"I hope your father is well," said Ralph, addressing himself to Moggs junior.

"Pretty well, I thank you," said Mr. Moggs, getting up from his chair and bowing a second time.

Mr. Neefit waited for a moment or two during which no one except Ralph spoke a word, and then invited his intended son-in-law to follow him into the garden. "The fact is," said Neefit winking, "this is Mrs. N.'s doing. It don't make any difference, you know."

"I don't quite understand," said Ralph.

"You see we've known Onty Moggs all our lives, and no doubt he has been sweet upon Polly. But Polly don't care for him, mind you. You ask her. And Mrs. N. has got it into her head that she don't want you for Polly. But I do, Mr. Newton;—and I'm master."

"I wouldn't for the world make a family quarrel."

"There won't be no quarrelling. It's I as has the purse, and it's the purse as makes the master, Mr. Newton. Don't you mind Moggs. Moggs is very well in his way, but he ain't going to have our Polly. Well;—he come down here to-day, just by chance;—and what did Mrs. N. do but ask him to stop and eat a bit of dinner! It don't make any difference, you know. You come in now, and just go on as though Moggs weren't there. You and Polly shall have it all to yourselves this evening."

Here was a new feature added to the pleasures of his courtship! He had a rival,—and such a rival;—his own bootmaker, whom he could not pay, and whose father had insulted him a day or two since. Moggs junior would of course know why his customer was dining at Alexandrina Cottage, and would have his own feelings, too, upon the occasion.

"Don't you mind him,—no more than nothing," said Neefit, leading the way back into the drawing-room, and passing at the top of the kitchen stairs the young woman with the bit of salmon.

The dinner was not gay. In the first place, Neefit and Mrs. Neefit gave very explicit and very opposite directions as to the manner in which their guests were to walk in to dinner, the result of which was that Ralph was obliged to give his arm to the elder lady, while Ontario carried off the prize. Mrs. Neefit also gave directions as to the places, which were obeyed in spite of an attempt of Neefit's to contravene them. Ontario and Polly sat on one side of the table, while Ralph sat opposite to them. Neefit, when he saw that the arrangement was made and could not be altered, lost his temper and scolded his wife. "Law, papa, what does it matter?" said Polly. Polly's position certainly was unpleasant enough; but she made head against her difficulties gallantly. Ontario, who had begun to guess the truth, said not a word. He was not, however, long in making up his mind that a personal encounter with Mr. Ralph Newton might be good for his system. Mrs. Neefit nagged at her husband, and told him when he complained about the meat, that if he would look after the drinkables that would be quite enough for him to do. Ralph himself found it to be impossible even to look as though things were going right. Never in his life had he been in a position so uncomfortable,—or, as he thought, so disreputable. It was not to be endured that Moggs, his bootmaker, should see him sitting at the table of Neefit, his breeches-maker.

The dinner was at last over, and the port-wine was carried out into the arbour;—not, on this occasion, by Polly, but by the maid. Polly and Mrs. Neefit went off together, while Ralph crowded into the little summer-house with Moggs and Neefit. In this way half an hour was passed,—a half hour of terrible punishment. But there was worse coming. "Mr. Newton," said Neefit, "I think I heard something about your taking a walk with our Polly. If you like to make a start of it, don't let us keep you. Moggs and I will have a pipe together."

"I also intend to walk with Miss Neefit," said Ontario, standing up bravely.



"Two's company and three's none," said Neefit.

"No doubt," said Ontario; "no doubt. I feel that myself. Mr. Newton, I've been attached to Miss Neefit these two years. I don't mind saying it out straight before her father. I love Miss Neefit! I don't know, sir, what your ideas are; but I love Miss Neefit! Perhaps, sir, your ideas may be money;—my ideas are a pure affection for that young lady. Now, Mr. Newton, you know what my ideas are." Mr. Moggs junior was standing up when he made this speech, and, when he had completed it, he looked round, first upon her father and then upon his rival.

"She's never given you no encouragement," said Neefit. "How dare you speak in that way about my Polly?"

"I do dare," said Ontario. "There!"

"Will you tell Mr. Newton that she ever gave you any encouragement?"

Ontario thought about it for a moment, before he replied. "No;—I will not," said he. "To say that of any young woman wouldn't be in accord with my ideas."

"Because you can't. It's all gammon. She don't mean to have him, Mr. Newton. You may take my word for that. You go in and ask her if she do. A pretty thing indeed! I can't invite my friend, Mr. Newton, to eat a bit of dinner, and let him walk out with my Polly, but you must interfere. If you had her to-morrow you wouldn't have a shilling with her."

"I don't want a shilling with her!" said Ontario, still standing upon his legs. "I love her. Will Mr. Newton say as fair as that?"

Mr. Newton found it very difficult to say anything. Even had he been thoroughly intent on the design of making Polly his wife, he could not have brought himself to declare his love aloud, as had just been done by Mr. Moggs. "This is a sort of matter that shouldn't be discussed in public," he said at last.

"Public or private, I love her!" said Ontario Moggs with his hand on his heart.

Polly herself was certainly badly treated among them. She got no walk that evening, and received no assurance of undying affection either from one suitor or the other. It became manifest even to Neefit himself that the game could not be played out on this evening. He could not turn Moggs off the premises, because his wife would have interfered. Nor, had he done so, would it have been possible, after such an affair to induce Polly to stir from the house. She certainly had been badly used among them; and so she took occasion to tell her father when the visitors were both gone. They left the house together at about eight, and Polly at that time had not reappeared. Moggs went to the nearest station of the Midland Railway, and Ralph walked to the Swiss Cottage. Certainly Mr. Neefit's little dinner had been unsuccessful; but Ralph Newton, as he went back to London, was almost disposed to think that Providence had interposed to save him.

"I'll tell you what it is, father," said Polly to her papa, as soon as the two visitors had left the house, "if that's the way you are going to go on, I'll never marry anybody as long as I live."

"My dear, it was all your mother," said Mr. Neefit. "Now wasn't it all your mother? I wish she'd been blowed fust!"



CHAPTER X.

SIR THOMAS IN HIS CHAMBERS.

It will be remembered that Sir Thomas Underwood had declined to give his late ward any advice at that interview which took place in Southampton Buildings;—or rather that the only advice which he had given to the young man was to cut his throat. The idle word had left no impression on Ralph Newton;—but still it had been spoken, and was remembered by Sir Thomas. When he was left alone after the young man's departure he was very unhappy. It was not only that he had spoken a word so idle when he ought to have been grave and wise, but that he felt that he had been altogether remiss in his duty as guide, philosopher, and friend. There were old sorrows, too, on this score. In the main Sir Thomas had discharged well a most troublesome, thankless, and profitless duty towards the son of a man who had not been related to him, and with whom an accidental intimacy had been ripened into friendship by letter rather than by social intercourse. Ralph Newton's father had been the younger brother of the present Gregory Newton, of Newton Priory, and had been the parson of the parish of Peele Newton,—as was now Ralph's younger brother, Gregory. The present squire of Newton had been never married, and the property, as has before been said, had been settled on Ralph, as the male heir,—provided, of course, that his uncle left no legitimate son of his own. It had come to pass that the two brothers, Gregory and Ralph, had quarrelled about matters of property, and had not spoken for years before the death of the younger. Ralph at this time had been just old enough to be brought into the quarrel. There had been questions of cutting timber and of leases, as to which the parson, acting on his son's behalf, had opposed the Squire with much unnecessary bitterness and suspicion. And it was doubtless the case that the Squire resented bitterly an act done by his own father with the view of perpetuating the property in the true line of the Newtons. For when the settlement was made on the marriage of the younger brother, the elder was already the father of a child, whom he loved none the less because that child's mother had not become his wife. So the quarrel had been fostered, and at the time of the parson's death had extended itself to the young man who was his son, and the heir to the estate. When on his death-bed, the parson had asked Mr. Underwood, who had just then entered the House of Commons, to undertake this guardianship; and the lawyer, with many doubts, had consented. He had striven, but striven in vain, to reconcile the uncle and nephew. And, indeed, he was ill-fitted to accomplish such task. He could only write letters on the subject, which were very sensible but very cold;—in all of which he would be careful to explain that the steps which had been taken in regard to the property were in strict conformity with the law. The old Squire would have nothing to do with his heir,—in which resolution he was strengthened by the tidings which reached him of his heir's manner of living. He was taught to believe that everything was going to the dogs with the young man, and was wont to say that Newton Priory, with all its acres, would be found to have gone to the dogs too when his day was done;—unless, indeed, Ralph should fortunately kill himself by drink or evil living, in which case the property would go to the younger Gregory, the present parson. Now the present parson of Newton was his uncle's friend. Whether that friendship would have been continued had Ralph died and the young clergyman become the heir, may be matter of doubt.

