"I am thinking more of you than of my brother, just now," answered the parson.
"Yes, I know,—and though I cannot talk to you, I know how good you are. I want to see nobody but him. I shall be better alone." Then Gregory had returned to the parsonage.
As soon as Ralph was alone he crept up to the room in which his father's body was lying, and stood silently by the bedside for above an hour. He was struggling to remember the loss he had had in the man, and to forget the loss in wealth and station. No father had ever been better to a son than his father had been to him. In every affair of life his happiness, his prosperity, and his future condition had given motives3 to his father's conduct. No lover ever worshipped a mistress more thoroughly4 than his father had idolised him. There had never been love to beat it, never solicitude5 more perfect and devoted6. And yet, as he had been driven home that day, he had allowed his mind to revert7 to the property, and his regrets to settle themselves on his lost position. It should not be so any longer. He could not keep his mind from dwelling8 on the thing, but he would think of it as a trifle,—as of a thing which he could afford to lose without sorrow. Whereas he had also lost that which is of all things the most valuable and most impossible to replace,—a friend whose love was perfect.
But then there was another loss. He bitterly blamed himself for having written that letter to Sir Thomas Underwood, before he was actually in a position to do as he had proposed. It must all be unwritten now. Every resolution hitherto taken as to his future life must be abandoned. He must begin again, and plan a new life for himself. It had all come upon him so suddenly that he was utterly10 at a loss to think what he would do with himself or with his days. There was nothing for him but to go away, and be utterly without occupation, altogether without friends. Friends, indeed, he had,—dear, intimate, loving friends. Gregory Newton and George Morris were his friends. Every tenant11 on the Newton property was his friend. There was not a man riding with the hunt, worth having as a friend, who was not on friendly terms with him. But all these he must leave altogether. In whatever spot he might find for himself a future residence, that spot could not be at Peele Newton. After what had occurred he could not remain there, now that he was not the heir. And then, again, his thoughts came back from his lost father to his lost inheritance, and he was very wretched.
Between three and four o'clock he took his hat and walked out. He sauntered down along a small stream, which, after running through the gardens, bordered one of the coverts12 which came up near to the house. He took this path because he knew that he would be alone there, unseen. It had occurred to him already that it would be well that he should give orders to stop the works which his father had commenced, and there had been a moment in which he had almost told one of the servants in the house to do so. But he had felt ashamed at seeming to remember so small a thing. The owner would be there soon, probably in an hour or two, and could stop or could continue what he pleased. Then, as he thought of the ownership of the estate, he reflected that, as the sale had been in truth effected by his namesake, the money promised by his father would be legally due;—would not now be his money. As to the estate itself, that, of course, would go to his namesake as his father's heir. No will had been made leaving the estate to him, and his namesake would be the heir-at-law. Thus he would be utterly beggared. It was not that he actually believed that this would be the case; but his thoughts were morbid13, and he took an unwholesome delight in picturing to himself circumstances in their blackest hue14. Then he would strike the ground with his stick, in his wrath15, because he thought of such things at all. How was it that he was base enough to think of them while the accident, which had robbed him of his father, was so recent?
As the dusk grew on, he emerged out of the copse into the park, and, crossing at the back of the home paddocks, came out upon the road near to Darvell's farm. He passed a few yards up the lane, till at a turn he could discern the dismantled16 house. As far as he could see through the gloom of the evening, there were no workmen near the place. Some one, he presumed, had given directions that nothing further should be done on a day so sad as this. He stood for awhile looking and listening, and then turned round to enter the park again.
It might be that the new squire17 was already at the house, and it would be thought that he ought not to be absent. The road from the station to the Priory was not that on which he was standing18, and Ralph might have arrived without his knowledge. He wandered slowly back, but, before he could turn in at the park-gate, he was met by a man on the road. It was Mr. Walker, the farmer of Brownriggs, an old man over seventy, who had lived on the property all his life, succeeding his father in the same farm. Walker had known young Newton since he had first been brought to the Priory as a boy, and could speak to him with more freedom than perhaps any other tenant on the estate. "Oh, Mr. Ralph," he said, "this has been a dreary19 thing!" Ralph, for the first time since the accident, burst out into a flood of tears. "No wonder you take on, Mr. Ralph. He was a good father to you, and a fine gentleman, and one we all respected." Ralph still sobbed20, but put his hand on the old man's arm and leaned upon him. "I hope, Mr. Ralph, that things was pretty well settled about the property." Ralph shook his head, but did not speak. "A bargain is a bargain, Mr. Ralph, and I suppose that this bargain was made. The lawyers would know that it had been made."
