"SHE'LL ACCEPT YOU, OF COURSE."
We will pass over the solemn sadness of the funeral at Newton and
the subsequent reading of the old Squire's will. As to the latter,
the will was as it had been made some six or seven years ago. The
Squire had simply left all that he possessed to his illegitimate
son Ralph Newton. There was no difficulty about the will. Nor was
there any difficulty about the estate. The two lawyers came down to
the funeral. Sir Thomas Underwood would have come but that he was
prevented by the state of his arm. A statement showing all that had
been done in the matter was prepared for him, but it was agreed on
all sides that the sale had not been made, and that the legitimate
heir must succeed to the property. No one was disposed to dispute the
decision. The Squire's son had never for a moment supposed that he
could claim the estate. Nor did Ralph the heir suppose for a moment
that he could surrender it after the explanation which he had
received from the lawyer in London.
The funeral was over, and the will had been read, and at the end
of November the three young men were still living together in the
great house at Newton. The heir had gone up to London once or twice,
instigated by the necessity of the now not difficult task of raising
a little ready money. He must at once pay off all his debts. He
must especially pay that which he owed to Mr. Neefit; and he must
do so with many expressions of his gratitude,--perhaps with some
expressions of polite regret at the hardness of Polly's heart towards
him. But he must do so certainly without any further entreaty that
Polly's heart might be softened. Ah,--with what marvellous good
fortune had he escaped from that pitfall! For how much had he not to
be thankful to some favouring goddess who must surely have watched
over him from his birth! From what shipwrecks had he not escaped! And
now he was Squire of Newton, with wealth and all luxuries at command,
hampered with no wife, oppressed by no debts, free from all cares. As
he thought of his perfect freedom in these respects, he remembered
his former resolution as to Mary Bonner. That resolution he would
carry out. It would be well for him now to marry a wife, and of
all the women he had ever seen Mary Bonner was certainly the most
beautiful. With Newton all his own, with such a string of horses as
he would soon possess, and with such a wife at the head of his table,
whom need he envy, and how many were there who would not envy him?
Throughout November he allowed his horses to remain at the Moonbeam,
being somewhat in doubt whether or no he would return to that
fascinating hostelrie. He received one or two most respectful letters
from Mr. Horsball, in which glowing accounts were given of the sport
of the season, and the health of his horses, and offers made of most
disinterested services. Rooms should be ready for him at a moment's
notice if he liked at any time to run over for a week's hunting. It
was quite evident that in the eyes of Mr. Horsball Newton of Newton
was a great man. And there came congratulations from Mr. Cox, in
which no allusion whatever was made to the Squire's somewhat uncivil
conduct at their last meeting. Mr. Cox trusted that his dearest
friend would come over and have another spell at the Moonbeam before
he settled down for life;--and then hinted in language that was
really delicate in the niceness of its expression, that if he, Cox,
were but invited to spend a week or two at Newton Priory before he
banished himself for life to Australia, he would be able to make
his way over the briny deep with a light heart and an uncomplaining
tongue. "You know, old fellow, how true I've always been to you,"
wrote Cox, in language of the purest friendship. "As true as
steel,--to sausages in the morning and brandy and soda at night,"
said Ralph to himself as he read this.
He behaved with thorough kindness to his cousin. The three men lived
together for a month, and their intercourse was as pleasant as was
possible under the circumstances. Of course there was no hunting
during this month at Newton. Nor indeed did the heir see a hound till
December, although, as the reader is aware, he was not particularly
bound to revere his uncle's memory. He made many overtures to his
namesake. He would be only too happy if his cousin,--he always called
the Squire's son his cousin,--would make Newton his home for the
next twelvemonth. It was found that the Squire had left behind him
something like forty thousand pounds, so that the son was by no means
to be regarded as a poor man. It was his idea at present that he
would purchase in some pleasant county as much land as he might
farm himself, and there set up his staff for life. "And get about
two-and-a-half per cent. for your money," said the heir, who was
beginning to consider himself learned in such matters, and could talk
of land as a very serious thing in the way of a possession.
