Ralph the Heir. Anthony Trollope
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too, when I'm dead—and the old woman."
It might be owned that such a speech from the father of a marriageable daughter to a young man who had hardly as yet shown himself to be enamoured, was not delicate. But it may be a question whether it was not sensible. He had made up his mind, and therefore went at once at his object. And unless he did the business in this way, what chance was there that it would be done at all? Mr. Newton could not come down to Alexandrina Cottage every other day, or meet the girl elsewhere, as he might do young ladies of fashion. And, moreover, the father knew well enough that were his girl once to tell him that she had set her heart upon the gasfitter, or upon Ontario Moggs, he would not have the power to contradict her. He desired that she should become a gentleman's wife; and thinking that this was the readiest way to accomplish his wish, he saw no reason why he should not follow it. When he had spoken, he chucked off his glass of wine, and looked into his young friend's face for an answer.
"He'll be a lucky fellow that gets her," said Ralph, beginning unconsciously to feel that it might perhaps have been as well for him had he remained in his lodgings on this Sunday.
"He will be a lucky fellow, Mr. Newton. She's as good as gold. And a well bred 'un too, though I say it as shouldn't. There's not a dirty drop in her. And she's that clever, she can do a'most anything. As for her looks, I'll say nothing about them. You've got eyes in your head. There ain't no mistake there, Mr. Newton; no paint; no Madame Rachel; no made beautiful for ever! It's human nature what you see there, Mr. Newton."
"I'm quite sure of that."
"And she has the heart of an angel." By this time Mr. Neefit was alternately wiping the tears from his eyes, and taking half glasses of port wine. "I know all about you, Mr. Newton. You are a gentleman;—that's what you are."
"I hope so."
"And if you don't get the wrong side of the post, you'll come out right at last. You'll have a nice property some of these days, but you're just a little short of cash at present."
"That's about true, Mr. Neefit."
"I want nobody to tell me;—I know," continued Neefit. "Now if you make up to her, there she is—with twenty thousand pounds down. You are a gentleman, and I want that girl to be a lady. You can make her a lady. You can't make her no better than she is. The best man in England can't do that. But you can make her a lady. I don't know what she'll say, mind; but you can ask her—if you please. I like you, and you can ask her—if you please. What answer she'll make, that's her look out. But you can ask her—if you please. Perhaps I'm a little too forrard; but I call that honest. I don't know what you call it. But this I do know;—there ain't so sweet a girl as that within twenty miles round London." Then Mr. Neefit, in his energy, dashed his hand down among the glasses on the little rustic table in the arbour.
The reader may imagine that Ralph Newton was hardly ready with his answer. There are men, no doubt, who in such an emergency would have been able to damn the breeches-maker's impudence, and to have walked at once out of the house. But our young friend felt no inclination to punish his host in such fashion as this. He simply remarked that he would think of it, the matter being too grave for immediate decision, and that he would join the ladies.
"Do, Mr. Newton," said Mr. Neefit; "go and join Polly. You'll find she's all I tell you. I'll sit here and have a pipe."
Ralph did join the ladies; and, finding Mrs. Neefit asleep, he induced Polly to take a walk with him amidst the lanes of Hendon. When he left Alexandrina Cottage in the evening, Mr. Neefit whispered a word into his ear at the gate. "You know my mind. Strike while the iron's hot. There she is—just what you see her."
CHAPTER VII.
YOU ARE ONE OF US NOW.
The first week after Mary Bonner's arrival at Popham Villa went by without much to make it remarkable, except the strangeness arising from the coming of a stranger. Sir Thomas did stay at home on that Sunday, but when the time came for going to morning church, shuffled out of that disagreeable duty in a manner that was satisfactory neither to himself nor his daughters. "Oh, papa; I thought you would have gone with us!" said Patience at the last moment.
"I think not to-day, my dear," he said, with that sort of smile which betokens inward uneasiness. Patience reproached him with a look, and then the three girls went off together. Even Patience herself had offered to excuse Mary, on the score of fatigue, seasickness, and the like; but Mary altogether declined to be excused. She was neither fatigued, she said, nor sick; and of course she would go to church. Sir Thomas stayed at home, and thought about himself. How could he go to church when he knew that he could neither listen to the sermon nor join in the prayers? "I suppose people do," he said to himself; "but I can't. I'd go to church all day long, if I found that it would serve me."
He went up to London on the Monday, and returned to the villa to dinner. He did the same on the Tuesday. On the Wednesday he remained in London. On the Thursday he came home, but dined in town. After that he found himself to be on sufficiently familiar terms with his niece to fall back into his old habits of life.
Patience was very slow in speaking to their cousin of her father's peculiarities; but Clarissa soon told the tale. "You'll get to know papa soon," she said.
"He has been so kind to me."
"He is very good; but you must know, dear, that we are the most deserted and disconsolate ladies that ever lived out of a poem. Papa has been home now four days together; but that is for your beaux yeux. We are here for weeks together without seeing him;—very often for more than a week."
"Where does he go?"
"He has a place in London;—such a place! You shall go and see it some day, though he won't thank us a bit for taking you there. He has the queerest old man to wait upon him, and he never sees anybody from day to day."
"But what does he do?"
"He is writing a book. That is the great secret. He never speaks about it, and does not like to be asked questions. But the truth is, he is the most solitude-loving person in the world. He does find its charms, though Alexander Selkirk never could."
"And does nobody come here to you?"
"In the way of taking care of us? Nobody! We have to take care of ourselves. Of course it is dull. People do come and see us sometimes. Miss Spooner, for instance."
"Why should you laugh at poor Miss Spooner?" asked Patience.
"I don't laugh at her. We have other friends, you know; but not enough to make the house pleasant to you." After that, when Patience was not with them, she told something of Ralph Newton and his visits, though she said nothing to her cousin of her own cherished hopes. "I wonder what you'll think of Ralph Newton?" she said. Ralph Newton's name had been mentioned before in Mary's hearing more than once.
"Why should I think anything particular of Ralph Newton?"
"You'll have to think something particular about him as he is a sort of child of the house. Papa was his guardian, and he comes here just when he pleases."
"Who is he, and what is he, and where is he, and why is he?"
"He's a gentleman at large who does nothing. That's who he is."
"He thinks ever so much of himself, then?"
"No;—he doesn't. And he is nephew to an old squire down in Hampshire, who won't give him a penny. He oughtn't to want it, however, because when he came of age he had ever so much money of his own. But he does want it—sometimes. He must have the property when his uncle dies."
"Dear me;—how interesting!"
"As for the where he is, and why he is—he comes here just when it suits him, and because we were almost brought up together. He doesn't dine here, and all that kind of thing, because papa is never at home. Nobody ever does