Ralph the Heir. Anthony Trollope

Neefit's bald head; and Mr. Neefit, as he sat in the centre of his lawn, with his girdle loose around him, a glass of gin and water by his side, and a pipe in his mouth, felt that in truth there was something left in the world worth living for. But a thought came across his mind—"If that chap comes I shan't be as comfortable next Sunday." And then there was another thought—"If he takes my Polly away from me, I don't know as I shall ever be comfortable again." But still he did not hesitate or repent. Of course his Polly must have a husband.

      Then a dreadful proposition was made by Mrs. Neefit. "Why not have Moggs too?"

      "Oh, mamma!"

      "Are you going to turn your nose up at Ontario Moggs, Miss Pride?"

      "I don't turn my nose up at him. I'm very fond of Mr. Moggs. I think he's the best fun going. But I am sure that if Mr. Newton does come, he'd rather not have Mr. Moggs here too."

      "It wouldn't do at all," said Mr. Neefit. "Ontario is all very well, but Mr. Newton and he wouldn't suit."

      Mrs. Neefit was snubbed, and went to sleep on the sofa for the rest of the afternoon—intending, no doubt, to let Mr. Neefit have the benefit of her feelings as soon as they two should be alone together.

      Our friend Ralph received the note, and accepted the invitation. He told himself that it was a lark. As the reader knows, he had already decided that he would not sell himself even to so pretty a girl as Polly Neefit for any amount of money; but not the less might it be agreeable to him to pass a Sunday afternoon in her company.

      Ralph Newton at this time occupied very comfortable bachelor's rooms in a small street close to St. James's Palace. He had now held these for the last two years, and had contrived to make his friends about town know that here was his home. He had declined to go into the army himself when he was quite young—or rather had agreed not to go into the army, on condition that he should not be pressed as to any other profession. He lived, however, very much with military friends, many of whom found it convenient occasionally to breakfast with him, or to smoke a pipe in his chambers. He never did any work, and lived a useless, butterfly life—only with this difference from other butterflies, that he was expected to pay for his wings.

      In that matter of payment was the great difficulty of Ralph Newton's life. He had been started at nineteen with an allowance of £250 per annum. When he was twenty-one he inherited a fortune from his father of more than double that amount; and as he was the undoubted heir to a property of £7,000 a year, it may be said of him that he was born with a golden spoon. But he had got into debt before he was twenty, and had never got out of it. The quarrel with his uncle was an old affair, arranged for him by his father before he knew how to quarrel on his own score, and therefore we need say no more about that at present. But his uncle would not pay a shilling for him, and would have quarrelled also with his other nephew, the clergyman, had he known that the younger brother assisted the elder. But up to the moment of which we are writing, the iron of debt had not as yet absolutely entered into the soul of this young man. He had, in his need, just borrowed £100 from his breeches-maker; and this perhaps was not the first time that he had gone to a tradesman for assistance. But hitherto money had been forthcoming, creditors had been indulgent, and at this moment he possessed four horses which were eating their heads off at the Moonbeam, at Barnfield.

      At five o'clock, with sufficient sharpness, Ralph Newton got out of a Hansom cab at the door of Alexandrina Cottage. "He's cum in a 'Ansom," said Mrs. Neefit, looking over the blind of the drawing-room window. "That's three-and-six," said Neefit, with a sigh. "You didn't think he was going to walk, father?" said Polly. "There's the Underground within two miles, if the Midland didn't suit," said Mr. Neefit. "Nonsense, father. Of course he'd come in a cab!" said Polly. Mrs. Neefit was not able to add the stinging remark with which her tongue was laden, as Ralph Newton was already in the house. She smoothed her apron, crossed her hands, and uttered a deep sigh. There could be no more going down into the kitchen now to see whether the salmon was boiled, or to provide for the proper dishing of the lamb. "This is quite condescending of you, Mr. Newton," said the breeches-maker, hardly daring to shake hands with his guest—though in his shop he was always free enough with his customers in this matter. Polly looked as though she thought there was no condescension whatever, held up her head, and laughed and joked, and asked some questions about the German at the shop, whom she declared she was never allowed to see now, and whose voice she swore she had never heard. "Is he dumb, Mr. Newton? Father never will tell me anything about him. You must know."