This disagreeable duty of guardianship Sir Thomas had performed with many scruples of conscience, and a determination to do his best;—and he had nearly done it well. But he was a man who could not do it altogether well, let his scruples of conscience be what they might. He had failed in obtaining a father's control over the young man; and even in regard to the property which had passed through his hands,—though he had been careful with it,—he had not been adroit. Even at this moment things had not been settled which should have been settled; and Sir Thomas had felt, when Ralph had spoken of selling all that remained to him and of paying his debts, that there would be fresh trouble, and that he might be forced to own that he had been himself deficient.

And then he told himself,—and did so as soon as Ralph had left him,—that he should have given some counsel to the young man when he came to ask for it. "You had better cut your throat!" In his troubled spirit he had said that, and now his spirit was troubled the more because he had so spoken. He sat for hours thinking of it all. Ralph Newton was the undoubted heir to a very large property. He was now embarrassed,—but all his present debts did not amount to much more than half one year's income of that property which would be his,—probably in about ten years. The Squire might live for twenty years, or might die to-morrow; but his life-interest in the estate, according to the usual calculations, was not worth more than ten years' purchase. Could he, Sir Thomas, have been right to tell a young man, whose prospects were so good, and whose debts, after all, were so light, that he ought to go and cut his throat, as the only way of avoiding a disreputable marriage which would otherwise be forced upon him by the burden of his circumstances? Would not a guardian, with any true idea of his duty, would not a friend, whose friendship was in any degree real, have found a way out of such difficulties as these?

And then as to the marriage itself,—the proposed marriage with the breeches-maker's daughter,—the more Sir Thomas thought of it the more distasteful did it become to him. He knew that Ralph was unaware of all the evil that would follow such a marriage;—relatives whose every thought and action and word would be distasteful to him; children whose mother would not be a lady, and whose blood would be polluted by an admixture so base;—and, worse still, a life's companion who would be deficient in all those attributes which such a man as Ralph Newton should look for in a wife. Sir Thomas was a man to magnify rather than lesson these evils. And now he allowed his friend,—a man for whose behalf he had bound himself to use all the exercise of friendship,—to go from him with an idea that nothing but suicide could prevent this marriage, simply because there was an amount of debt, which, when compared with the man's prospects, should hardly have been regarded as a burden! As he thought of all this Sir Thomas was very unhappy.

Ralph had left him at about ten o'clock, and he then sat brooding over his misery for about an hour. It was his custom when he remained in his chambers to tell his clerk, Stemm, between nine and ten that nothing more would be wanted. Then Stemm would go, and Sir Thomas would sleep for a while in his chair. But the old clerk never stirred till thus dismissed. It was now eleven, and Sir Thomas knew very well that Stemm would be in his closet. He opened the door and called, and Stemm, aroused from his slumbers, slowly crept into the room. "Joseph," said his master, "I want Mr. Ralph's papers."

"To-night, Sir Thomas?"

"Well;—yes, to-night. I ought to have told you when he went away, but I was thinking of things."

"So I was thinking of things," said Stemm, as he very slowly made his way into the other room, and, climbing up a set of steps which stood there, pulled down from an upper shelf a tin box,—and with it a world of dust. "If you'd have said before that they'd be wanted, Sir Thomas, there wouldn't be such a deal of dry muck," said Stemm, as he put down the box on a chair opposite Sir Thomas's knees.

"And now where is the key?" said Sir Thomas. Stemm shook his head very slowly. "You know, Stemm;—where is it?"

"How am I to know, Sir Thomas? I don't know, Sir Thomas. It's like enough in one of those drawers." Then Stemm pointed to a certain table, and after a while slowly followed his own finger. The drawer was unlocked, and under various loose papers there lay four or five loose keys. "Like enough it's one of these," said Stemm.

"Of course you knew where it was," said Sir Thomas.

"I didn't know nothing at all about it," said Stemm, bobbing his head at his master, and making at the same time a gesture with his lips, whereby he intended to signify that his master was making a fool of himself. Stemm was hardly more than five feet high, and was a wizened dry old man, with a very old yellow wig. He delighted in scolding all the world, and his special delight was in scolding his master. But against all the world he would take his master's part, and had no care in the world except his master's comfort. When Sir Thomas passed an evening at Fulham, Stemm could do as he pleased with himself; but they were blank evenings with Stemm when Sir Thomas was away. While Sir Thomas was in the next room, he always felt that he was in company, but when Sir Thomas was away, all London, which was open to him, offered him no occupation. "That's the key," said Stemm, picking out one; "but it wasn't I as put it there; and you didn't tell me as it was there, and I didn't know it was there. I guessed,—just because you do chuck things in there, Sir Thomas."

"What does it matter, Joseph?" said Sir Thomas.

"It does matter when you say I knowed. I didn't know,—nor I couldn't know. There's the key anyhow."

"You can go now, Joseph," said Sir Thomas.

"Good night, Sir Thomas," said Stemm, retiring slowly, "but I didn't know, Sir Thomas,—nor I couldn't know." Then Sir Thomas unlocked the box, and gradually surrounded himself with the papers which he took from it. It was past one o'clock before he again began to think what he had better do to put Ralph Newton on his legs, and to save him from marrying the breeches-maker's daughter. He sat meditating on that and other things as they came into his mind for over an hour, and then he wrote the following letter to old Mr. Newton. Very many years had passed since he had seen Mr. Newton,—so many that the two men would not have known each other had they met; but there had been an occasional correspondence between them, and they were presumed to be on amicable terms with each other.

Southampton Buildings, 14th July, 186—.

DEAR SIR,—

I wish to consult you about the affairs of your heir and my late ward, Ralph Newton. Of course I am aware of the unfortunate misunderstanding which has hitherto separated you from him, as to which I believe you will be willing to allow that he, at least, has not been in fault. Though his life has by no means been what his friends could have wished it, he is a fine young fellow; and perhaps his errors have arisen as much from his unfortunate position as from any natural tendency to evil on his own part. He has been brought up to great expectations, with the immediate possession of a small fortune. These together have taught him to think that a profession was unnecessary for him, and he has been debarred from those occupations which generally fall in the way of the heir to a large landed property by the unfortunate fact of his entire separation from the estate which will one day be his. Had he been your son instead of your nephew, I think that his life would have been prosperous and useful.

