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RALPH THE HEIR
truth she should be preparing for herself a life of disappointment. She had admitted the passion, and she would stand by
it. In all her fears, too, she consoled herself by the reflection
that her lover was hindered, not by want of earnestness or
want of truth, — but by the state of his affairs. While he was
still in debt, striving to save his inheritance, but tormented by
the growing certainty that it must pass away from him, how
could he give himself up to love-making and preparations
for marriage? Clary made excuses for him which no one else
would have made, and so managed to feed her hopes. “I made
him no answer,” she said at last.
“And yet you knew you loved him.”
“Yes; I knew that. I can tell you, and I told Patience. But
I could not tell him.” She paused a moment thinking whether
she could describe the whole scene; but she found that she
could not do that. “I shall tell him, perhaps, when he comes
again; that is, if he does come.”
“If he loves you he will come.”
“I don’t know. He has all these troubles on him, and he
will be very poor; — what will seem to him to be very poor. It
would not be poor for me, but for him it would.”
“Would that hinder him?”
“How can I say? There are so many things a girl cannot
know. He may still be in debt, and then he has been brought up
to want so much. But it will make no more difference in me.
And now you will understand why I should tell you that I will
never begrudge you your good fortune. If all should come
right, you shall give us a little cottage near your grand house,
and you will not despise us.” Poor Clary, when she spoke of
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
her possible future lord, and the little cottage on the Newton
demesne, hardly understood the feelings with which a disinherited heir must regard the property which he has lost.
“Dear, dearest Clary,” said Mary Bonner, pressing her cousin’s arm.
They had now reached Mrs. Brownlow’s house, and the old
lady was delighted to receive them. Of course she began to discuss at once the great news. Sir Thomas had had his arm broken, and was now again a member of Parliament. Mrs. Brownlow was a thorough-going Tory, and was in an ecstasy of delight
that her old friend should have been successful. The success
seemed to be so much the greater in that the hero had suffered a broken bone. And then there were many questions to
be asked? Would Sir Thomas again be Solicitor-General by
right of his seat in Parliament? — for on such matters Mrs.
Brownlow was rather hazy in her conceptions as to the working of the British Constitution. And would he live at home?
Clarissa would not say that she and Patience expected such
a result. All that she could suggest of comfort on this matter
was that there would be now something of a fair cause for excusing their father’s residence at his London chambers.
But there was a subject more enticing to the old lady even
than Sir Thomas’s triumphs; a subject as to which there could
not be any triumph, — only dismay; but not, on that account,
the less interesting. Ralph Newton had sold his inheritance.
“I believe it is all settled,” said Clarissa, demurely.
“Dear, dear, dear, dear!” groaned the old lady. And while
she groaned Clarissa furtively cast a smile upon her cousin. “It
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RALPH THE HEIR
is the saddest thing I ever knew,” said Mrs. Brownlow. “And, after all, for a young man who never can be anybody, you know.”
“Oh yes,” said Clarissa, “he can be somebody.”
“You know what I mean, my dear. I think it very shocking,
and very wrong. Such a fine estate, too!”
“We all like Mr. Newton very much indeed,” said Clarissa.
“Papa thinks he is a most charming young man. I never knew
papa taken with any one so much. And so do we all, — Patience and I, — and Mary.”
“But, my dear,” began Mrs. Brownlow, — Mrs. Brownlow
had always thought that Ralph the heir would ultimately marry Clarissa Underwood, and that it was a manifest duty on his
part to do so. She had fancied that Clarissa had expected it herself, and had believed that all the Underwoods would be broken-hearted at this transfer of the estate. “I don’t think it can
be right,” said Mrs. Brownlow; “and I must say that it seems to
me that old Mr. Newton ought to be ashamed of himself. Just
because this young man happens to be, in a sort of a way, his
own son, he is going to destroy the whole family. I think that it
is very wicked.” But she had not a word of censure for the heir
who had consumed his mess of pottage.
“Wasn’t she grand?” said Clary, as soon as they were out
again upon the road. “She is such a dear old woman, but she
doesn’t understand anything. I couldn’t help giving you a look
when she was abusing our friend. When she knows it all, she’ll
have to make you such an apology.”
“I hope she will not do that.”
