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RALPH THE HEIR
hope. Had there been any faintest expectation in his mind
that Clarissa would at last become his wife he would have
been deterred by a sense of duty from making to his brother
that generous offer of all the property he owned. But he had
no such hope. Clarissa had given thrice that answer, which of
all answers is the most grievous to the true-hearted lover.
“She felt for him unbounded esteem, and would always regard
him as a friend.” A short decided negative, or a doubtful no,
or even an indignant repulse, may be changed, — may give
way to second convictions, or to better acquaintance, or to altered circumstances, or even simply to perseverance. But an assurance of esteem and friendship means, and only can mean,
that the lady regards her lover as she might do some old uncle
or patriarchal family connection, whom, after a fashion, she
loves, but who can never be to her the one creature to be worshipped above all others.
Such were Gregory Newton’s ideas as to his own chance of
success, and, so believing, he had resolved that he would
never press his suit again. He endeavoured to conquer his
love; — but that he found to be impossible. He thought that it
was so impossible that he had determined to give up the endeavour. Though he would have advised others that by God’s
mercy all sorrows in this world could be cured, he told himself, — without arraigning God’s mercy, — that for him this
sorrow could not be cured. He did not scruple, therefore, to
assure his brother that he would not marry, — nor did he hesitate, in writing to Patience Underwood, to assure her that his
love for her sister was unchangeable. In saying so he urged no
suit; — but it was impossible that he should write to the house
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
without some message, and none other from him to her could
be a true message. It could not hurt her. It would not even
give her the trouble to think whether she had decided well.
He quite understood the nature of the love he wanted, —
a love that would have felt it to be all happiness to lean upon
his bosom. Without this love he would not have wished to take
her; — and with such love as that he knew he could not fill
her heart. Therefore it was that he would satisfy himself with
walking round the churchyard of Newton Peele, and telling
himself that the pleasure of this world was best to be found in
the pursuit of the joys of the next.
CHAPTER XV
CLARISSA WAITS
When Patience and Clarissa had got to their own room on
the night on which they had walked back from Mrs. Brownlow’s house to Popham Villa, — during all which long walk
Clarissa’s hand had lain gently upon Ralph Newton’s arm, —
the elder sister looked painfully and anxiously into the younger’s face, in order that, if it were possible, she might learn without direct enquiry what had been said during that hour of close
communion. Had Ralph meant to speak there could have been
no time more appropriate. And Patience hardly knew what she
herself wished, — except that she wished that her sister might
have everything that was good and joyous and prosperous.
There was never a look of pain came across Clary’s face, but
Patience suffered some touch of inner agony. This feeling was
so strong that she sympathised even with Clary’s follies, and
with Clary’s faults. She almost knew that it would not be well
that Ralph Newton should be encouraged as a lover, — brilliant as were his future prospects, and dear, as he was personally to them all. He was a spendthrift, and it might be that his
fine prospects would all be wasted before they were matured.
And then their father would so probably disapprove! And
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
then, again, it was so wrong that Clary’s peace should have
been disturbed and yet no word said to their father. There was
much that was wrong; — but still so absolute was her clinging love for Clary that she longed above all things that Clary
should be made happy. When Ralph’s brother had declared
himself as a suitor, — which he had done boldly to Sir Thomas, after but a short intimacy with the family, — Patience had
given him all her sympathy. Sir Thomas, having looked at his
circumstances, had made him welcome to the house, and to
his daughter’s hand, — if he could win her heart. The stage
had been open to him, and Patience had been his most eager
friend. But all that had passed away, — and Clary had been
obstinate. “Patty,” she had said, with some little arrogance, “he
has made a mistake. He should have fallen in love with you.”
“Clergymen are as fond of pretty girls as other men,” Patty had
said, with a smile. “And isn’t my Patty as pretty and as delicate
as a primrose?” Clary had said, embracing her sister. Pretty Patience Underwood was not; — but for delicacy, — that with
which Patience Underwood was gifted transcended poor Clarissa’s powers of comparison. So it was between them, and now
there was this acknowledged passion for the spendthrift!
