Ralph the Heir, Chapters XXVI-XXVIII [pp. 325-328]

S UPPLEMEA[NT TO APPLETOONS' JO URNAL NO. 76.
of letters was ever a trouble to him, and on
this occasion he told his tidings in a line or
two:
"DEAR GREG: I have accepted my uncle's
offer. It was better so. When I wrote to
you before, things were different. I need not
tell you that my heart is sore for the old
place. Had I stuck to it, however, I should
have beggared you and disgraced myself.
"Yours affectionately,
"R. N."
That was all. What more was to be said
which, in the saying, could be serviceable to
any one? The dear old place! He would
never see it again. Nothing on earth should
induce him to go there, now that it could un der no circumstances be his own. It would
still belong to a Newton, and he would try
and take comfort in that. He might, at any
rate, have done worse with it. He might
have squandered his interest among the
Jews, and so have treated his inheritance
that it must have been sold among strangers.
He was very low in spirits for two or
three days, thinking of all this. He had been
with his lawyer, and his lawyer had told him
that it must yet be some weeks before the
sale would be perfected. "Now that it is
done, the sooner the better," said Ralph.
The lawyer told him that, if he absolutely
wanted ready money for his present needs, he
could have it; but that otherwise it would be
better for him to wait patiently-say for a
month. He was not absolutely in want of
money, having still funds which had been
supplied to him by the breeches-maker. But
he could not remain in town. Were he to remain in town, Neefit would be upon him;
and, in truth, though he was quite clear in
his conscience in regard to Polly, he did not
wish to have to explain personally to Mr.
Neefit that he had sold his interest in Newton Priory. The moment the money was in
his hands, he would pay Mr. Neefit; and
then-; why then he thought that he would
be entitled to have Mr. Neefit told that he
was not at home, should Mr. Neefit trouble
him again.
He would marry and live somewhere very
quietly; perhaps take a small farm and keep
one hunter. His means would be sufficient
for that, even with a wife and family. Yes;
that would be the kind of life most suited for
him. He would make a great change. He
would be simple in his habits, domestic, and
extravagant in nothing. To hunt once a
week from his own little country house would
be delightful. Who should be the mistress
of that home? That, of all questions, was
now the most important.
The reader may remember a certain trifling
incident, which took place some three or four
months since on the lawn at Popham Villa.
It was an incident which Clary Underwood
had certainly never forgotten. It is hardly
too much to say that she thought of it every
hour. She thought of it as a great sin; but
as a sin which had been forgiven, and, though
a grievous sin, as strong evidence of that
which was not sinful, and which, if true,
would be so full of joy. Clary had never for gotten this incident; but Ralph had forgotten
it nearly altogether. That he had accom panied the incident by any assurance of his
love, by any mention of love intended to mean
any thing, he was altogether unaware. He
would have been ready to swear that he had
never so committed himself. Little, tender
passages, of course, there had been. Such
are common-so he thought-wvhen young
ladies and young gentlemen know each other
well, and are fond of each other's company.
But that he owed himself to Clarissa Under wood, and that he would sin grievously against
her, should he give himself to another, he had
no idea. It merely occurred to him that there
might be some slight preparatory embarrass ment, were he to offer his hand to Mary Bon ner. Yet, he thought that, of all the girls in
the world, Mary Bonner was the one to whom
he would best like to offer it. It might, in deed, be possible for him to marry some
young woman with money; but, in his present
frame of mind, he was opposed to any such
effort. Hitherto things with him had been
all worldly, empty, useless, and at the same
time distasteful. IHe was to have married
Polly Neefit for her m6ney, and he had been
wretched ever since he had entertained the
idea. Love and a cottage were, he knew,
things incompatible; but the love and the
cottage, implied in those words, were synony mous with absolute poverty. Love, with
thirty thousand pounds, even though it should
have a cottage joined with it, need not be a
poverty-stricken love. He was sick of the
world-of the world such as he had made it
for himself, and he would see if he could not
do something better. He would first get
Mary Bonner, and then he would get the
farm. He was so much delighted with the
scheme which he thus made for himself, that
he went to his club and dined there pleasantly, allowing himself a bottle of champagne
as a sort of reward for having made up his
mind to so much virtue. He met a friend or
two, and spent a pleasant evening, and, as he
walked home to his lodgings in the evening,
was quite in love with his prospects. It was
well for him to have rid himself of the burden
of an inheritance which might perhaps not
have been his for the next five-and-twenty
years. As he undressed himself, he considered whether it would be well for him at once
to throw himself at Mary Bonner's feet.