As it is, he has got into debt, and I fear that the remains of his own property will not more than suffice to free him from his liabilities. Of course he could raise money on his interest in the Newton estate. Hitherto he has not done so; and I am most anxious to save him from a course so ruinous;—as you will be also, I am sure. He has come to me for advice, and I grieve to say, has formed a project of placing himself right again as regards money by offering marriage to the daughter of a retail tradesman. I have reason to believe that hitherto he has not committed himself; but I think that the young woman's father would accept the offer, if made. The money, I do not doubt, would be forthcoming; but the result could not be fortunate. He would then have allied himself with people who are not fit to be his associates, and he would have tied himself to a wife who, whatever may be her merits as a woman, cannot be fit to be the mistress of Newton Priory. But I have not known what advice to give him. I have pointed out to him the miseries of such a match; and I have also told him how surely his prospects for the future would be ruined, were he to attempt to live on money borrowed on the uncertain security of his future inheritance. I have said so much as plainly as I know how to say it;—but I have been unable to point out a third course. I have not ventured to recommend him to make any application to you.

It seems, however, to me, that I should be remiss in my duty both to him and to you were I not to make you acquainted with his circumstances,—so that you may interfere, should you please to do so, either on his behalf or on behalf of the property. Whatever offence there may have been, I think there can have been none personally from him to yourself. I beg you to believe that I am far from being desirous to dictate to you, or to point out to you this or that as your duty; but I venture to think that you will be obliged to me for giving you information which may lead to the protection of interests which cannot but be dear to you. In conclusion, I will only again say that Ralph himself is clever, well-conditioned, and, as I most truly believe, a thorough gentleman. Were the intercourse between you that of a father and son, I think you would feel proud of the relationship.

I remain, dear sir, Very faithfully yours,

THOMAS UNDERWOOD.

Gregory Newton, Esq., Newton Priory.

This was written on Friday night, and was posted on the Saturday morning by the faithful hand of Joseph Stemm;—who, however, did not hesitate to declare to himself, as he read the address, that his master was a fool for his pains. Stemm had never been favourable to the cause of young Newton, and had considered from the first that Sir Thomas should have declined the trust that had been imposed upon him. What good was to be expected from such a guardianship? And as things had gone on, proving Stemm's prophecies as to young Newton's career to be true, that trusty clerk had not failed to remind his master of his own misgivings. "I told you so," had been repeated by Stemm over and over again, in more phrases than one, until the repetition had made Sir Thomas very angry. Sir Thomas, when he gave the letter to Stemm for posting, said not a word of the contents; but Stemm knew something of old Mr. Gregory Newton and the Newton Priory estate. Stemm, moreover, could put two and two together. "He's a fool for his pains;—that's all," said Stemm, as he poked the letter into the box.

During the whole of the next day the matter troubled Sir Thomas. What if Ralph should go at once to the breeches-maker's daughter,—the thought of whom made Sir Thomas very sick,—and commit himself before an answer should be received from Mr. Newton? It was only on Sunday that an idea struck him that he might still do something further to avoid the evil;—and with this object he despatched a note to Ralph, imploring him to wait for a few days before he would take any steps towards the desperate remedy of matrimony. Then he begged Ralph to call upon him again on the Wednesday morning. This note Ralph did not get till he went home on the Sunday evening;—at which time, as the reader knows, he had not as yet committed himself to the desperate remedy.

On the following Tuesday Sir Thomas received the following letter from Mr. Newton:—

Newton Priory, 17th July, 186—.

DEAR SIR,—

I have received your letter respecting Mr. Ralph Newton's affairs, in regard to which, as far as they concern himself, I am free to say that I do not feel much interest. But you are quite right in your suggestion that my solicitude in respect of the family property is very great. I need not trouble you by pointing out the nature of my solicitude, but may as well at once make an offer to you, which you, as Mr. Ralph Newton's friend, and as an experienced lawyer, can consider,—and communicate to him, if you think right to do so.

It seems that he will be driven to raise money on his interest in this property. I have always felt that he would do so, and that from the habits of his life the property would be squandered before it came into his possession. Why should he not sell his reversion, and why should I not buy it? I write in ignorance, but I presume such an arrangement would be legal and honourable on my part. The sum to be given would be named without difficulty by an actuary. I am now fifty-five, and, I believe, in good health. You yourself will probably know within a few thousand pounds what would be the value of the reversion. A proper person would, however, be of course employed.

I have saved money, but by no means enough for such an outlay as this. I would, however, mortgage the property or sell one half of it, if by doing so I could redeem the other half from Mr. Ralph Newton.

You no doubt will understand exactly the nature of my offer, and will let me have an answer. I do not know that I can in any other way expedite Mr. Ralph Newton's course in life.

I am, dear sir, Faithfully yours,

GREGORY NEWTON, Senior.

When Sir Thomas read this he was almost in greater doubt and difficulty than before. The measure proposed by the elder Newton was no doubt legal and honourable, but it could hardly be so carried out as to be efficacious. Ralph could only sell his share of the inheritance;—or rather his chance of inheriting the estate. Were he to die without a son before his uncle, then his brother would be the heir. The arrangement, however, if practicable, would at once make all things comfortable for Ralph, and would give him, probably, a large unembarrassed revenue,—so large, that the owner of it need certainly have recourse to no discreditable marriage as the means of extricating himself from present calamity. But then Sir Thomas had very strong ideas about a family property. Were Ralph's affairs, indeed, in such disorder as to make it necessary for him to abandon the great prospect of being Newton of Newton? If the breeches-maker's twenty thousand would suffice, surely the thing could be done on cheaper terms than those suggested by the old Squire,—and done without the intervention of Polly Neefit!



CHAPTER XI.

NEWTON PRIORY.

Newton Priory was at this time inhabited by two gentlemen,—old Gregory Newton, who for miles round was known as the Squire; and his son, Ralph Newton,—his son, but not his heir; a son, however, whom he loved as well as though he had been born with an undoubted right to inherit all those dearly-valued acres. A few lines will tell all that need be told of the Squire's early life,—and indeed of his life down to the present period. In very early days, immediately upon his leaving college, he had travelled abroad and had formed an attachment with a German lady, who by him became the mother of a child. He intended to marry her, hoping to reconcile his father to the match; but before either marriage or reconciliation could take place the young mother, whose babe's life could then only be counted by months, was dead. In the hope that the old man might yield in all things, the infant had been christened Ralph; for the old Squire's name was Ralph, and there had been a Ralph among the Newtons since Newton Priory had existed. But the old Squire had a Ralph of his own,—the father of our Ralph and of the present parson,—who in his time was rector of Peele Newton; and when the tidings of this foreign baby and of the proposed foreign marriage reached the old Squire,—then he urged his second son to marry, and made the settlement of the estate of which the reader has heard. The settlement was natural enough. It simply entailed the property on the male heir of the family in the second generation. It deprived the eldest son of nothing that would be his in accordance with the usual tenure of English primogeniture. Had he married and become the father of a family, his eldest son would have been the heir. But heretofore there had been no such entails in the Newton family; or, at least, he was pleased to think that there had been none such. And when he himself inherited the property early in life,—before he had reached his thirtieth year,—he thought that his father had injured him. His boy was as dear to him, as though the mother had been his honest wife. Then he endeavoured to come to some terms with his brother. He would do anything in order that his child might be Newton of Newton after him. But the parson would come to no terms at all, and was powerless to make any such terms as those which the elder brother required. The parson was honest, self-denying, and proud on behalf of his own children; but he was intrusive in regard to the property, and apt to claim privileges of interference beyond his right as the guardian of his own or of his children's future interests. And so the brothers had quarrelled;—and so the story of Newton Priory is told up to the period at which our story begins.