“She will if she does not forget all about it. She does forget
things. There is one thing I don’t agree with her in at all. I don’t
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
see any shame in your Ralph having the property; and, as to
his being nobody, that is all nonsense. He would be somebody,
wherever he went, if he had not an acre of property. He will be
Mr. Newton, of Newton Priory, just as much as anybody else
could be. He has never done anything wrong.” To all which
Mary Bonner had very little to say. She certainly was not prepared to blame the present Squire for having so managed his
affairs as to be able to leave the estate to his own son.
The two girls were very energetic, and walked back
the whole way to Popham Villa, regardless of a dozen omnibuses that passed them. “I told her all about our Ralph, — my
Ralph,” — said Clary to her sister afterward. “I could not help
telling her now.”
“Dear Clary,” said Patience, “I wish you could help thinking of it always.”
“That’s quite impossible,” said Clarissa, cheerily.
CHAPTER XXXIV
ALONE IN THE HOUSE
Young Newton at last found himself alone in the house
at Newton Priory after his father’s death. He had sent George
Morris away, becoming very stern in his demand to be left to
his solitude as long as opposition was made to him. Gregory
had come down to him from the parsonage, and had also been
dismissed. “Your brother will be here probably to-day,” said
Ralph, “and then I will send for you.”
“I am thinking more of you than of my brother, just now,”
answered the parson.
“Yes, I know, — and though I cannot talk to you, I know
how good you are. I want to see nobody but him. I shall be better alone.” Then Gregory had returned to the parsonage.
As soon as Ralph was alone he crept up to the room in
which his father’s body was lying, and stood silently by
the bedside for above an hour. He was struggling to remember
the loss he had had in the man, and to forget the loss in wealth
and station. No father had ever been better to a son than his
father had been to him. In every affair of life his happiness, his
prosperity, and his future condition had given motives to his
father’s conduct. No lover ever worshipped a mistress more
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
thoroughly than his father had idolised him. There had never
been love to beat it, never solicitude more perfect and devoted.
And yet, as he had been driven home that day, he had allowed
his mind to revert to the property, and his regrets to settle
themselves on his lost position. It should not be so any longer. He could not keep his mind from dwelling on the thing,
but he would think of it as a trifle, — as of a thing which he
could afford to lose without sorrow. Whereas he had also lost
that which is of all things the most valuable and most impossible to replace, — a friend whose love was perfect.
But then there was another loss. He bitterly blamed himself for having written that letter to Sir Thomas Underwood,
before he was actually in a position to do as he had proposed.
It must all be unwritten now. Every resolution hitherto taken
as to his future life must be abandoned. He must begin again,
and plan a new life for himself. It had all come upon him so
suddenly that he was utterly at a loss to think what he would
do with himself or with his days. There was nothing for him
but to go away, and be utterly without occupation, altogether
without friends. Friends, indeed, he had, — dear, intimate,
loving friends. Gregory Newton and George Morris were his
friends. Every tenant on the Newton property was his friend.
There was not a man riding with the hunt, worth having as
a friend, who was not on friendly terms with him. But all these
he must leave altogether. In whatever spot he might find for
himself a future residence, that spot could not be at Peele
Newton. After what had occurred he could not remain there,
now that he was not the heir. And then, again, his thoughts
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RALPH THE HEIR
came back from his lost father to his lost inheritance, and he
was very wretched.
Between three and four o’clock he took his hat and walked
out. He sauntered down along a small stream, which, after running through the gardens, bordered one of the coverts which
came up near to the house. He took this path because he knew
that he would be alone there, unseen. It had occurred to him
already that it would be well that he should give orders to
stop the works which his father had commenced, and there
had been a moment in which he had almost told one of
the servants in the house to do so. But he had felt ashamed
at seeming to remember so small a thing. The owner would
be there soon, probably in an hour or two, and could stop
or could continue what he pleased. Then, as he thought of
the ownership of the estate, he reflected that, as the sale had
been in truth effected by his namesake, the money promised
by his father would be legally due; — would not now be his
money. As to the estate itself, that, of course, would go to his
namesake as his father’s heir. No will had been made leaving the estate to him, and his namesake would be the heirat-law. Thus he would be utterly beggared. It was not that he
actually believed that this would be the case; but his thoughts
were morbid, and he took an unwholesome delight in picturing to himself circumstances in their blackest hue. Then
he would strike the ground with his stick, in his wrath, because he thought of such things at all. How was it that he was
base enough to think of them while the accident, which had
robbed him of his father, was so recent?