"It don't matter about that, Mr. Walker," said Ralph; "but the estate would go to my father's nephew as his heir." The farmer started as though he had been shot. "You will have another landlord, Mr. Walker. He can hardly be better than the one you have lost."
"Then, Mr. Ralph, you must bear it manly21."
"I think that I can say that I will do that. It is not for the property that I am crying. I hope you don't think that of me, Mr. Walker."
"It is not for the property that I am crying."
"It is not for the property that I am crying."
Click to ENLARGE
"No, no, no."
"I can bear that;—though it is hard the having to go away and live among strange people. I think I shall get a farm somewhere, and see if I can take a lesson from you. I don't know anything else that I can do."
"You could have the Mordykes, Mr. Ralph," said Mr. Walker, naming a holding on the Newton property as to which there were rumours22 that it would soon be vacant.
"No, Mr. Walker, it mustn't be here. I couldn't stand that. I must go away from this,—God knows where. I must go away from this, and I shall never see the old place again!"
"Bear it manly, Mr. Ralph," said the farmer.
"I think I shall, after a bit. Good evening, Mr. Walker. I expect my father's nephew every hour, and I ought to be up at the house when he comes. I shall see you again before I go."
"Yes, yes; that's for certain," said the farmer. They were both thinking of the day on which they would follow the old Squire to his grave in Newton Peele churchyard.
Ralph re-entered the park, and hurried across to the house as though he were afraid that he would be too late to receive the heir; but there had been no arrival, nor had there come any message from the other Ralph. Indeed up to this hour the news had not reached the present owner of Newton Priory. The telegram had been duly delivered at the Moonbeam, where the fortunate youth was staying; but he was hunting on this day, riding the new horse which he had bought from Mr. Pepper, and, up to this moment, did not know anything of that which chance had done for him. Nor did he get back to the Moonbeam till late at night, having made some engagement for dinner after the day's sport. It was not till noon on the following day, the Friday, that a message was received from him at the Priory, saying that he would at once hurry down to Hampshire.
Ralph sat down to dinner all alone. Let what will happen to break hearts and ruin fortunes, dinner comes as long as the means last for providing it. The old butler waited upon him in absolute silence, fearing to speak a word, lest the word at such a time should be ill-spoken. No doubt the old man was thinking of the probable expedience23 of his retiring upon his savings24; feeling, however, that it became him to show, till the last, every respect to all who bore the honoured name of Newton. When the meat had been eaten, the old servant did say a word. "Won't you come round to the fire, Mr. Ralph?" and he placed comfortably before the hearth25 one of the heavy arm-chairs with which the corners of the broad fire-place were flanked. But Ralph only shook his head, and muttered some refusal. There he sat, square to the table, with the customary bottle of wine before him, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, thinking of his condition in life. The loneliness of the room, the loneliness of the house, were horrible to him. And yet he would not that his solitude should be interrupted. He had been so sitting, motionless, almost overcome by the gloom of the big dark room, for so long a period that he hardly knew whether it was night or not, when a note was brought to him from Gregory. "Dear Ralph,—Shall I not come down to you for an hour?—G. N." He read the note, and sent back a verbal message. "Tell Mr. Gregory that I had rather not." And so he sat motionless till the night had really come, till the old butler brought him his candlestick and absolutely bade him betake himself to bed. He had watched during the whole of the previous night, and now had slumbered26 in his chair from time to time. But his sleeping had been of that painful, wakeful nature which brings with it no refreshment28. It had been full of dreams, in all of which there had been some grotesque29 reference to the property, but in none of them had there been any memory of the Squire's terrible death. And yet, as he woke and woke and woke again, it can hardly be said that the truth had come back upon him as a new blow. Through such dreams there seems to exist a double memory, and a second identity. The misery30 of his isolated31 position never for a moment left him; and yet there were repeated to him over and over again those bungling32, ill-arranged, impossible pictures of trivial transactions about the place, which the slumber27 of a few seconds sufficed to create in his brain. "Mr. Ralph, you must go to bed;—you must indeed, sir," said the old butler, standing over him with a candle during one of these fitful dreamings.
