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Ralph the Heir

<h3>CHAPTER XIV.</h3> <h4>THE REV. GREGORY NEWTON.  </h4> It was quite at the end of July, in the very hottest days of a very hot summer, that Squire Newton left Newton Priory for London, intent upon law business, and filled with ambition to purchase the right of leaving his own estate to any heir whom he might himself select. He left his son alone at the Priory; but his son and the parson were sure to be together on such an occasion. Ralph,—the country Ralph,—dined at the Rectory on the day that his father started; and on every succeeding day, Gregory, the parson, dined up at the large house. It was a thing altogether understood at the Priory that the present parson Gregory was altogether exempted from the anathema which had been pronounced against the heir and against the memory of the heir's father. Gregory simply filled the place which might have been his had there been no crushing entail, and was, moreover, so sweet and gentle-hearted a fellow that it was impossible not to love him. He was a tall, slender man, somewhat narrow-chested, bright-eyed, with a kind-looking sweet mouth, a small well-cut nose, dark but not black hair, and a dimple on his chin. He always went with his hands in his pockets, walking quick, but shuffling sometimes in step as though with hesitation, stooping somewhat, absent occasionally, going about with his chin stuck out before him, as though he were seeking something,—he knew not what. A more generous fellow, who delighted more in giving, hesitated more in asking, more averse to begging though a friend of beggars, less self-arrogant, or self-seeking, or more devoted to his profession, never lived. He was a man with prejudices,—kindly, gentlemanlike, amiable prejudices. He thought that a clergyman should be a graduate from one of the three universities,—including Trinity, Dublin; and he thought, also, that a clergyman should be a gentleman. He thought that Dissenters were,—a great mistake. He thought that Convocation should be potential. He thought that the Church had certain powers and privileges which Parliament could not take away except by spoliation. He thought that a parson should always be well-dressed,—according to his order. He thought that the bishop of his diocese was the purest, best, and noblest peer in England. He thought that Newton Churchyard was, of all spots on earth, the most lovely. He thought very little of himself. And he thought that of all the delights given by God for the delectation of his creatures, the love of Clarissa Underwood would be the most delightful. In all these thinkings he was astray, carried away by prejudices which he was not strong enough to withstand. But the joint effect of so many faults in judgment was not disagreeable; and, as one result of that effect, Gregory Newton was loved and respected and believed in by all men and women, poor and rich, who lived within knowledge of his name. His uncle Gregory, who was wont to be severe in his judgment on men, would declare that the Rev. Gregory,—as he was called,—was perfect. But then the Squire was a man who was himself very much subject to prejudices. There was now, and ever had been, great freedom of discussion between Ralph Newton of the Priory and his cousin Gregory,—if under the circumstances the two young men may be called cousins,—respecting the affairs of the property. There was naturally much to check or to prevent such freedom. Their own interests in regard to the property were, as far as they went, adverse. The young parson might possibly inherit the whole of the estate, whereas he was aware that the present Squire would move heaven and earth to leave it, or a portion of it, to his own son. Gregory had always taken his brother's part before the Squire; and the Squire, much as he liked the parson, was never slow in abusing the parson's brother. It would have been no more than natural had the question of the property been, by tacit agreement, always kept out of sight between the two young men. But they had grown up from boyhood together as firm friends, and there was no reticence between them on this all-important subject. The Squire's son had never known his mother; and could therefore speak of his own position as would hardly have been possible to him had any memory of her form or person remained with him. And then, though their interests were opposite, nothing that either could say would much affect those interests. The two men were sitting on the lawn at the Priory after dinner, smoking cigars, and Ralph,—this other Ralph,—had just told the parson of his intention of joining his father in London. "I don't see that I can do any good," said Ralph, "but he wishes it, and of course I shall go." "You won't see my brother, I suppose?" "I should think not. You know what my father's feelings are, and I certainly shall not go out of my way to offend them. I have no animosity against Ralph; but I could do no good by opposing my father." "No," said the parson, "not but what I wish it were otherwise. It is a trouble to me that I cannot have Ralph here;—though perhaps he would not care to come." "I feel it hard too, that he should not be allowed to see a place which, in a measure, belongs to him. I wish with all my heart that my father did not think so much about the estate. Much as I love the old place, I can hardly think about it without bitterness. Had my father and your brother been on good terms together, there would have been none of that. Nothing that he could do,—no success in his efforts,—can make me be as I should have been had I been born his heir. It is a misfortune, and of course one feels