      "Laws, Polly, what does it matter?" said Mrs. Neefit. And they were the only words she had spoken. Polly, from the first, had resolved that she would own to the shop. If Mr. Newton came to see her, he should come to see a girl who was not ashamed to speak of herself as the daughter of a breeches-maker.

      "He don't talk much, does he, Mr. Newton?" said Mr. Neefit, laughing merrily.

      "Do tell me one thing," said Ralph. "I know it's a secret, but I'll promise not to tell it. What is his real name?"

      "This isn't fair," said Mr. Neefit, greatly delighted. "All trades have their secrets. Come, come, Mr. Newton!"

      "I know his name," said Polly.

      "Do tell me," said Ralph, coming close to her, as though he might hear it in a whisper.

      "Mr. Neefit, I wish you wouldn't talk about such things here," said the offended matron. "But now here's dinner." She was going to take her guest's arm, but Mr. Neefit arranged it otherwise.

      "The old uns and the young uns;—that's the way to pair them," said Mr. Neefit—understanding nature better than he did precedence; and so they walked into the next room. Mrs. Neefit was not quite sure whether her husband had or had not done something improper. She had her doubts, and they made her uncomfortable.

      The dinner went off very well. Neefit told how he had gone himself to the fishmonger's for that bit of salmon, how troubled his wife had been in mind about the lamb, and how Polly had made the salad. "And I'll tell you what I did, Mr. Newton; I brought down that bottle of champagne in my pocket myself;—gave six bob for it at Palmer's, in Bond Street. My wife says we ain't got glasses fit to drink it out of."

      "You needn't tell Mr. Newton all that."

      "Mr. Newton, what I am I ain't ashamed on, nor yet what I does. Let me have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, Mr. Newton. You see us just as we are. I wish it was better, but it couldn't be welcomer. Your health, Mr. Newton."

      There are many men—and men, too, not of a bad sort—who in such circumstances cannot make themselves pleasant. Grant the circumstances, with all the desire to make the best of them—and these men cannot be otherwise than stiff, disagreeable, and uneasy. But then, again, there are men who in almost any position can carry themselves as though they were to the manner born. Ralph Newton was one of the latter. He was not accustomed to dine with the tradesmen who supplied him with goods, and had probably never before encountered such a host as Mr. Neefit;—but he went through the dinner with perfect ease and satisfaction, and before the pies and jellies had been consumed, had won the heart of even Mrs. Neefit. "Laws, Mr. Newton," she said, "what can you know about custards?" Then Ralph Newton offered to come and make custards against her in her own kitchen—providing he might have Polly to help him. "But you'd want the back kitchen to yourselves, I'm thinking," said Mr. Neefit, in high good-humour.

      Mr. Neefit certainly was not a delicate man. As soon as dinner was over, and the two ladies had eaten their strawberries and cream, he suggested that the port wine should be taken out into the garden. In the farther corner of Mr. Neefit's grounds, at a distance of about twenty yards from the house, was a little recess called "the arbour," admonitory of earwigs, and without much pretension to comfort. It might hold three persons, but on this occasion Mr. Neefit was minded that two only should enjoy the retreat. Polly carried out the decanter and glasses, but did not presume to stay there for a moment. She followed her mother into the gorgeous drawing-room, where Mrs. Neefit at once went to sleep, while her daughter consoled herself with a novel. Mr. Neefit, as we have said, was not a delicate man. "That girl 'll have twenty thousand pound, down on the nail, the day she marries the man as I approves of. Fill your glass, Mr. Newton. She will;—and there's no mistake about