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
As the dusk grew on, he emerged out of the copse into
the park, and, crossing at the back of the home paddocks, came
out upon the road near to Darvell’s farm. He passed a few
yards up the lane, till at a turn he could discern the dismantled house. As far as he could see through the gloom of the evening, there were no workmen near the place. Some one, he
presumed, had given directions that nothing further should
be done on a day so sad as this. He stood for awhile looking
and listening, and then turned round to enter the park again.
It might be that the new squire was already at the house,
and it would be thought that he ought not to be absent.
The road from the station to the Priory was not that on which
he was standing, and Ralph might have arrived without his
knowledge. He wandered slowly back, but, before he could
turn in at the park-gate, he was met by a man on the road. It
was Mr. Walker, the farmer of Brownriggs, an old man over
seventy, who had lived on the property all his life, succeeding
his father in the same farm. Walker had known young Newton since he had first been brought to the Priory as a boy, and
could speak to him with more freedom than perhaps any other
tenant on the estate. “Oh, Mr. Ralph,” he said, “this has been
a dreary thing!” Ralph, for the first time since the accident,
burst out into a flood of tears. “No wonder you take on, Mr.
Ralph. He was a good father to you, and a fine gentleman, and
one we all respected.” Ralph still sobbed, but put his hand on
the old man’s arm and leaned upon him. “I hope, Mr. Ralph,
that things was pretty well settled about the property.” Ralph
shook his head, but did not speak. “A bargain is a bargain, Mr.
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RALPH THE HEIR
Ralph, and I suppose that this bargain was made. The lawyers
would know that it had been made.”
“It don’t matter about that, Mr. Walker,” said Ralph;
“but the estate would go to my father’s nephew as his heir.”
The farmer started as though he had been shot. “You will have
another landlord, Mr. Walker. He can hardly be better than
the one you have lost.”
“Then, Mr. Ralph, you must bear it manly.”
“I think that I can say that I will do that. It is not for
the property that I am crying. I hope you don’t think that of
me, Mr. Walker.”
“No, no, no.”
“I can bear that; — though it is hard the having to go away
and live among strange people. I think I shall get a farm somewhere, and see if I can take a lesson from you. I don’t know
anything else that I can do.”
“You could have the Mordykes, Mr. Ralph,” said Mr. Walker, naming a holding on the Newton property as to which
there were rumours that it would soon be vacant.
“No, Mr. Walker, it mustn’t be here. I couldn’t stand that.
I must go away from this, — God knows where. I must go away
from this, and I shall never see the old place again!”
“Bear it manly, Mr. Ralph,” said the farmer.
“I think I shall, after a bit. Good evening, Mr. Walker. I expect my father’s nephew every hour, and I ought to be up at
the house when he comes. I shall see you again before I go.”
“Yes, yes; that’s for certain,” said the farmer. They were
both thinking of the day on which they would follow the old
Squire to his grave in Newton Peele churchyard.
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Ralph re-entered the park, and hurried across to the house
as though he were afraid that he would be too late to receive
the heir; but there had been no arrival, nor had there come
any message from the other Ralph. Indeed up to this hour
the news had not reached the present owner of Newton Priory. The telegram had been duly delivered at the Moonbeam,
where the fortunate youth was staying; but he was hunting
on this day, riding the new horse which he had bought from
Mr. Pepper, and, up to this moment, did not know anything of
that which chance had done for him. Nor did he get back to
the Moonbeam till late at night, having made some engagement for dinner after the day’s sport. It was not till noon on
the following day, the Friday, that a message was received from
him at the Priory, saying that he would at once hurry down to
Hampshire.
Ralph sat down to dinner all alone. Let what will happen to break hearts and ruin fortunes, dinner comes as long
as the means last for providing it. The old butler waited upon
him in absolute silence, fearing to speak a word, lest the word
at such a time should be ill-spoken. No doubt the old man
was thinking of the probable expedience of his retiring upon
his savings; feeling, however, that it became him to show, till
the last, every respect to all who bore the honoured name of
Newton. When the meat had been eaten, the old servant did
say a word. “Won’t you come round to the fire, Mr. Ralph?”
and he placed comfortably before the hearth one of the heavy
arm-chairs with which the corners of the broad fire-place were
flanked. But Ralph only shook his head, and muttered some
refusal. There he sat, square to the table, with the customary
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