“Not take it from his uncle?” roared Ralph.
The discussion was interrupted by the sound of a step upon the gravel which made them all look round. The new-comer was an old gentleman with snow-white hair, but a ruddy wholesome complexion and the round ripe face which reminds one of a winter apple. “Frosty but kindly” was the look of the small twinkling eyes, the carefully trimmed-whisker, the smoothly-shaven chin and upper lip. The old gentleman was of short stature compared with Ralph: his neatness, his perfect cleanness, his well-brushed, well-dressed, carefully preserved look, all showing to greater advantage beside the big figure of the bushman in his big checks. He walked with great activity and alertness—like a young man, people said—but there was indeed a special energy almost demonstrative in his activity which betrayed the fact that it was something of a wonder that he should be active. He flourished his stick perhaps a little to make it apparent that he had no need of it. He eyed the group very curiously as he walked past them to the door—and then it was that he heard Ralph’s cry, “Not from his uncle?” At the sound of those words he turned round quickly and came back.
“Eh,” he said, “his uncle? Who is this little fellow, my good woman? Marmaduke Parke? Then, my boy, I’m your uncle too.”
Duke looked at this new claimant without the hesitation which he had shown to Ralph. There was no doubt on the most superficial examination that this was a gentleman. He took off his little hat and held out his little hand.
“How do you do?” said the little boy. “Mamma is poorly and papa is out, and I’m just come back from my walk: but if you will come in, please, Saunders will know what to do.”
When Ralph gave vent to the great roar of a laugh which seemed to make a sort of storm in the air above the heads at once of Lord Frogmore and of little Marmaduke, there was more than merriment in that outburst. The bushman felt the distinction which the little boy had made, though it was only a very little boy that had made it. He assumed an additional swagger in consequence. “I’m on the other side, my lord,” he said, “for I presume you’re Lord Frogmore. I’m Ralph Ravelstone, the brother of the missus—but we’re on different tacks, you and me. She aint at all proud of her brother, I’m sorry to say, though I want nothing from them—not a brass farthing. So I’m clearing out of the way.”
“Ah!” said Lord Frogmore. He added after a moment, “You will not, of course, expect me to interfere—people know their own concerns best.”
“Interfere!” said Ralph. “I never thought of that. Tisch knows her own mind, and there’s nobody I ever heard of could make her change it. Oh, I’m going. It’s not good enough to hang on here in a bit of a country place like this, for anything I’ll get from Tisch. Besides I want nothing from them. I’ve just come from the bush with dollars enough once in a way. I came out of kindness. If she don’t want me I can do without her, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
To this Lord Frogmore made no reply, save by bowing his head politely, as to a conclusion of which he might approve indeed, but which left nothing to be said. But Ralph stood swaying his big person about, not knowing how to get himself off the scene—and indeed with a sentiment of elation in the unexpected and unaccustomed felicity of talking to a lord.
“You see, my lord,” he said, “through her,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “we are a kind of connections, you and me.”