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RALPH THE HEIR
said the breeches-maker, hardly daring to shake hands with
his guest, — though in his shop he was always free enough
with his customers in this matter. Polly looked as though she
thought there was no condescension whatever, held up her
head, and laughed and joked, and asked some questions about
the German at the shop, whom she declared she was never
allowed to see now, and whose voice she swore she had never
heard. “Is he dumb, Mr. Newton? Father never will tell me
anything about him. You must know.”
“Laws, Polly, what does it matter?” said Mrs. Neefit. And
they were the only words she had spoken. Polly, from the first,
had resolved that she would own to the shop. If Mr. Newton
came to see her, he should come to see a girl who was not
ashamed to speak of herself as the daughter of a breechesmaker.
“He don’t talk much, does he, Mr. Newton?” said Mr. Neefit, laughing merrily.
“Do tell me one thing,” said Ralph. “I know it’s a secret, but
I’ll promise not to tell it. What is his real name?”
“This isn’t fair,” said Mr. Neefit, greatly delighted. “All
trades have their secrets. Come, come, Mr. Newton!”
“I know his name,” said Polly.
“Do tell me,” said Ralph, coming close to her, as though he
might hear it in a whisper.
“Mr. Neefit, I wish you wouldn’t talk about such things
here,” said the offended matron. “But now here’s dinner.”
She was going to take her guest’s arm, but Mr. Neefit arranged
it otherwise.
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“The old uns and the young uns; — that’s the way to pair
them,” said Mr. Neefit, — understanding nature better than he
did precedence; and so they walked into the next room. Mrs.
Neefit was not quite sure whether her husband had or had not
done something improper. She had her doubts, and they made
her uncomfortable.
The dinner went off very well. Neefit told how he had gone
himself to the fishmonger’s for that bit of salmon, how troubled his wife had been in mind about the lamb, and how Polly
had made the salad. “And I’ll tell you what I did, Mr. Newton;
I brought down that bottle of champagne in my pocket myself; — gave six bob for it at Palmer’s, in Bond Street. My wife
says we ain’t got glasses fit to drink it out of.”
“You needn’t tell Mr. Newton all that.”
“Mr. Newton, what I am I ain’t ashamed on, nor yet
what I does. Let me have the honour of drinking a glass of wine
with you, Mr. Newton. You see us just as we are. I wish it was
better, but it couldn’t be welcomer. Your health, Mr. Newton.”
There are many men, — and men, too, not of a bad
sort, — who in such circumstances cannot make themselves
pleasant. Grant the circumstances, with all the desire to make
the best of them, — and these men cannot be otherwise than
stiff, disagreeable, and uneasy. But then, again, there are men
who in almost any position can carry themselves as though
they were to the manner born. Ralph Newton was one of
the latter. He was not accustomed to dine with the tradesmen
who supplied him with goods, and had probably never before
encountered such a host as Mr. Neefit; — but he went through
the dinner with perfect ease and satisfaction, and before
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RALPH THE HEIR
the pies and jellies had been consumed, had won the heart of
even Mrs. Neefit. “Laws, Mr. Newton,” she said, “what can you
know about custards?” Then Ralph Newton offered to come
and make custards against her in her own kitchen, — providing he might have Polly to help him. “But you’d want the back
kitchen to yourselves, I’m thinking,” said Mr. Neefit, in high
good-humour.
Mr. Neefit certainly was not a delicate man. As soon as dinner was over, and the two ladies had eaten their strawberries
and cream, he suggested that the port wine should be taken out into the garden. In the farther corner of Mr. Neefit’s
grounds, at a distance of about twenty yards from the house,
was a little recess called “the arbour,” admonitory of earwigs,
and without much pretension to comfort. It might hold three
persons, but on this occasion Mr. Neefit was minded that two
only should enjoy the retreat. Polly carried out the decanter
and glasses, but did not presume to stay there for a moment.
She followed her mother into the gorgeous drawing-room,
where Mrs. Neefit at once went to sleep, while her daughter
consoled herself with a novel. Mr. Neefit, as we have said, was
not a delicate man. “That girl’ll have twenty thousand pound,
down on the nail, the day she marries the man as I approves of.
Fill your glass, Mr. Newton. She will; — and there’s no mistake
about it. There’ll be more money too, when I’m dead, — and
the old woman.”
