difficulty about the fly. The Fulham fly which had brought
them, and which always took them everywhere, had hitherto
omitted to return for them. It was ordered for half-past ten,
and now it was eleven. “Are you sure he was told?” said Clary.
Patience had told him herself, — twice. “Then he must be tipsy
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RALPH THE HEIR
again,” said Clary. Mrs. Brownlow bade them to sit still and
wait; but when the fly did not arrive by half-past eleven, it was
necessary that something should be done. There were omnibuses on the road, but they might probably be full. “It is only
two miles, — let us walk,” said Clary; and so it was decided.
Ralph insisted on walking with them till he should meet
an omnibus or a cab to take him back to London. Patience did
her best to save him from such labour, protesting that they
would want no such escort. But he would not be gainsayed,
and would go with them at least a part of the way. Of course he
did not leave them till they had reached the gate of Popham
Villa. But when they were starting there arose a difficulty as to
the order in which they would marshal themselves; — a difficulty as to which not a word could be spoken, but which was
not the less a difficulty. Clarissa hung back. Ralph had spoken
hardly a word to her all the evening. It had better continue so.
She was sure that he could not care for her. But she thought
that she would be better contented that he should walk with
Patience than with Mary Bonner. But Mary took the matter
into her own hands, and started off boldly with Patience. Patience hardly approved, but there would be nothing so bad
as seeming to disapprove. Clary’s heart was in her mouth as
she found her arm within his. He had contrived that it should
be so, and she could not refuse. Her mind was changed again
now, and once more she wished that she could let him know
that the crime was forgiven.
“I am so glad to have a word with you at last,” he said. “How
do you get on with the new cousin?”
“Very well; — and how have you got on with her?”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“You must ask her that. She is very beautiful, — what I call
wonderfully beautiful.”
“Indeed she is,” said Clary, withdrawing almost altogether
the weight of her hand from his arm.
“And clever, too, — very clever; but — ”
“But what?” asked Clary, and the softest, gentlest halfounce of pressure was restored.
“Well; — nothing. I like her uncommonly; — but is she not
quite, — quite, — quite — ”
“She is quite everything that she ought to be, Ralph.”
“I’m sure of that; — an angel, you know, and all the rest of
it. But angels are cold, you know. I don’t know that I ever admired a girl so much in my life.” The pressure was again lessened, — all but annihilated. “But, somehow, I should never
dream of falling in love with your cousin.”
“Perhaps you may do so without dreaming,” said Clary, as
unconsciously she gave back the weight to her hand.
“No; — I know very well the sort of girl that makes me
spoony.” This was not very encouraging to poor Clary, but
still she presumed that he meant to imply that she herself was
a girl of the sort that so acted upon him. And the conversation
went on in this way throughout the walk. There was not much
encouragement to her, and certainly she did not say a word to
him that could make him feel that she wanted encouragement. But still he had been with her, and she had been happy;
and when they parted at the gate, and he again pressed her
hand, she thought that things had gone well. “He must know
that I have forgiven him now!” she said to herself.
CHAPTER XIII
MR. NEEFIT IS DISTURBED
On the morning following Mrs. Brownlow’s little tea-party
Ralph Newton was bound by appointment to call upon Sir
Thomas. But before he started on that duty a certain friend of
his called upon him. This friend was Mr. Neefit. But before
the necessary account of Mr. Neefit’s mission is given, the reader must be made acquainted with a few circumstances as they
had occurred at Hendon.
It will be remembered perhaps that on the Sunday evening
the two rivals left the cottage at the same moment, one taking the road to the right, and the other that to the left, — so
that bloodshed, for that occasion at least, was prevented. “Neefit,” said his wife to him when they were alone together,
“you’ll be getting yourself into trouble.” “You be blowed,” said
Neefit. He was very angry with his wife, and was considering
what steps he would take to maintain his proper marital and
parental authority. He was not going to give way to the weaker
vessel in a matter of such paramount importance, as to be made
a fool of in his own family. He was quite sure of this, while
the strength of the port wine still stood to him; and though he
was somewhat more troubled in spirit when his wife began to
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
bully him on the next morning, he still had valour enough to
say that Ontario Moggs also might be — blowed.