Gregory Newton and his son Ralph had lived together at the Priory for the last six-and-twenty years, and the young man had grown up as a Newton within the knowledge of all the gentry around them. The story of his birth was public, and it was of course understood that he was not the heir. His father had been too wise on the son's behalf to encourage any concealment. The son was very popular, and deserved to be so; but it was known to all the young men round, and also to all the maidens, that he would not be Newton of Newton. There had been no ill-contrived secret, sufficient to make a difficulty, but not sufficient to save the lad from the pains of his position. Everybody knew it; and yet it can hardly be said that he was treated otherwise than he would have been treated had he been the heir. In the hunting-field there was no more popular man. A point had been stretched in his favour, and he was a magistrate. Mothers were kind to him, for it was known that his father loved him well, and that his father had been a prudent man. In all respects he was treated as though he were the heir. He managed the shooting, and was the trusted friend of all the tenants. Doubtless his father was the more indulgent to him because of the injury that had been done to him. After all, his life promised well as to material prosperity; for, though the Squire, in writing to Sir Thomas, had spoken of selling half the property with the view of keeping the other half for his son, he was already possessed of means that would enable him to make the proposed arrangement without such sacrifice as that. For twenty-four years he had felt that he was bound to make a fortune for his son out of his own income. And he had made a fortune, and mothers knew it, and everybody in the county was very civil to Ralph,—to that Ralph who was not the heir.

But the Squire had never yet quite abandoned the hope that Ralph who was not the heir might yet possess the place; and when he heard of his nephew's doings, heard falsehood as well as truth, from day to day he built up new hopes. He had not expected any such overture as that which had come from Sir Thomas; but if, as he did expect, Ralph the heir should go to the Jews, why should not the Squire purchase the Jews' interest in his own estate? Or, if Ralph the heir should, more wisely, deal with some great money-lending office, why should not he redeem the property through the same? Ralph the heir would surely throw what interest he had into the market, and if so, that interest might be bought by the person to whom it must be of more value than to any other. He had said little about it even to his son;—but he had hoped; and now had come this letter from Sir Thomas. The reader knows the letter and the Squire's answer.

The Squire himself was a very handsome man, tall, broad-shouldered, square-faced, with hair and whiskers almost snow-white already, but which nevertheless gave to him but little sign of age. He was very strong, and could sit in the saddle all day without fatigue. He was given much to farming, and thoroughly understood the duties of a country gentleman. He was hospitable, too; for, though money had been saved, the Priory had ever been kept as one of the pleasantest houses in the county. There had been no wife, no child but the one, and no house in London. The stables, however, had been full of hunters: and it was generally said that no men in Hampshire were better mounted than Gregory the father and Ralph the son. Of the father we will only further say that he was a generous, passionate, persistent, vindictive, and unforgiving man, a bitter enemy and a staunch friend; a thorough-going Tory, who, much as he loved England and Hampshire and Newton Priory, feared that they were all going to the dogs because of Mr. Disraeli and household suffrage; but who felt, in spite of those fears, that to make his son master of Newton Priory after him would be the greatest glory of his life. He had sworn to the young mother on her death-bed that the boy should be to him as though he had been born in wedlock. He had been as good as his word;—and we may say that he was one who had at least that virtue, that he was always as good as his word.

The son was very like the father in face and gait and bearing,—so like that the parentage was marked to the glance of any observer. He was tall, as was his father, and broad across the chest, and strong and active, as his father had ever been. But his face was of a nobler stamp, bearing a surer impress of intellect, and in that respect telling certainly the truth. This Ralph Newton had been educated abroad, his father, with a morbid feeling which he had since done much to conquer, having feared to send him among other young men, the sons of squires and noblemen, who would have known that their comrade was debarred by the disgrace of his birth from inheriting the property of his father. But it may be doubted whether he had not gained as much as he had lost. German and French were the same to him as his native tongue; and he returned to the life of an English country gentleman young enough to learn to ride to hounds, and to live as he found others living around him.

Very little was said, or indeed ever had been said, between the father and son as to their relative position in reference to the property. Ralph,—the illegitimate Ralph,—knew well enough and had always known, that the estate was not to be his. He had known this so long that he did not remember the day when he had not known it. Occasionally the Squire would observe with a curse that this or that could not be done with the property,—such a house pulled down, or such another built, this copse grupped up, or those trees cut down,—because of that reprobate up in London. As to pulling down, there was no probability of interference now, though there had been much of such interference in the life of the old rector. "Ralph," he had once said to his brother the rector, "I'll marry and have a family yet if there is another word about the timber." "I have not the slightest right or even wish to object to your doing so," said the rector; "but as long as things are on their present footing, I shall continue to do my duty." Soon after that it had come to pass that the brothers so quarrelled that all intercourse between them was at an end. Such revenge, such absolute punishment as that which the Squire had threatened, would have been very pleasant to him;—but not even for such pleasure as that would he ruin the boy whom he loved. He did not marry, but saved money, and dreamed of buying up the reversion of his nephew's interest.

His son was just two years older than our Ralph up in London, and his father was desirous that he should marry. "Your wife would be mistress of the house,—as long as I live, at least," he had once said. "There are difficulties about it," said the son. Of course there were difficulties. "I do not know whether it is not better that I should remain unmarried," he said, a few minutes later. "There are men whom marriage does not seem to suit,—I mean as regards their position." The father turned away, and groaned aloud when he was alone. On the evening of that day, as they were sitting together over their wine, the son alluded, not exactly to the same subject, but to the thoughts which had arisen from it within his own mind. "Father," he said, "I don't know whether it wouldn't be better for you to make it up with my cousin, and have him down here."

"What cousin?" said the Squire, turning sharply round.

"With Gregory's eldest brother." The reader will perhaps remember that the Gregory of that day was the parson. "I believe he is a good fellow, and he has done you no harm."

"He has done me all harm."

"No; father; no. We cannot help ourselves, you know. Were he to die, Gregory would be in the same position. It would be better that the family should be kept together."

"I would sooner have the devil here. No consideration on earth shall induce me to allow him to put his foot upon this place. No;—not whilst I live." The son said nothing further, and they sat together in silence for some quarter of an hour,—after which the elder of the two rose from his chair, and, coming round the table, put his hand on the son's shoulder, and kissed his son's brow. "Father," said the young man, "you think that I am troubled by things which hardly touch me at all." "By God, they touch me close enough!" said the elder. This had taken place some month or two before the date of Sir Thomas's letter;—but any reference to the matter of which they were both no doubt always thinking was very rare between them.

Newton Priory was a place which a father might well wish to leave unimpaired to his son. It lay in the north of Hampshire, where that county is joined to Berkshire; and perhaps in England there is no prettier district, no country in which moorland and woodland and pasture are more daintily thrown together to please the eye, in which there is a sweeter air, or a more thorough seeming of English wealth and English beauty and English comfort. Those who know Eversley and Bramshill and Heckfield and Strathfieldsaye will acknowledge that it is so. But then how few are the Englishmen who travel to see the beauties of their own country! Newton Priory, or Newton Peele as the parish was called, lay somewhat west of these places, but was as charming as any of them. The entire parish belonged to Mr. Newton, as did portions of three or four parishes adjoining. The house itself was neither large nor remarkable for its architecture;—but it was comfortable. The rooms indeed were low, for it had been built in the ungainly days of Queen Anne, with additions in the equally ungainly time of George II., and the passages were long and narrow, and the bedrooms were up and down stairs, as though pains had been taken that no two should be on a level; and the windows were of ugly shape, and the whole mass was uncouth and formless,—partaking neither of the Gothic beauty of the Stuart architecture, nor of the palatial grandeur which has sprung up in our days; and it stood low, giving but little view from the windows. But, nevertheless, there was a family comfort and a warm solidity about the house, which endeared it to those who knew it well. There had been a time in which the present Squire had thought of building for himself an entirely new house, on another site,—on the rising brow of a hill, some quarter of a mile away from his present residence;—but he had remembered that as he could not leave his estate to his son, it behoved him to spend nothing on the property which duty did not demand from him.