There were two reasons for not doing this
quite immediately. He had been told by his
lawyer that he ought to wait for some form
of assent or agreement from the squire, before
he took any important step as consequent
upon the new arrangement in regard to the
property, and then Sir Thomas was still
among the electors at Percycross. He wished
to do every thing that was proper, and would
wait for the return of Sir Thomas. But he
must do something at once. To remain in
his lodgings and at his club, was not in accord
with that better path in life which he had
chalked out for himself.
Of course, he must go down to the Moonbeam. He had four horses there, and must
sell at least three of them. One hunter he
intended to allow himself. There were Brag,
Banker, Buff, and Brewer; and he thought
that he would keep Brag. Brag was only six
years old, and might last him for the next
seven years. In the mean time he could see
a little cub-hunting, and live at the Moon.
beam fbr a week, at any rate, as cheaply as he
could in London. So he went down to the
Moonbeam, and put himself under the charge
of Mr. Horsball.
And here he found himself in luck. Lieu tenant Cox was there, and with the lieutenant
a certain Fred Pepper, who hunted habitually
with the B and B. Lieutenant Cox had soon
told his little tale. tie had sold out, and had
promised his family that he would go to Aus tralia. But he intended to "take one more
winter out of himself," as he phrased it. He
had made a bargain to that effect with his
governor. His debts had been paid, his com mission had been sold, and he was to be
shipped for Queensland. But he was to have
one more winter with the B and B. An open,
good-humored, shrewd youth was Lieutenant
Cox, who suffered nothing from false shame,
and was intelligent enough to know that life,
at the rate of twelve hundred pounds a year,
with four hundred pounds to spend, must
come to an end. Fred Pepper was a young
man of about forty-five, who had hunted with
the B and B, and lived at the Moonbeam from
a time beyond which the memory of Mr. Hors ball's present customers went not. He was
the father of the Moonbeam, Mr. Horsball
himself having come there since the days in
which Fred Pepper first became familiar with
its loose boxes. No one knew how he lived,
or how he got his horses. He had, however,
a very pretty knack of selling them, and cer tainly paid Mr. Horsball regularly. He was
wont to vanish in April, and would always
turn up again in October. Some people
called him the dormouse. He was goodhumored, good-looking after a horsey fashion,
clever, agreeable, and quite willing to submit
himself to any nickname that could be found
him. He liked a rubber of whist, and was supposed to make something out of bets with bad
players. He rode very carefully, and was
altogether averse to ostentation and bluster
in the field. But he could make a horse do
any thing when he wanted to sell him, and
could, on an occasion, give a lead as well as
any man. Everybody liked him, and various
things were constantly said in his praise. He
was never known to borrow a sovereign. He
had been known to lend a horse. He did not
drink. He was a very safe man in the'field.
He did not lie outrageously in selling his
horses. He did not cheat at cards. As long
as he had a drop of drink left in his flask, he
would share it with any friend. He never
boasted. He was much given to chaff, but
his chaff was good-humored. He was generous with his cigars. Such were his virtues.
That he had no adequate means of his own,
and that he never earned a penny, that he
lived chiefly by gambling, that he had no pursuit in life but pleasure, that he never went
inside a church, that he never gave away a
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