"Yes, Grey;—yes, I will; directly. Put it down. Thank you. Don't mind sitting up," said Ralph, rousing himself in his chair.
"It's past twelve," Mr. Ralph.
"You can go to bed, you know, Grey."
"No, sir;—no. I'll see you to bed first. It'll be better so. Why, Mr. Ralph, the fire's all out, and you're sitting here perished. You wasn't in bed last night, and you ought to be there now. Come, Mr. Ralph."
Then Ralph rose from his chair and took the candlestick. It was true enough that he had better be in bed. As he shook himself, he felt that he had never been so cold in his life. And then as he moved there came upon him that terrible feeling that everything was amiss with him, that there was no consolation33 on any side. "That'll do, Grey; good night," he said, as the old man prepared to follow him up-stairs. But Grey was not to be shaken off. "I'll just see you to your room, Mr. Ralph." He wanted to accompany his young master past the door of that chamber34 in which was lying all that remained of the old master. But Ralph would open the door. "Not to-night, Mr. Ralph," said Grey. But Ralph persisted, and stood again by the bedside. "He would have given me his flesh and blood;—his very life," said Ralph to the butler. "I think no father ever so loved a son. And yet, what has it come to?" Then he stooped down, and put his lips to the cold clay-blue forehead.
"It ain't come to much surely," said old Grey to himself as he crept away to his own room; "and I don't suppose it do come to much mostly when folks go wrong."
Ralph was out again before breakfast, wandering up and down the banks of the stream where the wood hid him, and then he made up his mind that he would at once write again to Sir Thomas Underwood. He must immediately make it understood that that suggestion which he had made in his ill-assumed pride of position must be abandoned. He had nothing now to offer to that queenly princess worthy35 of the acceptance of any woman. He was a base-born son, about to be turned out of his father's house because of the disgrace of his birth. In the eye of the law he was nobody. The law allowed to him not even a name;—certainly allowed to him the possession of no relative; denied to him the possibility of any family tie. His father had succeeded within an ace9 of giving him that which would have created for him family ties, relatives, name and all. The old Squire had understood well how to supersede36 the law, and to make the harshness of man's enactments37 of no avail. Had the Squire quite succeeded, the son would have stood his ground, would have called himself Newton of Newton, and nobody would have dared to tell him that he was a nameless bastard38. But now he could not even wait to be told. He must tell it himself, and must vanish. He had failed to understand it all while his father was struggling and was yet alive; but he understood it well now. So he came in to his breakfast, resolved that he would write that letter at once.
And then there were orders to be given;—hideous39 orders. And there was that hideous remembrance that legally he was entitled to give no orders. Gregory came down to him as he sat at breakfast, making his way into the parlour without excuse. "My brother cannot have been at home at either place," he said.
"Perhaps not," said Ralph. "I suppose not."
"The message will be sent after him, and you will hear to-day no doubt."
"I suppose I shall," said Ralph.
Then Gregory in a low voice made the suggestion in reference to which he had come across from the parsonage. "I think that perhaps I and Larkin had better go over to Basingstoke." Larkin was the steward40. Ralph again burst out into tears, but he assented42; and in this way those hideous orders were given.
As soon as Gregory was gone he took himself to his desk, and did write to Sir Thomas Underwood. His letter, which was perhaps somewhat too punctilious43, ran as follows:—
Newton Priory, 4th November, 186—.
