Ralph the Heir Part 14

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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."