it; but I think I should feel it less were he not so fixed in his purpose to undo what can never be undone." "He will never succeed," said Gregory. "Probably not;—though, for that matter, I suppose Ralph will be driven to raise money on his inheritance." "He will never sell the property." "It seems that he does spend money faster than he can get it." "He may have done so." "Is he not always in debt to you yourself? Is he not now thinking of marrying some tradesman's daughter to relieve him of his embarrassments? We have to own, I suppose, that Master Ralph has made a mess of his money matters?" The parson, who couldn't deny the fact, hardly knew what to say on his brother's behalf. "I protest to you, Greg, that if my father were to tell me that he had changed his mind, and paid your brother's debts out of sheer kindness and uncleship, and the rest of it, I should be well pleased. But he won't do that, and it does seem to me probable that the estate will get into the hands of Jews, financiers, and professional money-dealers, unless my father can save it. You wouldn't be glad to see some shopkeeper's daughter calling herself Mrs. Newton of Newton." "A shopkeeper's daughter need not necessarily be a—a—a bad sort of woman," said Gregory. "The chances are that a shopkeeper's daughter will not be an educated lady. Come, Greg;—you cannot say that it is the kind of way out of the mess you would approve." "I am so sorry that there should be any mess at all!" "Just so. It is a pity that there should be any mess;—is not it? Come, old fellow, drink your coffee, and let us take a turn across the park. I want to see what Larkin is doing about those sheep. I often feel that my coming into the world was a mess altogether; though, now that I am here, I must make the best of it. If I hadn't come, my father would have married, and had a score of children, and Master Ralph would have been none the better for it." "You'll go and see the Underwoods," said the parson, as they were walking across the park. <div class="center"> <table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="4px"> <tr> <td align="center"> <ANTIMG src="images/108-t.jpg" width-obs="319" alt="'You'll go and see the Underwoods,' said the parson, as they were walking across the park." /> </td> </tr> <tr> <td align="center"> "You'll go and see the Underwoods," said the parson, as they were walking across the park. Click to ENLARGE </td> </tr> </table></div> "If you wish it, I will." "I do wish it. They know all the history as a matter of course. It cannot be otherwise. And they have so often heard me talk of you. The girls are simply perfect. I shall write to Miss Underwood, and tell her that you will call. I hope, too, that you will see Sir Thomas. It would be so much better that he should know you." That same night Gregory Newton wrote the two following letters before he went to bed;—the first written was to Miss Underwood, and the second to his brother; but we will place the latter first;—   <blockquote> Newton, 4th August, 186—. My dear Ralph,— No doubt you know by this time that my uncle, Gregory, is in London, though you will probably not have seen him. I understand that he has come up with the express purpose of making some settlement in regard to the property, on account of your embarrassments. I need not tell you how sorry I am that the state of your affairs should make this necessary. Ralph goes up also to-morrow;—and though he does not purpose to hunt you up, I hope that you may meet. You know what I think of him, and how much I wish that you two could be friends. He is as generous as the sun, and as just as he is generous. Every Newton ought to make him welcome as one of the family. As to money, I do not know what may be the state of your affairs. I only hear from him what he hears from his father. Sooner than that you should endanger your inheritance here I will make any sacrifice,—if there be anything that I can do. You are welcome to sell my share of the Holborn property, and you can pay me after my uncle's death. I can get on very well with my living, as it is not probable that I shall marry. At any rate, understand that I should infinitely prefer to lose every shilling of the London property to hearing that you had imperilled your position here at Newton. I do not suppose that what I have can go far;—but as far as it will go it is at your service. You can show this letter to Sir Thomas if you think fit. I could say ever so much more, only that you will know it all without my saying it. And I cannot bear that you should think that I would preach sermons to you. Never mind what I said before about the money that I wanted then. I can do without it now. My uncle will pay for the entire repair of the chancel out of his own pocket. Ever so much must be left undone till more money comes in. Money does come in from this quarter or from that, by God's help. As for the church rates, of course I regret them. But we have to take things in a lump, and it is certainly the fact that we spend ten times as much on the churches as was spent fifty years ago. Your most affectionate brother, Gregory Newton.   </blockquote> The other letter was much shorter, and was addressed to Patience Underwood;—   <blockquote> Newton Peele Parsonage, 4th August, 186—. My dear Miss Underwood,— My cousin, Mr. Ralph Newton, of whom you have heard me speak so often, is going up to London, and I have asked him to call at Popham Villa, because I am desirous that so very dear a friend of mine should know other friends whom I love so dearly. I am sure you will receive him kindly for my sake, and that you will like him for his own. There are reasons why I wish that your father should know him. Give my most affectionate love to your sister. I can send her no other message, and I do not think she will be angry with me for sending that. It cannot hurt her; and she and you at least know how honest and how true it is. Distance and time make no difference. It is as though I were on the lawn with her now. Most sincerely yours, Gregory Newton.   </blockquote> When he had written this in the little book-room of his parsonage he opened the window, and, crossing the garden, seated himself on a low brick wall, which divided his small domain from the churchyard. The night was bright with stars, but there was no moon in the heavens, and the gloom of the old ivy-coloured church tower was complete. But all the outlines of the place were so well known to him that he could trace them all in the dim light. After a while he got down among the graves, and with slow steps walked round and round the precincts of his church. Here, at least, in this spot, close to the house of God which was his own church, within this hallowed enclosure, which was his own freehold in a peculiar manner, he could, after a fashion, be happy, in spite of the misfortunes of himself and his family. His lines had been laid for him in very pleasant places. According to his ideas there was no position among the children of men more blessed, more diversified, more useful, more noble, than that which had been awarded to him,—if only, by God's help, he could perform with adequate zeal and ability the high duties which had been entrusted to him. Things outside were dark,—at least, so said the squires and parsons around him, with whom he was wont to associate. His uncle, Gregory, was sure that all things were going to the dogs, since a so-called Tory leader had become an advocate for household suffrage, and real Tory gentlemen had condescended to follow him. But to our parson it had always seemed that there was still a fresh running stream of water for him who would care to drink from a fresh stream. He heard much of unbelief, and of the professors of unbelief, both within and without the great Church;—but in that little church with which he was personally concerned there were more worshippers now than there had ever been before. And he heard, too, how certain well-esteemed preachers and prophets of the day talked loudly of the sins of the people, and foretold destruction such as was the destruction of Gomorrah;—but to him it seemed that the people of his village were more honest, less given to drink, and certainly better educated than their fathers. In all which thoughts he found matter for hope and encouragement in his daily life. And he set himself to work diligently, placing all this as a balance against his private sorrows, so that he might teach himself to take that world, of which he himself was the centre, as one whole,—and so to walk on rejoicing. The one great sorrow of his life, the thorn in the flesh which was always festering, the wound which would not be cured, the grief for which there was no remedy, was his love for Clarissa Underwood. He had asked her thrice to be his wife,—with very little interval, indeed, between the separate prayers,—and had been so answered that he entertained no hope. Had there been any faintest expectation in his mind that Clarissa would at last become his wife he would have been deterred by a sense of duty from making to his brother that generous offer of all the property he owned. But he had no such hope. Clarissa had given thrice that answer, which of all answers is the most grievous to the true-hearted lover. "She felt for him unbounded esteem, and would always regard him as a friend." A short decided negative, or a doubtful no, or even an indignant repulse, may be changed,—may give way to second convictions, or to better acquaintance, or to altered circumstances, or even simply to perseverance. But an assurance of esteem and friendship means, and only can mean, that the lady regards her lover as she might do some old uncle or patriarchal family connection, whom, after a fashion, she loves, but who can never be to her the one creature to be worshipped above all others. Such were Gregory Newton's ideas as to his own chance of success, and, so believing, he had resolved that he would never press his suit again. He endeavoured to conquer his love;—but that he found to be impossible. He thought that it was so impossible that he had determined to give up the endeavour. Though he would have advised others that by God's mercy all sorrows in this world could be cured, he told himself,—without arraigning God's mercy,—that for him this sorrow could not be cured. He did not scruple, therefore, to assure his brother that he would not marry,—nor did he hesitate, in writing to Patience Underwood, to assure her that his love for her sister was unchangeable. In saying so he urged no suit;—but it was impossible that he should write to the house without some message, and none other from him to her could be a true message. It could not hurt her. It would not even give her the trouble to think whether she had decided well. He quite understood the nature of the love he wanted,—a love that would have felt it to be all happiness to lean upon his bosom. Without this love he would not have wished to take her;—and with such love as that he knew he could not fill her heart. Therefore it was that he would satisfy himself with walking round the churchyard of Newton Peele, and telling himself that the pleasure of this world was best to be found in the pursuit of the joys of the next. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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