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Ralph the Heir

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<h3>CHAPTER LVIII.</h3> <h4>CONCLUSION.  </h4> Clarissa had found it hard to change the object of her love, so hard, that for a time she had been unwilling even to make the effort;—and she had been ashamed that those around her should think that she would make it; but when the thing was done, her second hero was dearer to her than ever had been the first. He at least was true. With him there was no need of doubt. His assurances were not conveyed in words so light that they might mean much or little. This second lover was a lover, indeed, who thought no pains too great to show her that she was ever growing in his heart of hearts. For a while,—for a week or two,—she restrained her tongue; but when once she had accustomed herself to the coaxing kindness of her sister and her cousin, then her eloquence was loosened, and Gregory Newton was a god indeed. In the course of time she got a very pretty note from Ralph, congratulating her, as he also had congratulated Polly, and expressing a fear that he might not be home in time to be present at the wedding. Augusta was so fond of Rome that they did not mean to leave it till the late spring. Then, after a while, there came to her, also, a watch and chain, twice as costly as those given to Polly,—which, however, no persuasion from Gregory would ever induce Clarissa to wear. In after time Ralph never noticed that the trinkets were not worn. The winter at Popham Villa went on very much as other winters had gone, except that two of the girls living there were full of future hopes, and preparing for future cares, while the third occupied her heart and mind with the cares and hopes of the other two. Patience, however, had one other task in hand, a task upon the performance of which her future happiness much depended, and in respect to which she now ventured to hope for success. Wherever her future home might be, it would be terrible to her if her father would not consent to occupy it with her. It had been settled that both the marriages should take place early in April,—both on the same day, and, as a matter of course, the weddings would be celebrated at Fulham. Christmas had come and gone, and winter was going, before Sir Thomas had absolutely promised to renew that order for the making of the packing-cases for his books. "You won't go back, papa, after they are married," Patience said to her father, early in March. "If I do it shall not be for long." "Not for a day, papa! Surely you will not leave me alone? There will be plenty of room now. The air of Fulham will be better for your work than those stuffy, dark, dingy lawyers' chambers." "My dear, all the work of my life that was worth doing was done in those stuffy, dingy rooms." That was all that Sir Thomas said, but the accusation conveyed to him by his daughter's words was very heavy. For years past he had sat intending to work, purposing to achieve a great task which he set for himself, and had done—almost nothing. Might it be yet possible that that purer air of which Patty spoke should produce new energy, and lead to better results? The promise of it did at least produce new resolutions. It was impossible, as Patience had said, that his child should be left to dwell alone, while yet she had a father living. "Stemm," he said, "I told you to get some packing-cases made." "Packing-cases, Sir Thomas?" "Yes;—packing-cases for the books. It was months ago. Are they ready?" "No, Sir Thomas. They ain't ready." "Why not?" "Well, Sir Thomas;—they ain't; that's all." Then the order was repeated in a manner so formal, as to make Stemm understand that it was intended for a fact. "You are going away from this; are you, Sir Thomas?" "I believe that I shall give the chambers up altogether at midsummer. At any rate, I mean to have the books packed at once." "Very well, Sir Thomas." Then there was a pause, during which Stemm did not leave the room. Nor did Sir Thomas dismiss him, feeling that there might well be other things which would require discussion. "And about me, Sir Thomas?" said Stemm. "I have been thinking about that, Stemm." "So have I, Sir Thomas,—more nor once." "You can come to Fulham if you like,—only you must not scold the maids." "Very well, Sir Thomas," said Stemm, with hardly any variation in his voice, but still with less of care upon his brow. "Mind, I will not have you scolding them at the villa." "Not unless they deserve it, Sir Thomas," said Stemm. Sir Thomas could say nothing further. For our own part we fear that the maidens at the villa will not be the better in conduct, as they certainly will not be more comfortable in their lives, in consequence of this change. And the books were moved in large packing-cases, not one of which had yet been opened when the two brides returned to Popham Villa after their wedding tours, to see Patience just for a day before they were taken to their new homes. Nevertheless, let us hope that the change of air and of scene may tend to future diligence, and that the magnus opus may yet be achieved. We have heard of editions of Aristophanes, of Polybius, of the Iliad, of Ovid, and what not, which have ever been forthcoming under the hands of notable scholars, who have grown grey amidst the renewed promises which have been given. And some of these works have come forth, belying the prophecies of incredulous friends. Let us hope that the great Life of Bacon may yet be written.   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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