Ralph the Heir Part 70

"No one can be sure," said Patience.

"Only fancy,--asking a girl to go out of the room,--in that brave manner! I shouldn't have gone because I'm a coward; but it's just what Mary will like."

"Let me get my hat, Mr. Newton," said Mary, taking the opportunity to trip up-stairs, though her hat was hanging in the hall. When she was in her room she merely stood upright there, for half a minute, in the middle of the chamber, erect and stiff, with her arms and fingers stretched out, thinking how she would behave herself. Half a minute sufficed for her to find her clue, and then she came down as quickly as her feet would carry her. He had opened the front door, and was standing outside upon the gravel, and there she joined him.

"I had no other way but this of speaking to you," he said.

"I don't dislike coming out at all," she answered. Then there was silence for a moment or two as they walked along into the gloom of the shrubbery. "I suppose you are going down to Norfolk soon?" she said.

"I do not quite know. I thought of going to-morrow."

"So soon as that?"

"But I've got something that I want to settle. I think you must know what it is." Then he paused again, almost as though he expected her to confess that she did know. But Mary was well aware that it was not for her to say another word till he had fully explained in most open detail what it was that he desired to settle. "You know a good deal of my history, Miss Newton. When I thought that things were going well with me,--much better than I had ever allowed myself to expect in early days, I,--I,--became acquainted with you." Again he paused, but she had not a word to say. "I dare say you were not told, but I wrote to your uncle then, asking him whether I might have his consent to,--just to ask you to be my wife." Again he paused, but after that he hurried on, speaking the words as quickly as he could throw them forth from his mouth. "My father died, and of course that changed everything. I told your uncle that all ground for pretension that I might have had before was cut from under me. He knew the circ.u.mstances of my birth,--and I supposed that you would know it also."

Then she did speak. "Yes, I did," she said.

"Perhaps I was foolish to think that the property would make a difference. But the truth of it is, I have not got over the feeling, and shall never get over it. I love you with all my heart,--and though it be for no good, I must tell you so."

"The property can make no difference," she said. "You ought to have known that, Mr. Newton."

"Ah;--but it does. I tried to tell you the other day something of my present home."

"Yes;--I know you did;--and I remember it all."

"There is nothing more to be said;--only to ask you to share it with me."

She walked on with him in silence for a minute; but he said nothing more to press his suit, and certainly it was her turn to speak now.

"I will share it with you," she said, pressing her arm upon his.

"My Mary!"

"Yes;--your Mary,--if you please." Then he took her in his arms, and pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips and forehead, and threw back her hat, and put his fingers among her hair. "Why did you say that the property would make a difference?" she asked, in a whisper.

To this he made no answer, but walked on silently, with his arm round her waist, till they came out from among the trees, and stood upon the bank of the river. "There are people in the boats. You must put your arm down," she said.

"I wonder how you will like to be a farmer's wife?" he asked.

"I have not an idea."

"I fear so much that you'll find it rough and hard."

"But I have an idea about something." She took his hand, and looked up into his face as she continued. "I have an idea that I shall like to be your wife." He was in a seventh heaven of happiness, and would have stood there gazing on the river with her all night, if she would have allowed him. At last they walked back into the house together,--and into the room where the others were a.s.sembled, with very little outward show of embarra.s.sment. Mary was the first to enter the room, and though she blushed she smiled also, and every one knew what had taken place. There was no secret or mystery, and in five minutes her cousins were congratulating her. "It's all settled for you now," said Clarissa laughing.

"Yes, it's all settled for me now, and I wouldn't have it unsettled for all the world."

While this was being said in the drawing-room,--being said even in the presence of poor Gregory, who could not but have felt how hard it was for him to behold such bliss, Sir Thomas and Ralph had withdrawn into the opposite room. Ralph began to apologise for his own misfortunes,--his misfortune in having lost the inheritance, his misfortune in being illegitimate; but Sir Thomas soon cut his apologies short. "You think a great deal more of it than she does, or than I do," said Sir Thomas.

"If she does not regard it, I will never think of it again," said Ralph. "My greatest glory in what had been promised me was in thinking that it might help to win her."

"You have won her without such help as that," said Sir Thomas, with his arm on the young man's shoulder.

There was another delicious hour in store for him as they sat over their late tea. "Do you still think of going to Norfolk to-morrow?"

she said to him, with that composure which in her was so beautiful, and, at the same time, so expressive.

"By an early train in the morning."

"I thought that perhaps you might have stayed another day now."

"I thought that perhaps you might want me to come back again," said Ralph;--"and, if so, I could make arrangements;--perhaps for a week or ten days."

"Do come back," she said. "And do stay."

Ralph's triumph as he returned that evening to London received Gregory's fullest sympathy; but still it must have been hard to bear.

Perhaps his cousin's parting words contained for him some comfort.

"Give her a little time, and she will be yours yet. I shall find it all out from Mary, and you may be sure we shall help you."

CHAPTER LV.

COOKHAM.

We have been obliged to antic.i.p.ate in some degree the course of our story by the necessity which weighed upon us of completing the history of Polly Neefit. In regard to her we will only further express an opinion,--in which we believe that we shall have the concurrence of our readers,--that Mr. Moggs junior had chosen well.

Her story could not be adequately told without a revelation of that correspondence, which, while it has explained the friendly manner in which the Neefit-Newton embarra.s.sments were at last brought to an end, has, at the same time, disclosed the future lot in life of our hero,--as far as a hero's lot in life may be said to depend on his marriage.