The house stood in a park of some two hundred acres, in which the ground was poor, indeed, but beautifully diversified by rising knolls and little ravines, which seemed to make the space almost unlimited. And then the pines which waved in the Newton woods sighed and moaned with a melody which, in the ears of their owner, was equalled by that of no other fir trees in the world. And the broom was yellower at Newton than elsewhere, and more plentiful; and the heather was sweeter;—and wild thyme on the grass more fragrant. So at least Mr. Newton was always ready to swear. And all this he could not leave behind him to his son;—but must die with the knowledge, that as soon as the breath was out of his body, it would become the property of a young man whom he hated! He might not cut down the pine woods, nor disturb those venerable single trees which were the glory of his park;—but there were moments in which he thought that he could take a delight in ploughing up the furze, and in stripping the hill-sides of the heather. Why should his estate be so beautiful for one who was nothing to him? Would it not be well that he should sell everything that was saleable in order that his own son might be the richer?

On the day after he had written his reply to Sir Thomas he was rambling in the evening with his son through the woods. Nothing could be more beautiful than the park was now;—and Ralph had been speaking of the glory of the place. But something had occurred to make his father revert to the condition of a certain tenant, whose holding on the property was by no means satisfactory either to himself or to his landlord. "You know, sir," said the son, "I told you last year that Darvell would have to go."

"Where's he to go to?"

"He'll go to the workhouse if he stays here. It will be much better for him to be bought out while there is still something left for him to sell. Nothing can be worse than a man sticking on to land without a shilling of capital."

"Of course it's bad. His father did very well there."

"His father did very well there till he took to drink and died of it. You know where the road parts Darvell's farm and Brownriggs? Just look at the difference of the crops. There's a place with wheat on each side of you. I was looking at them before dinner."

"Brownriggs is in a different parish. Brownriggs is in Bostock."

"But the land is of the same quality. Of course Walker is a different sort of man from Darvell. I believe there are nearly four hundred acres in Brownriggs."

"All that," said the father.

"And Darvell has about seventy;—but the land should be made to bear the same produce per acre."

The Squire paused a moment, and then asked a question. "What should you say if I proposed to sell Brownriggs?" Now there were two or three matters which made the proposition to sell Brownriggs a very wonderful proposition to come from the Squire. In the first place he couldn't sell an acre of the property at all,—of which fact his son was very well aware; and then, of all the farms on the estate it was, perhaps, the best and most prosperous. Mr. Walker, the tenant, was a man in very good circumstances, who hunted, and was popular, and was just the man of whose tenancy no landlord would be ashamed.



"Sell Brownriggs!" said the young man. "Well, yes; I should be surprised. Could you sell it?"

"Not at present," said the Squire.

"How could it be sold at all?" They were now standing at a gate leading out of the park into a field held by the Squire in his own hands, and were both leaning on it. "Father," said the son, "I wish you would not trouble yourself about the estate, but let things come and go just as they have been arranged."

"I prefer to arrange them for myself,—if I can. It comes to this, that it may be possible to buy the reversion of the property. I could not buy it all;—or if I did, must sell a portion of it to raise the money. I have been thinking it over and making calculations. If we let Walker's farm go, and Ingram's, I think I could manage the rest. Of course it would depend on the value of my own life."

There was a long pause, during which they both were still leaning on the gate. "It is a phantom, sir!" the young man said at last.

"What do you mean by a phantom? I don't see any phantom. A reversion can be bought and sold as well as any other property. And if it be sold in this case, I am as free to buy it as any other man."

"Who says it is to be sold, sir?"

"I say so. That prig of a barrister, Sir Thomas Underwood, has already made overtures to me to do something for that young scoundrel in London. He is a scoundrel, for he is spending money that is not his own. And he is now about to make a marriage that will disgrace his family." The Squire probably did not at the moment think of the disgrace which he had brought upon the family by not marrying. "The fact is, that he will have to sell all that he can sell. Why should I not buy it!"

"If he were to die?" suggested the son.

"I wish he would," said the father.

"Don't say that, sir. But if he were to die, Gregory here, who is as good a fellow as ever lived, would come into his shoes. Ralph could sell no more than his own chance."

"We could get Gregory to join us," said the energetic Squire. "He, also, could sell his right."

"You had better leave it as it is, sir," said the son, after another pause. "I feel sure that you will only get yourself into trouble. The place is yours as long as you live, and you should enjoy it."

"And know that it is going to the Jews after me! Not if I can help it. You won't marry, as things are; but you'd marry quick enough if you knew you would remain here after my death;—if you were sure that a child of yours could inherit the estate. I mean to try it on, and it is best that you should know. Whatever he can make over to the Jews he can make over to me;—and as that is what he is about, I shall keep my eyes open. I shall go up to London about it and see Carey next week. A man can do a deal if he sets himself thoroughly to work."

"I'd leave it alone if I were you," said the young man.

"I shall not leave it alone. I mayn't be able to get it all, but I'll do my best to secure a part of it. If any is to go, it had better be the land in Bostock and Twining. I think we could manage to keep Newton entire."

His mind was always on the subject, though it was not often that he said a word about it to the son in whose behalf he was so anxious. His thoughts were always dwelling on it, so that the whole peace and comfort of his life were disturbed. A life-interest in a property is, perhaps, as much as a man desires to have when he for whose protection he is debarred from further privileges of ownership is a well-loved son;—but an entail that limits an owner's rights on behalf of an heir who is not loved, who is looked upon as an enemy, is very grievous. And in this case the man who was so limited, so cramped, so hedged in, and robbed of the true pleasures of ownership, had a son with whom he would have been willing to share everything,—whom it would have been his delight to consult as to every roof to be built, every tree to be cut, every lease to be granted or denied. He would dream of telling his son, with a certain luxury of self-abnegation, that this or that question as to the estate should be settled in the interest, not of the setting, but of the rising sun. "It is your affair rather than mine, my boy;—do as you like." He could picture to himself in his imagination a pleasant, half-mock melancholy in saying such things, and in sharing the reins of government between his own hands and those of his heir. As the sun is falling in the heavens and the evening lights come on, this world's wealth and prosperity afford no pleasure equal to this. It is this delight that enables a man to feel, up to the last moment, that the goods of the world are good. But of all this he was to be robbed,—in spite of all his prudence. It might perhaps sometimes occur to him that he by his own vice had brought this scourge upon his back;—but not the less on that account did it cause him to rebel against the rod. Then there would come upon him the idea that he might cure this evil were his energy sufficient;—and all that he heard of that nephew and heir, whom he hated, tended to make him think that the cure was within his reach. There had been moments in which he had planned a scheme of leading on that reprobate into quicker and deeper destruction, of a pretended friendship with the spendthrift, in order that money for speedier ruin might be lent on that security which the uncle himself was so anxious to possess as his very own. But the scheme of this iniquity, though it had been planned and mapped out in his brain, had never been entertained as a thing really to be done. There are few of us who have not allowed our thoughts to work on this or that villany, arranging the method of its performance, though the performance itself is far enough from our purpose. The amusement is not without its danger,—and to the Squire of Newton had so far been injurious that it had tended to foster his hatred. He would, however, do nothing that was dishonest,—nothing that the world would condemn,—nothing that would not bear the light. The argument to which he mainly trusted was this,—that if Ralph Newton, the heir, had anything to sell and was pleased to sell it, it was as open to him to buy it as to any other. If the reversion of the estate of Newton Priory was in the market, why should he not buy it?—the reversion or any part of the reversion? If such were the case he certainly would buy it.



CHAPTER XII.

MRS. BROWNLOW.