"What else am I to do?" said the other. "Two-and-a-half per cent.
with an occupation is better than five per cent. with none. I should
make out the remainder, too, by farming the land myself. There is
nothing else in the world that I could do."
As for remaining twelve months at Newton, that was of course out of
the question. Nevertheless, when December came he was still living in
the house, and had consented to remain there till Christmas should
have passed. He had already heard of a farm in Norfolk. "The worst
county for hunting in England," the heir had said. "Then I must try
and live without hunting," said Ralph who was not the heir. During
all this time not a horse was sent to the meet from the Newton
stables. The owner of Newton was contented to see the animals
exercised in the park, and to amuse himself by schooling them over
hurdles, and by high jumping at the bar.
During the past month the young Squire had received various letters
from Sir Thomas Underwood, and the other Ralph had received one. With
Sir Thomas's caution, advice, and explanations to his former ward,
the story has no immediate concern; but his letter to him who was to
have been Mary Bonner's suitor may concern us more nearly. It was
very short, and the reader shall have it entire.
Popham Villa, 10th November, 186--.
MY DEAR MR. NEWTON,--
I have delayed answering your letter for a day or two
in order that it may not disturb you till the last
sad ceremony be over. I do not presume to offer you
consolation in your great sorrow. Such tenders should only
be made by the nearest and the dearest. Perhaps you will
permit me to say that what little I have seen of you and
what further I have heard of you assure to you my most
perfect sympathy.
On that other matter which gave occasion for your two
letters to me I shall best perhaps discharge my duty by
telling you that I showed them both to my niece; and that
she feels, as do I, that they are both honourable to you,
and of a nature to confer honour upon her. The change
in your position, which I acknowledge to be most severe,
undoubtedly releases you, as it would have released
her,--had she been bound and chose to accept such release.
Whenever you may be in this neighbourhood we shall be
happy to see you.
The state of my arm still prevents me from writing with
ease.
Yours very faithfully,
THOMAS UNDERWOOD.
Newton, when he received this letter, struggled hard to give to it
its proper significance, but he could bring himself to no conclusion
respecting it. Sir Thomas had acknowledged that he was released,--and
that Mary Bonner would also have been released had she placed herself
under any obligation; but Sir Thomas did not say a word from which
his correspondent might gather whether in his present circumstances
he might still be regarded as an acceptable suitor. The letter was
most civil, most courteous, almost cordial in its expression of
sympathy; but yet it did not contain a word of encouragement. It may
be said that the suitor had himself so written to the lady's uncle,
as to place himself out of the way of all further encouragement;--as
to have put it beyond the power of his correspondent to write a word
to him that should have in it any comfort. Certainly he had done so.
He had clearly shown in his second letter that he had abandoned all
idea of making the match as to which he had shown so much urgent
desire in his first letter. He had explained that the marriage would
now be impossible, and had spoken of himself as a ruined, broken man,
all whose hopes were shipwrecked. Sir Thomas could hardly have told
him in reply that Mary Bonner would still be pleased to see him. And
yet Mary Bonner had almost said so. She had been very silent when the
letter was read to her. The news of Mr. Newton's death had already
reached the family at Popham Villa, and had struck them all with awe.
How it might affect the property even Sir Thomas had not absolutely
known at first; though he was not slow to make it understood that in
all probability this terrible accident would be ruinous to the hopes
which his niece had been justified in entertaining. At that hour Mary
had spoken not a word;--nor could she be induced to speak respecting
it either by Patience or Clarissa. Even to them she could not bring
herself to say that if the man really loved her he would still
come to her and say so. There was a feeling of awe upon her which
made her mute, and stern, and altogether unplastic in the hands
of her friends. It seemed even to Patience that Mary was struck
by a stunning sorrow at the ruin which had come upon her lover's
prospects. But it was not so at all. The thought wronged her utterly.