Mr. Neefit had been almost heart-broken, because he was not satisfied that his victim was really punished by any of those tortures which his imagination invented, and his energy executed. Even when the "pretty little man" was smashed, and was, in truth, smashed of malice prepense by a swinging blow from Neefit's umbrella, Neefit did not feel satisfied that he would thereby reach his victim's heart. He could project his own mind with sufficient force into the bosom of his enemy to understand that the onions and tobacco consumed in that luxurious chamber would cause annoyance;--but he desired more than annoyance;--he wanted to tear the very heart-strings of the young man who had, as he thought, so signally outwitted him. He did not believe that he was successful; but, in truth, he did make poor Ralph very unhappy. The heir felt himself to be wounded, and could not eat and drink, or walk and talk, or ride in the park, or play billiards at his club, in a manner befitting the owner of Newton Priory. He was so injured by Neefit that he became pervious to attacks which would otherwise have altogether failed in reaching him. Lady Eardham would never have prevailed against him as she did,--conquering by a quick repet.i.tion of small blows,--had not all his strength been annihilated for the time by the persecutions of the breeches-maker.

Lady Eardham whispered to him as he was taking his departure on the evening of the dinner in Cavendish Square. "Dear Mr. Newton,--just one word," she said, confidentially,--"that must be a very horrid man,"--alluding to Mr. Neefit.

"It's a horrid bore, you know, Lady Eardham."

"Just so;--and it makes me feel,--as though I didn't quite know whether something ought not to be done. Would you mind calling at eleven to-morrow? Of course I shan't tell Sir George,--unless you think he ought to be told." Ralph promised that he would call, though he felt at the moment that Lady Eardham was an interfering old fool.

Why should she want to do anything; and why should she give even a hint as to telling Sir George? As he walked across Hanover Square and down Bond Street to his rooms he did a.s.sert to himself plainly that the "old harridan," as he called her, was at work for her second girl, and he shook his head and winked his eye as he thought of it. But, even in his solitude, he did not feel strong against Lady Eardham, and he moved along the pavement oppressed by a half-formed conviction that her ladys.h.i.+p would prevail against him. He did not, however, think that he had any particular objection to Gus Eardham.

There was a deal of style about the girl, a merit in which either Clarissa or Mary would have been sadly deficient. And there could be no doubt in this,--that a man in his position ought to marry in his own cla.s.s. The proper thing for him to do was to make the daughter of some country gentleman,--or of some n.o.bleman, just as it might happen,--mistress of the Priory. Dear little Clary would hardly have known how to take her place properly down in Hamps.h.i.+re. And then he thought for a moment of Polly! Perhaps, after all, fate, fas.h.i.+on, and fortune managed marriage for young men better than they could manage it for themselves. What a life would his have been had he really married Polly Neefit! Though he did call Lady Eardham a harridan, he resolved that he would keep his promise for the following morning.

Lady Eardham when he arrived was mysterious, eulogistic, and beneficent. She was clearly of opinion that something should be done.

"You know it is so horrid having these kind of things said." And yet she was almost equally strong in opinion that nothing could be done.

"You know I wouldn't have my girl's name brought up for all the world;--though why the horrid wretch should have named her I cannot even guess." The horrid wretch had not, in truth, named any special her, though it suited Lady Eardham to presume that allusion had been made to that hope of the flock, that crowning glory of the Eardham family, that most graceful of the Graces, that Venus certain to be chosen by any Paris, her second daughter, Gus. She went on to explain that were she to tell the story to her son Marmaduke, her son Marmaduke would probably kill the breeches-maker. As Marmaduke Eardham was, of all young men about town, perhaps the most careless, the most indifferent, and the least ferocious, his mother was probably mistaken in her estimate of his resentful feelings. "As for Sir George, he would be for taking the law of the wretch for libel, and then we should be--! I don't know where we should be then; but my dear girl would die."

Of course there was nothing done. During the whole interview Lady Eardham continued to press Neefit's letter under her hand upon the table, as though it was of all doc.u.ments the most precious. She handled it as though to tear it would be as bad as to tear an original doc.u.ment bearing the king's signature. Before the interview was over she had locked it up in her desk, as though there were something in it by which the whole Eardham race might be blessed or banned. And, though she spoke no such word, she certainly gave Ralph to understand that by this letter he, Ralph Newton, was in some mysterious manner so connected with the secrets, and the interests, and the sanct.i.ty of the Eardham family, that, whether such connection might be for weal or woe, the Newtons and the Eardhams could never altogether free themselves from the link. "Perhaps you had better come and dine with us in a family way to-morrow," said Lady Eardham, giving her invitation as though it must necessarily be tendered, and almost necessarily accepted. Ralph, not thanking her, but taking it in the same spirit, said that he would be there at half past seven.

"Just ourselves," said Lady Eardham, in a melancholy tone, as though they two were doomed to eat family dinners together for ever after.

"I suppose the property is really his own?" said Lady Eardham to her husband that afternoon.

Sir George was a stout, plethoric gentleman, with a short temper and many troubles. Marmaduke was expensive, and Sir George himself had spent money when he was young. The girls, who knew that they had no fortunes, expected that everything should be done for them, at least during the period of their natural harvest,--and they were successful in having their expectations realised. They demanded that there should be horses to ride, servants to attend them, and dresses to wear; and they had horses, servants, and dresses. There were also younger children; and Sir George was quite as anxious as Lady Eardham that his daughters should become wives. "His own?--of course it's his own. Who else should it belong to?"

"There was something about that other young man."