It might be owned that such a speech from the father of
a marriageable daughter to a young man who had hardly as yet
shown himself to be enamoured, was not delicate. But it may
be a question whether it was not sensible. He had made up
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
his mind, and therefore went at once at his object. And unless
he did the business in this way, what chance was there that it
would be done at all? Mr. Newton could not come down to
Alexandrina Cottage every other day, or meet the girl elsewhere, as he might do young ladies of fashion. And, moreover,
the father knew well enough that were his girl once to tell him
that she had set her heart upon the gasfitter, or upon Ontario
Moggs, he would not have the power to contradict her. He desired that she should become a gentleman’s wife; and thinking
that this was the readiest way to accomplish his wish, he saw
no reason why he should not follow it. When he had spoken,
he chucked off his glass of wine, and looked into his young
friend’s face for an answer.
“He’ll be a lucky fellow that gets her,” said Ralph, beginning unconsciously to feel that it might perhaps have been as
well for him had he remained in his lodgings on this Sunday.
“He will be a lucky fellow, Mr. Newton. She’s as good as gold.
And a well bred ’un too, though I say it as shouldn’t. There’s
not a dirty drop in her. And she’s that clever, she can do a’most
anything. As for her looks, I’ll say nothing about them. You’ve
got eyes in your head. There ain’t no mistake there, Mr. Newton; no paint; no Madame Rachel; no made beautiful for ever!
It’s human nature what you see there, Mr. Newton.”
“I’m quite sure of that.”
“And she has the heart of an angel.” By this time Mr. Neefit
was alternately wiping the tears from his eyes, and taking half
glasses of port wine. “I know all about you, Mr. Newton. You
are a gentleman; — that’s what you are.”
“I hope so.”
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RALPH THE HEIR
“And if you don’t get the wrong side of the post, you’ll come
out right at last. You’ll have a nice property some of these days,
but you’re just a little short of cash at present.”
“That’s about true, Mr. Neefit.”
“I want nobody to tell me; — I know,” continued Neefit.
“Now if you make up to her, there she is, — with twenty thousand pounds down. You are a gentleman, and I want that girl to
be a lady. You can make her a lady. You can’t make her no better than she is. The best man in England can’t do that. But you
can make her a lady. I don’t know what she’ll say, mind; but
you can ask her, — if you please. I like you, and you can ask
her, — if you please. What answer she’ll make, that’s her look
out. But you can ask her, — if you please. Perhaps I’m a little
too forrard; but I call that honest. I don’t know what you call it.
But this I do know; — there ain’t so sweet a girl as that within
twenty miles round London.” Then Mr. Neefit, in his energy,
dashed his hand down among the glasses on the little rustic
table in the arbour.
The reader may imagine that Ralph Newton was hardly
ready with his answer. There are men, no doubt, who in such
an emergency would have been able to damn the breeches-maker’s impudence, and to have walked at once out of
the house. But our young friend felt no inclination to punish
his host in such fashion as this. He simply remarked that he
would think of it, the matter being too grave for immediate
decision, and that he would join the ladies.
“Do, Mr. Newton,” said Mr. Neefit; “go and join Polly. You’ll
find she’s all I tell you. I’ll sit here and have a pipe.”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Ralph did join the ladies; and, finding Mrs. Neefit asleep,
he induced Polly to take a walk with him amidst the lanes of
Hendon. When he left Alexandrina Cottage in the evening,
Mr. Neefit whispered a word into his ear at the gate. “You
know my mind. Strike while the iron’s hot. There she is, — just
what you see her.”
CHAPTER VII
YOU ARE ONE OF US NOW
The first week after Mary Bonner’s arrival at Popham
Villa went by without much to make it remarkable, except
the strangeness arising from the coming of a stranger. Sir
Thomas did stay at home on that Sunday, but when the time
came for going to morning church, shuffled out of that disagreeable duty in a manner that was satisfactory neither to
himself nor his daughters. “Oh, papa; I thought you would
have gone with us!” said Patience at the last moment.