What stunned her was this,--that she could not bring herself to
express a passion for a man whom she had seen so seldom, with whom
her conversation had been so slight, from whom personally she had
received no overtures of attachment,--even though he were ruined. She
could not bring herself to express such a passion;--but yet it was
there. When Clarissa thought that she might obtain if not a word, at
least a tear, Mary appeared to be dead to all feeling, though crushed
by what she had lost. She was thinking the while whether it might be
possible for such a one as her to send to the man and to tell him
that that which had now occurred had of a sudden made him really dear
to her. Thoughts of maiden boldness flitted across her mind, but she
could not communicate them even to the girls who were her friends.
Yet in silence and in solitude she resolved that the time should come
in which she would be bold.
Then young Newton's second letter reached the house, and that also
had been read to her. "He is quite right," said Sir Thomas. "Of
course it releases both of you."
"There was nothing to release," said Mary, proudly.
"I mean to say that having made such a proposition as was contained
in his first letter, he was bound to explain his altered position."
"I suppose so," said Mary.
"Of course he was. He had made his offer believing that he could make
you mistress of Newton Priory,--and he had made it thinking that he
himself could marry in that position. And he would have been in that
position had not this most unforeseen and terrible calamity have
occurred."
"I do not see that it makes any difference," said Mary, in a whisper.
"What do you mean, my dear?"
"I hardly know, uncle."
"Try to explain yourself, Mary."
"If I had accepted any man when he was rich, I should not go back
when he was poor,--unless he wanted it." This also she said in a
whisper.
"But you had not accepted him."
"No," said Mary, still in a whisper. Sir Thomas, who was perhaps not
very good at such things, did not understand the working of her mind.
But had she dared, she would have asked her uncle to tell Mr. Newton
to come and see her. Sir Thomas, having some dim inkling of what
perhaps might be the case, did add a paragraph to his letter in which
he notified to his correspondent that a personal visit would be taken
in good part.
By the end of the first week in December things were beginning to
settle into shape at the Priory. The three young men were still
living together at the great house, and the tenants on the estate had
been taught to recognise the fact that Ralph, who had ever been the
heir, was in truth the owner. Among the labourers and poorer classes
there was no doubt much regret, and that regret was expressed. The
tenants, though they all liked the Squire's son, were not upon the
whole ill-pleased. It was in proper conformity with English habits
and English feelings that the real heir should reign. Among the
gentry the young Squire was made as welcome as the circumstances of
the heir would admit. According to their way of thinking, personally
popular as was the other man, it was clearly better that a legitimate
descendant of the old family should be installed at Newton Priory.
The old Squire's son rode well to hounds, and was loved by all; but
nothing that all the world could do on his behalf would make him
Newton of Newton. If only he would remain in the neighbourhood and
take some place suited to his income, every house would be open
to him. He would be received with no diminution of attachment or
respect. Overtures of this nature were made to him. This house could
be had for him, and that farm could be made comfortable. He might
live among them as a general favourite; but he could not under any
circumstances have been,--Newton of Newton. Nothing, however, was
clearer to himself than this;--that as he could not remain in the
county as the master of Newton Priory, he would not remain in the
county at all.
As things settled down and took shape he began to feel that even
in his present condition he might possibly make himself acceptable
to such a girl as Mary Bonner. In respect of fortune there could
be no reason whatever why he should not offer her his hand. He
was in truth a rich man, whereas she had nothing, By birth he was
nobody,--absolutely nobody; but then also would he have been nobody
had all the lands of Newton belonged to him. When he had written
that second letter, waiving all claim to Mary's hand because of
the inferiority of his position, he was suffering from a morbid
view which he had taken of his own affairs. He was telling himself
then,--so assuring himself, though he did not in truth believe
the assurance,--that he had lost not only the estate, but also
his father's private fortune. At that moment he had been unstrung,
demoralised, and unmanned,--so weak that a feather would have knocked
him over. The blow had been so sudden, the solitude and gloom of the
house so depressing, and his sorrow so crushing, that he was ready
to acknowledge that there could be no hope for him in any direction.