There was a certain old Mrs. Brownlow, who inhabited a large old-fashioned house on the Fulham Road, just beyond the fashionable confines of Brompton, but nearer to town than the decidedly rural district of Walham Green and Parson's Green. She was deeply interested in the welfare of the Underwood girls, having been a first cousin of their paternal grandmother, and was very unhappy because their father would not go home and take care of them. She was an excellent old woman, affectionate, charitable, and religious; but she was rather behindhand in general matters, and did not clearly understand much about anything in these latter days. She had heard that Sir Thomas was accustomed to live away from his daughters, and thought it very shocking;—but she knew that Sir Thomas either was or had been in Parliament, and that he was a great lawyer and a very clever man, and therefore she made excuses. She did not quite understand it all, but she thought it expedient to befriend the young ladies. She had heard, too, that Ralph Newton, who had been entrusted to the care of Sir Thomas, was heir to an enormous property; and she thought that the young man ought to marry one of the young ladies. Consequently, whenever she would ask her cousins to tea, she would also ask Mr. Ralph Newton. Sometimes he would come. More frequently he would express his deep regret that a previous engagement prevented him from having the pleasure of accepting Mrs. Brownlow's kind invitation. On all these occasions Mrs. Brownlow invited Sir Thomas;—but Sir Thomas never came. It could hardly have been expected of him that he should do so. Bolsover House was the old-fashioned name of Mrs. Brownlow's residence; and an invitation for tea had been sent for a certain Tuesday in July,—Tuesday, July the 18th. Mrs. Brownlow had of course been informed of the arrival of Mary Bonner,—who was in truth as nearly related to her as the Underwood girls,—and the invitation was given with the express intention of doing honour to Mary. By the young ladies from Popham Villa the invitation was accepted as a matter of course.

"Will he be there?" Clary said to her sister.

"I hope not, Clarissa."

"Why do you hope not? We are not to quarrel; are we, Patty?"

"No;—we need not quarrel. But I am afraid of him. He is not good enough, Clary, for you to be unhappy about him. And I fear,—I fear, he is—"

"Is what, Patty? Do speak it out. There is nothing I hate so much as a mystery."

"I fear he is not genuine;—what people call honest. He would say things without quite meaning what he says."

"I don't think it. I am sure he is not like that. I may have been a fool—" Then she stopped herself, remembering the whole scene on the lawn. Alas;—there had been no misunderstanding him. The crime had been forgiven; but the crime had been a great fact. Since that she had seen him only once, and then he had been so cold! But yet as he left her he had not been quite cold. Surely that pressure of her hand had meant something;—had meant something after that great crime! But why did he not come to her; or why,—which would have been so far, far better,—did he not go to her papa and tell everything to him? Now, however, there was the chance that she would see him at Bolsover House. That Mrs. Brownlow would ask him was quite a matter of course.

The great event of the evening was to be the introduction of Mrs. Brownlow to the new cousin. They were to drink tea out in the old-fashioned garden behind the house, from which Mrs. Brownlow could retreat into her own room at the first touch of a breath of air. The day was one of which the world at large would declare that there was no breath of air, morning, noon, or night. There was to be quite a party. That was evident from the first to our young ladies, who knew the ways of the house, and who saw that the maids were very smart, and that an extra young woman had been brought in; but they were the first to come,—as was proper.

"My dear Mary," said the old woman to her new guest, "I am glad to see you. I knew your mother and loved her well. I hope you will be happy, my dear." Mrs. Brownlow was a very little old woman, very pretty, very grey, very nicely dressed, and just a little deaf. Mary Bonner kissed her, and murmured some word of thanks. The old woman stood for a few seconds, looking at the beauty,—astounded like the rest of the world. "Somebody told me she was good-looking," Mrs. Brownlow said to Patience;—"but I did not expect to see her like that."

"Is she not lovely?"

"She is a miracle, my dear! I hope she won't steal all the nice young men away from you and your sister, eh? Yes;—yes. What does Mr. Newton say to her?" Patience, however, knew that she need not answer all the questions which Mrs. Brownlow asked, and she left this question unanswered.

Two or three elderly ladies came in, and four or five young ladies, and an old gentleman who sat close to Mrs. Brownlow and squeezed her hand very often, and a middle-aged gentleman who was exceedingly funny, and two young gentlemen who carried the tea and cakes about, but did not talk much. Such were the guests, and the young ladies, who no doubt were accustomed to Mrs. Brownlow's parties, took it all as it was intended, and were not discontented. There was one young lady, however, who longed to ask a question, but durst not. Had Ralph Newton promised that he would come? Clary was sitting between the old gentleman who seemed to be so fond of Mrs. Brownlow's hand and her cousin Mary. She said not a word,—nor, indeed, was there much talking among the guests in general. The merry, middle-aged gentleman did the talking, combining with it a good deal of exhilarating laughter at his own wit. The ladies sat round, and sipped their tea and smiled. That middle-aged gentleman certainly earned his mild refreshment;—for the party without him must have been very dull. Then there came a breath of air,—or, as Mrs. Brownlow called it, a keen north wind; and the old lady retreated into the house. "Don't let me take anybody else in,—only I can't stand a wind like that." The old gentleman accompanied her, and then the elderly ladies. The young ladies came next, and the man of wit, with the silent young gentlemen, followed, laden with scarfs, parasols, fans, and stray teacups. "I don't think we used to have such cold winds in July," said Mrs. Brownlow. The old gentleman pressed her hand once more, and whispered into her ear that there had certainly been a great change.

Suddenly Ralph Newton was among them. Clarissa had not heard him announced, and to her it seemed as though he had come down from the heavens,—as would have befitted his godship. He was a great favourite with Mrs. Brownlow, who, having heard that he was heir to a very large property, thought that his extravagance became him. According to her views it was his duty to spend a good deal of money, and his duty also to marry Clarissa Underwood. As he was as yet unmarried to any one else, she hardly doubted that he would do his duty. She was a sanguine old lady, who always believed that things would go right. She bustled and fussed on the present occasion with the very evident intention of getting a seat for him next to Clarissa; but Clarissa was as active in avoiding such an arrangement, and Ralph soon found himself placed between Mary Bonner and a very deaf old lady, who was always present at Mrs. Brownlow's tea-parties. "I suppose this has all been got up in your honour," he said to Mary. She smiled, and shook her head. "Oh, but it has. I know the dear old lady's ways so well! She would never allow a new Underwood to be at the villa for a month without having a tea-party to consecrate the event."

"Isn't she charming, Mr. Newton;—and so pretty?"

"No end of charming, and awfully pretty. Why are we all in here instead of out in the garden?"

"Mrs. Brownlow thought that it was cold."

"With the thermometer at 80 degrees! What do you think, who ought to know what hot weather means? Are you chilly?"

"Not in the least. We West Indians never find this climate cold the first year. Next year I don't doubt that I shall be full of rheumatism all over, and begging to be taken back to the islands."

Clarissa watched them from over the way as though every word spoken between them had been a treason to herself. And yet she had almost been rude to old Mrs. Brownlow in the manner in which she had placed herself on one side of the circle when the old lady had begged her to sit on the other. Certainly, had she heard all that was said between her lover and her cousin, there was nothing in the words to offend her. She did not hear them; but she could see that Ralph looked into Mary's beautiful face, and that Mary smiled in a demure, silent, self-assured way which was already becoming odious to Clarissa. Clarissa herself, when Ralph looked into her face, would blush and turn away, and feel herself unable to bear the gaze of the god.

In a few minutes there came to be a sudden move, and all the young people trooped back into the garden. It was Ralph Newton who did it, and nobody quite understood how it was done. "Certainly, my dears; certainly," said the old lady. "I dare say the moon is very beautiful. Yes; I see Mr. Ralph. You are not going to take me out, I can tell you. The moon is all very well, but I like to see it through the window. Don't mind me. Mr. Truepeny will stay with me." Mr. Truepeny, who was turned eighty, put out his hand and patted Mrs. Brownlow's arm, and assured her that he wanted nothing better than to stay with her for ever. The witty gentleman did not like the move, because it had been brought about by a newcomer, who had, as it were, taken the wind out of his sails. He lingered awhile, hoping to have weight enough to control the multitude;—in which he failed, and at last made one of the followers. And Clarissa lingered also, because Ralph had been the first to stir. Ralph had gone out with Mary Bonner, and therefore Clarissa had held back. So it came to pass that she found herself walking round the garden with the witty, exhilarating, middle-aged gentleman,—whom, for the present at least, she most cordially hated. "I am not quite sure that our dear old friend isn't right," said the witty man, whose name was Poojean;—"a chair to sit down upon, and a wall or two around one, and a few little knick-nacks about,—carpets and tables and those sort of things,—are comfortable at times."

