Ralph the Heir. Anthony Trollope
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Newton had much to think of, and much that required thinking of at once. Did he mean to make an offer to Clary Underwood? Did he mean to take Polly Neefit and her £20,000? Did he mean to marry at all? Did he mean to go to the dogs? Had he ever in his life seen anybody half so beautiful as Mary Bonner? What was he to say to Mr. Moggs? How was he to manage about that £500 which Horsball would demand of him in September? In what terms could he speak to Neefit of the money due both for breeches and the loan, in the event of his declining Polly? And then, generally, how was he to carry on the war? He was thoroughly disgusted with himself as he thought of all the evil that he had done, and of the good which he had omitted to do. While he was yet at college Sir Thomas had been anxious that he should be called to the Bar, and had again and again begged of him to consent to this as a commencement of his life in London. But Ralph had replied—and had at last replied with so much decision that Sir Thomas had abandoned the subject—that as it was out of the question that he should ever make money at the Bar, the fact of his being called would be useless to him. He argued that he need not waste his life because he was not a lawyer. It was not his intention to waste his life. He had a sufficient property of his own at once, and must inherit a much larger property later in life. He would not be called to the Bar, nor would he go into the army, nor would he go abroad for any lengthened course of travelling. He was fond of hunting, but he would keep his hunting within measure. Surely an English private gentleman might live to some profit in his own country! He would go out in honours, and take a degree, and then make himself happy among his books. Such had been his own plan for himself at twenty-one. At twenty-two he had quarrelled with the tutor at his college, and taken his name off the books without any degree. About this, too, he had argued with Sir Thomas, expressing a strong opinion that a university degree was in England, of all pretences, the most vain and hollow. At twenty-three he began his career at the Moonbeam with two horses—and from that day to this hunting had been the chief aim of his life. During the last winter he had hunted six days a week—assuring Sir Thomas, however, that at the end of that season his wild oats would have been sown as regarded that amusement, and that henceforth he should confine himself to two days a week. Since that he had justified the four horses which still remained at the Moonbeam by the alleged fact that horses were drugs in April, but would be pearls of price in November. Sir Thomas could only expostulate, and when he did so, his late ward and present friend, though he was always courteous, would always argue. Then he fell, as was natural, into intimacies with such men as Cox and Fooks. There was no special harm either in Cox or Fooks; but no one knew better than did Ralph Newton himself that they were not such friends as he had promised himself when he was younger.
Fathers, guardians, and the race of old friends generally, hardly ever give sufficient credit to the remorse which young men themselves feel when they gradually go astray. They see the better as plainly as do their elders, though they so often follow the worse—as not unfrequently do the elders also. Ralph Newton passed hardly a day of his life without a certain amount of remorse in that he had not managed himself better than he had done, and was now doing. He knew that Fortune had been very good to him, and that he had hitherto wasted all her gifts. And now there came the question whether it was as yet too late to retrieve the injury which he had done. He did believe—not even as yet doubting his power to do well—that everything might be made right, only that his money difficulties pressed him so hardly. He took pen and paper, and made out a list of his debts, heading the catalogue with Mr. Horsball of the Moonbeam. The amount, when added together, came to something over four thousand pounds, including a debt of three hundred to his brother the parson. Then he endeavoured to value his property, and calculated that if he sold all that was remaining to him he might pay what he owed, and have something about fifty pounds per annum left to live upon till he should inherit his uncle's property. But he doubted the accuracy even of this, knowing that new and unexpected debts will always crop up when the day of settlement arrives. Of course he could not live upon fifty pounds a year. It would have seemed to him to be almost equally impossible to live upon four times fifty pounds. He had given Sir Thomas a promise that he would not raise money on post-obits on his uncle's life, and hitherto he had kept that promise. He thought that he would be guilty of no breach of promise were he so to obtain funds, telling Sir Thomas of his purpose, and asking the lawyer's assistance; but he knew that if he did this all his chance of future high prosperity would be at an end. His uncle might live these twenty years, and in that time he, Ralph, might quite as readily die. Money might no doubt be raised, but this could only be done at a cost which would be utterly ruinous to him. There was one way out of his difficulty. He might marry a girl with money. A girl with money had been offered to him, and a girl, too, who was very pretty and very pleasant. But then, to marry the daughter of a breeches-maker!
And why not? He had been teaching himself all his life to despise conventionalities. He had ridiculed degrees. He had laughed at the rank and standing of a barrister. "The rank is but the guinea stamp—the man's the gowd for a' that." How often had he declared to himself and others that that should be his motto through life. And might not he be as much a man, and would not his metal be as pure, with Polly Neefit for his wife as though he were to marry a duchess? As for love, he thought he could love Polly dearly. He knew that he had done some wrong in regard to poor Clary; but he by no means knew how much wrong he had done. A single word of love—which had been so very much to her in her innocence—had been so little to him who was not innocent. If he could allow himself to choose out of all the women he had ever seen, he would, he thought, instigated rather by the ambition of having the loveliest woman in the world for his wife than by any love, have endeavoured to win Mary Bonner as his own. But that was out of the question. Mary Bonner was as poor as himself; and, much as he admired her, he certainly could not tell himself that he loved her. Polly Neefit would pull him through all his difficulties. Nevertheless, he could not make up his mind to ask Polly Neefit to be his wife.
But he must make up his mind either that he would or that he would not. He must see Mr. Neefit on the morrow;—and within the next few days he must call on Mr. Moggs, unless he broke his word. And in two months' time he must have £500 for Mr. Horsball. Suppose he were to go to Sir Thomas, tell his whole story without reserve, and ask his old friend's advice! Everything without reserve he could not tell. He could say nothing to the father of that scene on the lawn with Clarissa. But of his own pecuniary difficulties, and of Mr. Neefit's generous offer, he was sure that he could tell the entire truth. He did go to Southampton Buildings, and after some harsh language between himself and Mr. Stemm—Sir Thomas being away at the time—he managed to make an appointment for nine o'clock that evening at his late guardian's chambers. At nine o'clock precisely he found himself seated with Sir Thomas, all among the books in Southampton Buildings. "Perhaps you'll have a cup of tea," said Sir Thomas. "Stemm, give us some tea." Ralph waited till the tea was handed to him and Stemm was gone. Then he told his story.
He told it very fairly as against himself. He brought out his little account and explained to the lawyer how it was that he made himself out to be worth fifty pounds a year, and no more. "Oh, heavens, what a mess you have made of it!" said the lawyer, holding up both his hands. "No doubt I have," said Ralph—"a terrible mess! But as I now come to you for advice hear me out to the end. You can say nothing as to my folly which I do not know already." "Go on," said Sir Thomas. "Go on—I'll hear you." It may, however, be remarked, by the way, that when an old gentleman in Sir Thomas's position is asked his advice under such circumstances, he ought to be allowed to remark that he had prophesied all these things beforehand. "I told you so," is such a comfortable thing to say! And when an old gentleman has taken much fruitless trouble about a young gentleman, he ought at least not to be interrupted in his remarks as to that young gentleman's folly. But Ralph was energetic, and, knowing that he had a point before him, would go on with his story. "And now," he said, "I am coming to a way of putting these things right which has been suggested to me. You won't like it, I know. But it would put me on my legs."
"Raising money on your expectations?" said Sir Thomas.
"No;—that is what I must come to if this plan don't answer."
"Anything will be better than that," said Sir Thomas.
Then Ralph dashed at the suggestion of marriage without further delay. "You have heard of Mr. Neefit, the breeches-maker!" It so happened that Sir Thomas never had heard of Mr. Neefit. "Well;—he is a tradesman in Conduit Street.