My dear Sir,—
I do not know whether you will have heard before this of the accident which has made me fatherless. The day before yesterday my father was killed by a fall from his horse in the hunting-field. I should not have ventured to trouble you with a letter on this subject, nor should I myself have been disposed to write about it at present, were it not that I feel it to be an imperative44 duty to refer without delay to my last letter to you, and to your very flattering reply. When I wrote to you it was true that my father had made arrangements for purchasing on my behalf the reversion to the property. That it was so you doubtless were aware from your own personal knowledge of the affairs of Mr. Ralph Newton. Whether that sale was or was not legally completed I do not know. Probably not;—and in regard to my own interests it is to be hoped that it was not completed. But in any event the whole Newton property will pass to your late ward41, as my father certainly made no such will as would convey it to me even if the sale were complete.
It is a sad time for explaining all this, when the body of my poor father is still lying unburied in the house, and when, as you may imagine, I am ill-fitted to think of matters of business; but, after what has passed between us, I conceive myself bound to explain to you that I wrote my last letter under a false impression, and that I can make no such claim to Miss Bonner's favour as I then set up. I am houseless and nameless, and for aught I yet know to the contrary, absolutely penniless. The blow has hit me very hard. I have lost my fortune, which I can bear; I have lost whatever chance I had of gaining your niece's hand, which I must learn to bear; and I have lost the kindest father a man ever had,—which is unbearable45.
Yours very faithfully,
Ralph Newton (so called).
If it be thought that there was something in the letter which should have been suppressed,—the allusion46, for instance, to the possible but most improbable loss of his father's private means, and his morbid denial of his own right to a name which he had always borne, a right which no one would deny him,—it must be remembered that the circumstances of the hour bore very heavily on him, and that it was hardly possible that he should not nurse the grievance47 which afflicted48 him. Had he not been alone in these hours he might have carried himself more bravely. As it was, he struggled hard to carry himself well. If no one had ever been told how nearly successful the Squire had been in his struggle to gain the power of leaving the estate to his son, had there been nothing of the triumph of victory, he could have left the house in which he had lived and the position which he had filled almost without sorrow,—certainly without lamentation49. In the midst of calamities50 caused by the loss of fortune, it is the knowledge of what the world will say that breaks us down;—not regret for those enjoyments52 which wealth can give, and which had been long anticipated.
At two o'clock on this day he got a telegram. "I will be at the parsonage this evening, and will come down at once." Ralph the heir, on his return home late at night, had heard the news, and early on the following morning had communicated with his brother and with his namesake. In the afternoon, after his return from Basingstoke, Gregory again came down to the house, desiring to know whether Ralph would prefer that the meeting should be at the Priory or at the parsonage, and on this occasion his cousin bore with him. "Why should not your brother come to his own house?" asked Ralph.
"I suppose he feels that he should not claim it as his own."
"That is nonsense. It is his own, and he knows it. Does he think that I am likely to raise any question against his right?"
"I do not suppose that my brother has ever looked at the matter in that light," said the parson. "He is the last man in the world to do so. For the present, at any rate, you are living here and he is not. In such an emergency, perhaps, he feels that it would be better that he should come to his brother than intrude53 here."
"It would be no intrusion. I should wish him to feel that I am prepared to yield to him instantly. Of course the house cannot be very pleasant for him as yet. He must suffer something of the misery of the occasion before he can enjoy his inheritance. But it will only be for a day or so."
"Dear Ralph," said the parson, "I think you somewhat wrong my brother."
"I endeavour not to do so. I think no ill of him, because I presume he should look for enjoyment51 from what is certainly his own. He and my father were not friends, and this, which has been to me so terrible a calamity54 in every way, cannot affect him with serious sorrow. I shall meet him as a friend; but I would sooner meet him here than at the parsonage."
It was at last settled that the two brothers should come down to the great house,—both Ralph the heir, and Gregory the parson; and that the three young men should remain there, at any rate, till the funeral was over. And when this was arranged, the two who had really been fast friends for so many years, were able to talk to each other in true friendship. The solitude which he had endured had been almost too much for the one who had been made so desolate55; but at last, warmed by the comfort of companionship, he resumed his manhood, and was able to look his affairs in the face, free from the morbid feeling which had oppressed him. Gregory had his own things brought down from the parsonage, and in order that there might be no hesitation56 on his brother's part, sent a servant with a note to the station desiring his brother to come at once to the Priory. They resolved to wait dinner for him till after the arrival of a train leaving London at five p.m. By that train the heir came, and between seven and eight he entered the house which he had not seen since he was a boy, and which was now his own.