"I wonder you should leave them then," said Clarissa.

"Can there be a wonder that I leave them with such temptation as this," said the gallant Poojean. Clarissa hated him worse than ever, and would not look at him, or even make the faintest sign that she heard him. The voice of Ralph Newton through the trees struck her ears; and yet the voice wasn't loud,—as it would not be if it were addressed with tenderness to Mary. And there was she bound by some indissoluble knot to,—Mr. Poojean. "That Mr. Newton is a friend of yours?" asked Mr. Poojean.

"Yes;—a friend of ours," said Clarissa.

"Then I will express my intense admiration for his wit, general character, and personal appearance. Had he been a stranger to you, I should, of course, have insinuated an opinion that he was a fool, a coxcomb, and the very plainest young man I had ever seen. That is the way of the world,—isn't it, Miss Underwood?"

"I don't know," said Clarissa.

"Oh, yes,—you do. That's the way we all go on. As he is your friend, I can't dare to begin to abuse him till after the third time round the garden."

"I beg, then, that there may be only two turns," said Clarissa. But she did not know how to stop, or to get rid of her abominable companion.

"If I mustn't abuse him after three turns, he must be a favourite," said the persevering Poojean. "I suppose he is a favourite. By-the-bye, what a lovely girl that is with whom your favourite was,—shall I say flirting?"

"That lady is my cousin, Mr. Poojean."

"I didn't say that she was flirting, mind. I wouldn't hint such a thing of any young lady, let her be anybody's cousin. Young ladies never flirt. But young men do sometimes;—don't they? After all, it is the best fun going;—isn't it?"

"I don't know," said Clarissa. By this time they had got round to the steps leading from the garden to the house. "I think I'll go in, Mr. Poojean." She did go in, and Mr. Poojean was left looking at the moon all alone, as though he had separated himself from all mirth and society for that melancholy but pleasing occupation. He stood there gazing upwards with his thumbs beneath his waistcoat. "Grand,—is it not?" he said to the first couple that passed him.

"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, forgiven? 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.

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, 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 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?"

"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 half-ounce 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 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 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?"

"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."

"You won't! Is that answer to go for always?"

"Yes, it is. You come and tease and say uncivil things, and I don't choose to be bullied. What right have you to talk to me about Mr. Newton? Did I ever give you any right? Honest indeed! What right have you to talk to me about being honest?"

"It's all true, dear."

"Very well, then. Hold your tongue, and don't say such things. Honest indeed! If I were to take the young man to-morrow, that would not make me dishonest."

"It's all true, dear, and I beg your pardon. If I have offended you, I will beg your pardon."

"Never mind about that;—only don't say foolish things."

"Is it foolish, Polly, to say that I love you? And if I love you, can I like to see a young fellow like Mr. Newton hanging about after you? He doesn't love you. He can't love you,—as I do. Your father brings him here because he is a gentleman."

"I don't think anything of his being a gentleman."

"But think of me. Of course I was unhappy, wretched,—miserable. I knew why he was there. You can understand, Polly, that when a man really loves he must be the miserablest or the happiest of human beings."

"I don't understand anything about it."

"I wish you would let me teach you."

"I don't want to learn, and I doubt whether you'd make a good master. I really must go back now, Mr. Moggs. I came out because mother said I'd better. I don't know that it could do any good if we were to walk on to Edgeware." And so saying, Polly turned back.

He walked beside her half the way home in silence, thinking that if he could only choose the proper words and the proper tone he might yet prevail; but feeling that the proper words and the proper tone were altogether out of his reach. On those favourite subjects, the ballot, or the power of strikes, he could always find the proper words and the proper tone when he rose upon his legs at the Cheshire Cheese;—and yet, much as he loved the ballot, he loved Polly Neefit infinitely more dearly. When at the Cheshire Cheese he was a man; but now, walking with the girl of his heart, he felt himself to be a bootmaker, and the smell of the leather depressed him. It was evident that she would walk the whole way home in silence, if he would permit it. The railway station was already again in sight, when he stopped her on the pathway, and made one more attempt. "You believe me, when I say that I love you?"

"I don't know, Mr. Moggs."

"Oh, Polly, you don't know!"

"But it doesn't signify,—not the least. I ain't bound to take a man because he loves me."

"You won't take Mr. Newton;—will you?"

"I don't know. I won't say anything about it. Mr. Newton is nothing to you." Then there was a pause. "If you think, Mr. Moggs, that you can recommend yourself to a young woman by such tantrums as there were going on last night, you are very much mistaken. That's not the way to win me."

"I wish I knew which was the way."

"Mr. Newton never said a word."

"Your father told him to take you out a-walking before my very eyes! Was I to bear that? Think of it, Polly. You mayn't care for me, and I don't suppose you do; but you may understand what my feelings were. What would you have thought of me if I'd stayed there, smoking, and borne it quiet,—and you going about with that young man? I'll tell you what it is, Polly, I couldn't bear it, and I won't. There;—and now you know what I mean." At this point in his speech he took off his hat and waved it in the air. "I won't bear it. There are things a man can't bear,—can't bear,—can't bear. Oh, Polly! if you could only be brought to understand what it is that I feel!"

After all, he didn't do it so very badly. There was just a tear in the corner of Polly's eye, though Polly was very careful that he shouldn't see it. And Polly did know well enough that he was in earnest,—that he was, in fact, true. But then he was gawky and ungainly. It was not that he was a shoemaker. Could he have had his own wits, and danced like the gasfitter, he might have won her still, against Ralph Newton, with all his blood and white hands. But poor Ontario was, as regarded externals, so ill a subject for a great passion!

"And where have you been, Polly?" said her father, as soon as she entered the house.

"I have been walking with Ontario Moggs," said Polly boldly.

"What have you been saying to him? I won't have you walk with Ontario Moggs. I and your mother 'll have to fall out if this kind of thing goes on."

"Don't be silly, father."

"What do you mean by that, miss?"

"It is silly. Why shouldn't I walk with him? Haven't I known him all my life, and walked with him scores of times? Isn't it silly, father? Don't I know that if I told you I loved Ontario Moggs, you'd let me marry him to-morrow?"

"He'd have to take you in what you stand up in."

"He wouldn't desire anything better. I'll say that for him. He's true and honest. I'd love him if I could,—only, somehow I don't."

"You've told him you didn't,—once and for all?"

"I don't know about that, father. He'll come again, you may be sure. He's one of that sort that isn't easily said nay to. If you mean,—have I said yes?—I haven't. I'll never say yes to any man unless I love him. When I do say it I shall mean it,—whether it's Onty Moggs or anybody else. I'm not going to be given away, you know, like a birthday present, out of a shop. There's nobody can give me away, father,—only myself." To all which utterances of a rebellious spirit the breeches-maker made no answer. He knew that Polly would, at least, be true to him; and, as she was as yet free, the field was still open to his candidate. He believed thoroughly that had not his wife interfered, and asked the bootmaker to join that unfortunate dinner party, his daughter and Ralph Newton would now have been engaged together. And probably it might have been so. When first it had been whispered to Polly that that handsome and very agreeable young gentleman, Mr. Ralph Newton, might become a suitor for her hand, she had chucked up her head and declared to her mother that she didn't intend to take a husband of her father's choosing; but as she came to know Ralph a little, she did find that he was good-looking and agreeable,—and her heart did flutter at the idea of becoming the wife of a real, undoubted gentleman. She meant to have her grand passion, and she must be quite sure that Mr. Newton loved her. But she didn't see any reason why Mr. Newton shouldn't love her, and, upon the whole, she was inclined to obey her father rather than to disobey him. And it might still be that he should win her;—for he had done nothing to disgrace himself in her sight. But there did lurk within her bosom some dim idea that he should have bestirred himself more thoroughly on that Sunday evening, and not have allowed himself to be driven out of the field by Ontario Moggs. She wronged him there, as indeed he had had no alternative, unless he had followed her up to her bedroom.