Patience could see that her sister was not unhappy when
she came in from her walk, — was not moody, — was not heartbroken. And yet it had seemed to her, before the walk began,
while they were sauntering about Mrs. Brownlow’s garden,
that Ralph had devoted himself entirely to the new cousin,
and that Clarissa had been miserable. Surely if he had spoken
during the walk, — if he had renewed his protestations of love,
if he were now regarded by Clary as her accepted lover, Clary
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would not keep all this as a secret! It could not be that Clary
should have surrendered herself to a lover, and that their father
was to be allowed to remain in ignorance that it was so! And
yet how could it be otherwise if Clary was happy now, — Clary
who had acknowledged that she loved this man, and had now
been leaning on his arm for an hour beneath the moonlight?
But Patience said not a word. She could not bring herself to
speak when speech might pain her sister.
When they had been some half hour in bed, there stole
a whisper across the darkness of the chamber from one
couch to the other; “Patty, are you asleep?” Patience declared
that she was wide awake. “Then I’ll come to you,” — and
Clary’s naked feet pattered across the room. “I’ve just something to say, and I’ll say it better here.” Patience made glad
way for the intruder, and knew that now she would hear it all.
“Patty, it is better to wait.”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“I mean this. I think he does like me; I’m almost sure he
does.”
“He said nothing to-night?”
“He said a great deal, — of course; but nothing about
that; — nothing about that exactly.”
“Oh, Clary, I’m afraid of him.”
“What is the good of fear? The evil is, dear, I think he likes
me, but it may so well be that he cannot speak out. He is in
debt, and all that; — and he must wait.”
“But that is so terrible. What will you do?”
“I will wait too. I have thought about it, and have determined. What’s the good of loving a man if one won’t go through
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
something for him? I do love him, — with all my heart. I pray
God I may never have a husband, if I cannot be his wife.” Patience shuddered in her sister’s embrace, as these bold words
were spoken with energy. “I tell you, Patty, just as I tell myself,
because you love me so dearly.”
“I do love you; — oh, I do love you.”
“I do not think it can be unmaidenly to tell the truth to
you and to myself. How can I help telling it to myself? There it
is. I feel that I could kiss the very ground on which he stands.
He is my hero, my Paladin, my heart, my soul. I have given myself to him for everything. How can I help myself?”
“But, Clary, — you should repress this, not encourage it.”
“It won’t be repressed, — not in my own heart. But I will
never, never, never let him know that it has been so, — till he
is all my own. There may be a day when, — oh, — I shall tell
him everything; how wretched I was when he did not speak to
me; — how broken-hearted when I heard his voice with Mary;
how fluttered, and half-happy, and half-wretched when I found
that I was to have that long walk with him; — and then how
I determined to wait. I will tell him all, — perhaps, — some day.
Good-night, dear, dear Patty. I could not sleep without letting
you know everything.” Then she sprang out from her sister’s
arms, and pattered back across the room to her own bed. In two
minutes Clarissa was asleep, but Patience lay long awake, and
before she slept her pillow was damp with her tears.
In the course of the following week Ralph was again at
the villa. Sir Thomas, as a matter of course, was away, but
the three girls were at home; and, as it happened, Miss Spooner
had also come over to take her tea with her friends. The hour
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that he spent there was passed half indoors and half out, and
certainly Ralph’s attentions were chiefly paid to Miss Bonner.
Miss Bonner herself, however, was so discreet in her demeanour, that no one could have suggested that any approach had
been made to flirtation. To tell the truth, Mary, who had received no confidence from her cousin, — and who was a girl
slow to excite or give a confidence, — had seen some sign,
or heard some word which had created on her mind a suspicion of the truth. It was not that she thought that Clary’s
heart was irrecoverably given to the young man, but that there
seemed to be just something with which it might be as well
that she herself should not interfere. She was there on sufferance, — dependent on her uncle’s charity for her daily bread,
let her uncle say what he might to the contrary. As yet she
hardly knew her cousins, and was quite sure that she was not
known by them. She heard that Ralph Newton was a man of
fashion, and the heir to a large fortune. She knew herself to
be utterly destitute, — but she knew herself to be possessed of
great beauty. In her bosom, doubtless, there was an ambition to win by her beauty, from some man whom she could
love, those good things of which she was so destitute. She did
not lack ambition, and had her high hopes, grounded on
the knowledge of her own charms. Her beauty, and a certain
sufficiency of intellect, — of the extent of which she was in
a remarkable degree herself aware, — were the gifts with
which she had been endowed. But she knew when she might
use them honestly and when she ought to refrain from using
them. Ralph had looked at her as men do look who wish to be
allowed to love. All this to her was much more clearly intel-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
ligible than to Clarissa, who was two years her senior. Though
she had seen Ralph but thrice, she already felt that she might
have him on his knees before her, if she cared so to place him.