On the Monday, when he returned home and asked for
Polly, he found that Polly was out walking. Mrs. Neefit did not
at once tell him that Moggs was walking with her, but such
was the fact. Just at five o’clock Moggs had presented himself at the cottage, — knowing very well, sly dog that he was,
the breeches-maker’s hour of return, which took place always
precisely at four minutes past six, — and boldly demanded
an interview with Polly. “I should like to hear what she’s got to
say to me,” said he, looking boldly, almost savagely, into Mrs. Neefit’s face. According to that matron’s ideas this was the proper
way in which maidens should be wooed and won; and, though
Polly had at first declared that she had nothing at all to say to
Mr. Moggs, she allowed herself at last to be led forth. Till they
had passed the railway station on the road leading away from
London, Ontario said not a word of his purpose. Polly, feeling
that silence was awkward, and finding that she was being hurried along at a tremendous pace, spoke of the weather and of
the heat, and expostulated. “It is hot, very hot,” said Ontario,
taking off his hat and wiping his brow, — “but there are moments in a man’s life when he can’t go slow.”
“Then there are moments in his life when he must go
on by himself,” said Polly. But her pluck was too good for
her to desert him at such a moment, and, although he hardly
moderated his pace till he had passed the railway station, she
kept by his side. As things had gone so far it might be quite
as well now that she should hear what he had to say. A dim,
hazy idea had crossed the mind of Moggs that it would be as
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RALPH THE HEIR
well that he should get out into the country before he began
his task, and that the line of the railway which passed beneath
the road about a quarter of a mile beyond Mr. Neefit’s cottage,
might be considered as the boundary which divided the town
from pastoral joys. He waited, therefore, till the bridge was behind them, till they had passed the station, which was close to
the bridge; — and then he began. “Polly,” said he, “you know
what brings me here.”
Polly did know very well, but she was not bound to confess
such knowledge. “You’ve brought me here, Mr. Moggs, and
that’s all I know,” she said.
“Yes; — I’ve brought you here. Polly, what took place last
night made me very unhappy, — very unhappy indeed.”
“I can’t help that, Mr. Moggs.”
“Not that I mean to blame you.”
“Blame me! I should think not. Blame me, indeed! Why are
you to blame anybody because father chooses to ask whom he
pleases to dinner? A pretty thing indeed, if father isn’t to have
whom he likes in his own house.”
“Polly, you know what I mean.”
“I know you made a great goose of yourself last night, and
I didn’t feel a bit obliged to you.”
“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t a goose at all. I don’t say but what I’m
as big a fool as most men. I don’t mean to stick up for myself.
I know well enough that I am foolish often. But I wasn’t foolish
last night. What was he there for?”
“What business have you to ask, Mr. Moggs?”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“All the business in life. Love; — real love. That’s why
I have business. That young man, who is, I suppose, what you
call a swell.”
“Don’t put words into my mouth, Mr. Moggs. I don’t call
him anything of the kind.”
“He’s a gentleman.”
“Yes; — he is a gentleman, — I suppose.”
“And I’m a tradesman, — a bootmaker.”
“So is father a tradesman, and if you mean to tell me
that I turn up my nose at people the same as father is, you
may just go back to London and think what you like about me.
I won’t put up with it from you or anybody. A tradesman to me
is as good as anybody, — if he is as good. There.”
“Oh, Polly, you do look so beautiful!”
“Bother!”
“When you say that, and speak in that way, I think you as
good as you are beautiful.”
“Remember, — I don’t say a word against what you
call — gentlemen. I take ’em just as they come. Mr. Newton is
a very nice young man.”
“Are you going to take him, Polly?”
“How can I take him when he has never asked me? You
are not my father, Mr. Moggs, not yet my uncle. What right
have you to question me? If I was going to take him, I shouldn’t
want your leave.”
“Polly, you ought to be honest.”
“I am honest.”
“Will you hear me, Polly?”
“No, I won’t.”
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