Mr. Neefit, when he found that no harm had as yet been done, resolved that he would return to the charge. It has been before observed that he lacked something in delicacy, but what he did so lack he made up in persistency. He had been unable to impute any blame to Ralph as to that evening. He felt that he rather owed an apology to his favourite candidate. He would make the apology, and inform the favourite candidate, at the same time, that the course was still open to him. With these views he left Conduit Street early on the Wednesday morning, and called on Ralph at his rooms. "Mr. Newton," he said, hastening at once upon the grand subject, "I hope you didn't think as I was to blame in having Moggs at our little dinner on Sunday." Ralph declared that he had never thought of imputing blame to any one. "But it was,—as awk'ard as awk'ard could be. It was my wife's doing. Of course you can see how it all is. That chap has been hankering after Polly ever since she was in her teens. But, Lord love you, Captain, he ain't a chance with her. He was there again o' Monday, but the girl wouldn't have a word to say to him." Ralph sat silent, and very grave. He was taken now somewhat by surprise, having felt, up to this moment, that he would at least have the advantage of a further interview with Sir Thomas, before he need say another word to Mr. Neefit. "What I want you to do, Captain, is just to pop it, straight off, to my girl. I know she'd take you, because of her way of looking. Not, mind, that she ever said so. Oh, no. But the way to find out is just to ask the question."

"You see, Mr. Neefit, it wasn't very easy to ask it last Sunday," said Ralph, attempting to laugh.

"Moggs has been at her again," said Neefit. This argument was good. Had Ralph been as anxious as Moggs, he would have made his opportunity.

"And, to tell you the truth, Mr. Neefit—"

"Well, sir?"

"There is nothing so disagreeable as interfering in families. I admire your daughter amazingly."

"She's a trump, Mr. Newton."

"She is indeed;—and I thoroughly appreciate the great generosity of your offer."

"I'll be as good as my word, Mr. Newton. The money shall be all there,—down on the nail."

"But, you see, your wife is against me."

"Blow my wife. You don't think Polly 'd do what her mother tells her? Who's got the money-bag? That's the question. You go down and pop it straight. You ain't afraid of an old woman, I suppose;—nor yet of a young un. Don't mind waiting for more dinners, or anything of that kind. They likes a man to be hot about it;—that's what they likes. You're sure to find her any time before dinner;—that's at one, you know. May be she mayn't be figged out fine, but you won't mind that. I'll go bail you'll find the flesh and blood all right. Just you make your way in, and say what you've got to say. I'll make it straight with the old woman afterwards."

Ralph Newton had hitherto rather prided himself on his happy management of young ladies. He was not ordinarily much afflicted by shyness, and conceived himself able to declare a passion, perhaps whether felt or feigned, as well as another. And now he was being taught how to go a-wooing by his breeches-maker! He did not altogether like it, and, as at this moment his mind was rather set against the Hendon matrimonial speculation, he was disposed to resent it. "I think you're making a little mistake, Mr. Neefit," he said.

"What mistake? I don't know as I'm making any mistake. You'll be making a mistake, and so you'll find when the plum's gone."

"It's just this, you know. When you suggested this thing to me—"

"Well;—yes; I did suggest it, and I ain't ashamed of it."

"I was awfully grateful. I had met your daughter once or twice, and I told you I admired her ever so much."

"That's true;—but you didn't admire her a bit more than what she's entitled to."

"I'm sure of that. But then I thought I ought,—just to,—know her a little better, you see. And then how could I presume to think she'd take me till she knew me a little better?"

"Presume to think! Is that all you know about young women? Pop the question right out, and give her a buss. That's the way."

Newton paused a moment before he spoke, and looked very grave. "I think you're driving me a little too fast, Mr. Neefit," he said at last.

"The deuce I am! Driving you too fast. What does that mean?"

"There must be a little management and deliberation in these things. If I were to do as you propose, I should not recommend myself to your daughter; and I should myself feel that, at the most important crisis of my life, I was allowing myself to be hurried beyond my judgment." These words were spoken with a slow solemnity of demeanour, and a tone of voice so serious that for a moment they perfectly awed the breeches-maker. Ralph was almost successful in reducing his proposed father-in-law to a state of absolute subjection. Mr. Neefit was all but induced to forget that he stood there with twenty thousand pounds in his pocket. There came a drop or two of perspiration on his brow, and his large saucer eyes almost quailed before those of his debtor. But at last he rallied himself,—though not entirely. He could not quite assume that self-assertion which he knew that his position would have warranted; but he did keep his flag up after a fashion. "I dare say you know your own business best, Mr. Newton;—only them's not my ideas; that's all. I come to you fair and honest, and I repeats the same. Good morning, Mr. Newton." So he went, and nothing had been settled.

To say that Ralph had even yet made up his mind would be to give him praise which was not his due. He was still doubting, though in his doubts the idea of marrying Polly Neefit became more indistinct, and less alluring than ever. By this time he almost hated Mr. Neefit, and most unjustly regarded that man as a persecutor, who was taking advantage of his pecuniary ascendancy to trample on him. "He thinks I must take his daughter because I owe him two or three hundred pounds." Such were Ralph Newton's thoughts about the breeches-maker,—which thoughts were very unjust. Neefit was certainly vulgar, illiterate, and indelicate; but he was a man who could do a generous action, and having offered his daughter to this young aristocrat would have scorned to trouble him afterwards about his "little bill." Ralph sat trying to think for about an hour, and then walked to Southampton Buildings. He had not much hope as he went. Indeed hope hardly entered into his feelings. Sir Thomas would of course say unpleasant words to him, and of course he would be unable to answer them. There was no ground for hoping anything,—unless indeed he could make himself happy in a snug little box in a hunting country, with Polly Neefit for his wife, living on the interest of the breeches-maker's money. He was quite alive to the fact that in this position he would in truth be the most miserable dog in existence,—that it would be infinitely better for him to turn his prospects into cash, and buy sheep in Australia, or cattle in South America, or to grow corn in Canada. Any life would be better than one supported in comfortable idleness on Mr. Neefit's savings. Nevertheless he felt that that would most probably be his doom. The sheep or the cattle or the corn required an amount of energy which he no longer possessed. There were the four horses at the Moonbeam;—and he could ride them to hounds as well as any man. So much he could do, and would seem in doing it to be full of life. But as for selling the four horses, and changing altogether the mode of his life,—that was more than he had vitality left to perform. Such was the measure which he took of himself, and in taking it he despised himself thoroughly,—knowing well how poor a creature he was.

Sir Thomas told him readily what he had done, giving him to read a copy of his letter to Mr. Newton and Mr. Newton's reply. "I can do nothing more," said Sir Thomas. "I hope you have given up the sad notion of marrying that young woman." Ralph sat still and listened. "No good, I think, can come of that," continued Sir Thomas. "If you are in truth compelled to part with your reversion to the Newton estate,—which is in itself a property of great value,—I do not doubt but your uncle will purchase it at its worth. It is a thousand pities that prospects so noble should have been dissipated by early imprudence."