“I think not to-day, my dear,” he said, with that sort of smile
which betokens inward uneasiness. Patience reproached him
with a look, and then the three girls went off together. Even
Patience herself had offered to excuse Mary, on the score of
fatigue, seasickness, and the like; but Mary altogether declined to be excused. She was neither fatigued, she said, nor
sick; and of course she would go to church. Sir Thomas stayed
at home, and thought about himself. How could he go to
church when he knew that he could neither listen to the sermon nor join in the prayers? “I suppose people do,” he said to
himself; “but I can’t. I’d go to church all day long, if I found
that it would serve me.”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
He went up to London on the Monday, and returned to
the villa to dinner. He did the same on the Tuesday. On
the Wednesday he remained in London. On the Thursday he
came home, but dined in town. After that he found himself to
be on sufficiently familiar terms with his niece to fall back into
his old habits of life.
Patience was very slow in speaking to their cousin of her
father’s peculiarities; but Clarissa soon told the tale. “You’ll
get to know papa soon,” she said.
“He has been so kind to me.”
“He is very good; but you must know, dear, that we are
the most deserted and disconsolate ladies that ever lived out of
a poem. Papa has been home now four days together; but that is
for your beaux yeux. We are here for weeks together without
seeing him; — very often for more than a week.”
“Where does he go?”
“He has a place in London; — such a place! You shall go
and see it some day, though he won’t thank us a bit for taking
you there. He has the queerest old man to wait upon him, and
he never sees anybody from day to day.”
“But what does he do?”
“He is writing a book. That is the great secret. He never
speaks about it, and does not like to be asked questions. But
the truth is, he is the most solitude-loving person in the world.
He does find its charms, though Alexander Selkirk never
could.”
“And does nobody come here to you?”
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RALPH THE HEIR
“In the way of taking care of us? Nobody! We have to take
care of ourselves. Of course it is dull. People do come and see
us sometimes. Miss Spooner, for instance.”
“Why should you laugh at poor Miss Spooner?” asked
Patience.
“I don’t laugh at her. We have other friends, you know;
but not enough to make the house pleasant to you.” After
that, when Patience was not with them, she told something of
Ralph Newton and his visits, though she said nothing to her
cousin of her own cherished hopes. “I wonder what you’ll
think of Ralph Newton?” she said. Ralph Newton’s name had
been mentioned before in Mary’s hearing more than once.
“Why should I think anything particular of Ralph
Newton?”
“You’ll have to think something particular about him as
he is a sort of child of the house. Papa was his guardian, and he
comes here just when he pleases.”
“Who is he, and what is he, and where is he, and why
is he?”
“He’s a gentleman at large who does nothing. That’s who
he is.”
“He thinks ever so much of himself, then?”
“No; — he doesn’t. And he is nephew to an old squire down in
Hampshire, who won’t give him a penny. He oughtn’t to want
it, however, because when he came of age he had ever so much
money of his own. But he does want it, — sometimes. He must
have the property when his uncle dies.”
“Dear me; — how interesting!”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“As for the where he is, and why he is, — he comes here
just when it suits him, and because we were almost brought up
together. He doesn’t dine here, and all that kind of thing, because papa is never at home. Nobody ever does dine here.”
Then there was a short pause. “This Mr. Newton isn’t a lover then?” asked Miss Bonner.
There was another pause before Clarissa could answer
the question. “No,” she said; “no; he isn’t a lover. We don’t have
any lovers at Popham Villa.” “Only that’s not quite true,” she
said, after a pause. “And as you are to live with us just like a sister, I’ll tell you about Gregory Newton, Ralph’s brother.” Then
she did tell the story of the clergyman’s love and the clergyman’s discomfiture; but she said not a word of Ralph’s declaration and Ralph’s great sin on that fatal evening. And the way in
which she told her story about the one brother altogether disarmed Mary Bonner’s suspicion as to the other.
In truth Clarissa did not know whether it was or was not
her privilege to regard Ralph Newton as her lover. He had
not been to the cottage since that evening; and though
the words he had spoken were still sweet in her ears, — so
sweet that she could not endure the thought of abandoning
their sweetness, — still she had a misgiving that they were in
some sort rendered nugatory by his great fault. She had forgiven the fault; — looking back at it now over the distance of
eight or ten days, had forgiven it with all her heart; but still
there remained with her an undefined and unpleasant feeling that the spoken words, accompanied by a deed so wicked,
were absorbed, and, as it were, drowned in the wickedness of
the deed. What if the words as first spoken were only a pre-
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