He had fed himself upon his own grief, till the idea of any future
success in life was almost unpalatable to him. But things had mended
with him now, and he would see whether there might not yet be joys
for him in the world. He would first see whether there might not be
that one great joy which he had promised to himself.
And then there came another blow. The young Squire had resolved that
he would not hunt before Christmas in the Newton country. It was felt
by him and by his brother that he should abstain from doing so out of
respect to the memory of his uncle, and he had declared his purpose.
Of course there was neither hunting nor shooting in these days for
the other Ralph. But at the end of a month the young Squire began to
feel that the days went rather slowly with him, and he remembered his
stud at the Moonbeam. He consulted Gregory; and the parson, though
he would fain have induced his brother to remain, could not say that
there was any real objection to a trip to the B. and B's. Ralph would
go there on the 10th of December, and be back at his own house before
Christmas. When Christmas was over, the other Ralph was to leave
Newton,--perhaps for ever.
The two Ralphs had become excellent friends, and when the one that
was to go declared his intention of going with no intention of
returning, the other pressed him warmly to think better of it, and
to look upon the Priory at any rate as a second home. There were
reasons why it could not be so, said the namesake; but in the close
confidence of friendship which the giving and the declining of the
offer generated came this further blow. They were standing together
leaning upon a gate, and looking at the exhumation of certain vast
roots, as to which the trees once belonging to them had been made to
fall in consequence of the improvements going on at Darvell's farm.
"I don't mind telling you," said Ralph the heir, "that I hope soon to
have a mistress here."
"And who is she?"
"That would be mere telling;--would it not?"
"Clarissa Underwood?" asked the unsuspecting Ralph.
There did come some prick of conscience, some qualm, of an injury
done, upon the young Squire as he made his answer. "No; not
Clarissa;--though she is the dearest, sweetest girl that ever lived,
and would make a better wife perhaps than the girl I think of."
"And who is the girl you think of?"
"She is to be found in the same house."
"You do not mean the elder sister?" said the unfortunate one. He had
known well that his companion had not alluded to Patience Underwood;
but in his agony he had suggested to himself that mode of escape.
"No; not Patience Underwood. Though, let me tell you, a man might do
worse than marry Patience Underwood. I have always thought it a pity
that Patience and Gregory would not make a match of it. He, however,
would fall in love with Clary, and she has too much of the rake in
her to give herself to a parson. I was thinking of Mary Bonner, who,
to my mind, is the handsomest woman I ever saw in my life."
"I think she is," said Ralph, turning away his face.
"She hasn't a farthing, I fancy," continued the happy heir, "but I
don't regard that now. A few months ago I had a mind to marry for
money; but it isn't the sort of thing that any man should do. I have
almost made up my mind to ask her. Indeed, when I tell you, I suppose
I have quite made up my mind."
"She'll accept you,--of course."
"I can say nothing about that, you know. A man must take his chance.
I can offer her a fine position, and a girl, I think, should have
some regard to money when she marries, though a man should not. If
there's nobody before me I should have a chance, I suppose."
His words were not boastful, but there was a tone of triumph in his
voice. And why should he not triumph? thought the other Ralph. Of
course he would triumph. He had everything to recommend him. And as
for himself,--for him, the dispossessed one,--any particle of a claim
which he might have secured by means of that former correspondence
had been withdrawn by his own subsequent words. "I dare say she'll
take you," he said, with his face still averted.
Ralph the heir did indeed think that he would be accepted, and he
went on to discuss the circumstances of their future home, almost
as though Mary Bonner were already employed in getting together her
wedding garments. His companion said nothing further, and Ralph the
heir did not discover that anything was amiss.
On the following day Ralph the heir went across the country to the
Moonbeam in Buckinghamshire.