But there was that suspicion of something which had gone
before, and a feeling that honour and gratitude, — perhaps,
also, self-interest, — called upon her to be cold in her manner to Ralph Newton. She had purposely avoided his companionship in their walk home from Mrs. Brownlow’s house; and
now, as they wandered about the lawn and shrubberies of Popham Villa, she took care not to be with him out of earshot of
the others. In all of which there was ten times more of womanly cleverness, — or cunning, shall we say, — than had yet
come to the possession of Clarissa Underwood.
Cunning she was; — but she did not deserve that the objectionable epithet should be applied to her. The circumstances of her life had made her cunning. She had been the mistress of her father’s house since her fifteenth year, and for two
years of her life had had a succession of admirers at her feet.
Her father had eaten and drunk and laughed, and had joked
with his child’s lovers about his child. It had been through no
merit of his that she had held her own among them all without soiling either her name or her inner self. Captains in West
Indian regiments, and lieutenants from Queen’s ships lying
at Spanish Point, had been her admirers. Proposals to marry
are as ready on the tongues of such men, out in the tropics, as
offers to hand a shawl or carry a parasol. They are soft-hearted,
bold to face the world, and very confident in circumstances.
Then, too, they are ignorant of any other way to progress with
a flirtation which is all-engrossing. In warm latitudes it is so
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natural to make an offer after the fifth dance. It is the way of
the people in those latitudes, and seems to lead to no harm.
Men and women do marry on small incomes; but they do not
starve, and the world goes on wagging. Mary Bonner, however,
whose father’s rank had, at least, been higher than that of her
adorers, and who knew that great gifts had been given to her,
had held herself aloof from all this, and had early resolved to
bide her time. She was still biding her time, — with patience
sufficient to enable her to resist the glances of Ralph Newton.
Clarissa Underwood behaved very well on this evening.
She gave a merry glance at her sister, and devoted herself to
Miss Spooner. Mary was so wise and so prudent that there was
no cause for any great agony. As far as Clary could see, Ralph
had quite as much to say to Patience as to Mary. For herself
she had resolved that she would wait. Her manner to him was
very pretty, — almost the manner of a sister to a brother. And
then she stayed resolutely with Miss Spooner, while Ralph
was certainly tempting Mary down by the river-side. It did
not last long. He was soon gone, and Miss Spooner had soon
followed him.
“He is very amusing,” Mary said, as soon as they were alone.
“Very amusing,” said Patience.
“And uncommonly good-looking. Isn’t he considered
a very handsome man here?”
“Yes; — I suppose he is,” said Patience. “I don’t know
that I ever thought much about that.”
“Of course he is,” said Clarissa. “Nobody can doubt about it.
There are some people as to whom it is as absurd not to admit
that they are handsome as it would be to say that a fine picture
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
is not beautiful. Ralph is one such person, — and of course
I know another.”
Mary would not seem to take the allusion, even by a smile.
“I always thought Gregory much nicer looking,” said Patience.
“That must be because you are in love with him,” said
Clarissa.
“There is a speaking brightness, an eloquence, in his eyes;
and a softness of feeling in the expression of his face, which is
above all beauty,” continued Patience, with energy.
“Here’s poetry,” said Clarissa. “Eloquence, and softness,
and eyes, and feeling, and expressive and speaking brightness!
You’d better say at once that he’s a god.”
“I wish I knew him,” said Mary Bonner.
“You’ll know him before long, I don’t doubt. And when
you do, you’ll know one of the best fellows in the world. I’ll
admit as much as that; but I will not admit that he can be compared to his brother in regard to good looks.” In all which poor
Clarissa, who had nothing to console her but her resolve to
wait with courage, bore herself well and gallantly.
Soon after this there arrived at Popham Villa the note from
Gregory Newton. As it happened, Sir Thomas was at home
on that morning, and heard the tidings. “If young Mr. Newton
does come, get him to dine, and I will take care to be at home,”
said Sir Thomas. Patience suggested that Ralph, — their own
Ralph, — should be asked to meet him; but to this Sir Thomas
would not accede. “It is not our business to make up a family
quarrel,” he said. “I have had old Mr. Newton with me once or
twice lately, and I find that the quarrel still exists as strong as
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