The receipt of the telegram at the Moonbeam had affected57 Ralph, who was now in truth the Squire, with absolute awe58. He had returned late from a somewhat jovial59 dinner, in company with his friend Cox, who was indeed more jovial than was becoming. Ralph was not given to drinking more wine than he could carry decently; but his friend, who was determined60 to crowd as much enjoyment of life as was possible into the small time allowed him before his disappearance61 from the world that had known him, was noisy and rollicking. Perhaps it may be acknowledged in plain terms that he was tipsy. They both entered together the sitting-room62 which Ralph used, and Cox was already calling for brandy and water, when the telegram was handed to Newton. He read it twice before he understood it. His uncle dead!—suddenly dead! And the inheritance all his own! In doing him justice, however, we must admit that he did not at the time admit this to be the case. He did perceive that there must arise some question; but his first feeling, as regarded the property, was one of intense remorse63 that he should have sold his rights at a moment in which they would so soon have been realised in his own favour. But the awe which struck him was occasioned by the suddenness of the blow which had fallen upon his uncle. "What's up now, old fellow?" hiccupped Mr. Cox.
I wonder whether any polite reader, into whose hands this story may fall, may ever have possessed64 a drunken friend, and have been struck by some solemn incident at the moment in which his friend is exercising the privileges of intoxication65. The effect is not pleasant, nor conducive66 of good-humour. Ralph turned away in disgust, and leaned upon the chimney-piece, trying to think of what had occurred to him. "What ish it, old chap? Shomebody wants shome tin? I'll stand to you, old fellow."
"Take him away," said Ralph. "He's drunk." Then, without waiting for further remonstrance67 from the good-natured but now indignant Cox, he went off to his own room.
On the following morning he started for London by an early train, and by noon was with his lawyer. Up to that moment he believed that he had lost his inheritance. When he sent those two telegrams to his brother and to his namesake, he hardly doubted but that the entire property now belonged to his uncle's son. The idea had never occurred to him that, even were the sale complete, he might still inherit the property as his uncle's heir-at-law,—and that he would do so unless his uncle had already bequeathed it to his son. But the attorney soon put him right. The sale had not been yet made. He, Ralph, had not signed a single legal document to that effect. He had done nothing which would have enabled his late uncle to make a will leaving the Newton estate to his son. "The letters which have been written are all waste-paper," said the lawyer. "Even if they were to be taken as binding68 as agreements for a covenant69, they would operate against your cousin,—not in his favour. In such case you would demand the specified70 price and still inherit."
"That is out of the question," said the heir. "Quite out of the question," said the attorney. "No doubt Mr. Newton left a will, and under it his son will take whatever property the father had to leave."
And so Ralph the heir found himself to be the owner of it all just at the moment in which he thought that he had lost all chance of the inheritance as the result of his own folly71. When he walked out of the lawyer's office he was almost wild with amazement72. This was the prize to which he had been taught to look forward through all his boyish days, and all his early manhood;—but to look forward to it, as a thing that must be very distant, so distant as almost to be lost in the vagueness of the prospect73. Probably his youth would have clean passed from him, and he would have entered upon the downhill course of what is called middle life before his inheritance would come to him. He had been unable to wait, and had wasted everything,—nearly everything; had, at any rate, ruined all his hopes before he was seven-and-twenty; and yet, now, at seven-and-twenty, it was, as his lawyer assured him, all his own. How nearly had he lost it all! How nearly had he married the breeches-maker's daughter! How close upon the rocks he had been. But now all was his own, and he was in truth Newton of Newton, with no embarrassments74 of any kind which could impose a feather's weight upon his back.
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1
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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expedience
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| n.方便，私利，权宜 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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enactments
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| n.演出( enactment的名词复数 )；展现；规定；通过 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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