Ralph the Heir. Anthony Trollope

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 passed 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