 Chapter fifty-five of Ayala's Angel—this LibriVox recording is in the public domain—Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop, Chapter fifty-five, in the castle there lived a night. Ayala was compelled to consent to remain at Stullum. The—I don't think—which she repeated so often—was, of course, of no avail to her. So Harry would be angry and Lady Albury would be disgusted where she to go, and so she remained. There was to be a week before Colonel Stubbs would come, and she was to remain not only for the week, but also for some short time afterwards, so that there might be yet a few days left of hunting under the Colonel. It could not surely have been doubtful to her after she had read that letter with the post-script, that if she remained her happiness would be ensured. He would not have come again and insisted on her being there to receive him if nothing would have come of it. And yet she had fought for permission to return to Kingsbury Crescent after her little fashion, and had at last yielded, as she told Lady Albury, because Sir Harry seemed to wish it. Of course he wishes it, said Lady Albury. He's got the pony on purpose, and nobody likes being disappointed when he has done a thing so much as Sir Harry. Ayala, delighted as she was, did not make her secret known. She was fluttered and apparently uneasy, so that her friend did not know what to make of it or which way to take it. Ayala's secret was to herself a secret still to be maintained with holy reticence. It might still be possible that Jonathan Stubbs should never say another word to her of his love. If he did, why then all the world might know, then there would be no secret. Then she would sit and discuss her love and his love all night long with Lady Albury, if Lady Albury would listen to her. In the meantime the secret must be a secret. To confess her love, and then to have her love disappointed, that would be death to her. And thus it went on through the whole week, Lady Albury, not quite knowing what to make of it. Once she did say a word, thinking that she would thus extract the truth, not as yet understanding how potent Ayala could be to keep her secret. That man has, at any rate, been very true to you, she said. Ayala frowned and shook her head, and would not say a word upon the subject. If she did not mean to take him now, surely she would have gone, Lady Albury said to her husband. She's a pretty little girl enough, said Sahari, but I doubt whether she's worth all the trouble. Of course she is not, what pretty little girl ever was, but as long as he thinks so worth it the trouble has to be taken. Of course she'll accept him. I'm not so sure of it. She's been made to believe that you wanted her to stay, and therefore she has stayed. She is quite master enough of herself to ride out hunting with him again, and then to refuse him. And so Lady Albury doubted up to the Sunday and all through the Sunday, up to the very moment when the last preparations were to be made for the man's arrival. The train reached the Stalem Road station at seven p.m., and the distance was five miles. On Sundays they usually dined at Stalem at seven thirty. The hour fixed was to be eight on this occasion, and even with this there would be some bustling. The house was now nearly empty, there being no visitors there except Mr. and Mrs. Gosling and Ayala. Lady Albury gave many thoughts to the manner of the man's reception, and determined at last that Jonathan should have an opportunity of saying a word to Ayala immediately on his arrival, if he so pleased. Mind your down at half-past seven, she said to Ayala, coming to her in her bedroom. I thought we should not dine till eight. There's no knowing, Sir Harry is so fussy, I shall be down and I should like you to be with me. Then Ayala promised, and mind you have his frock on. You make me wear it out before anyone else sees it, she said, laughing. But again she promised. She got a glimmer of light from it all, nearly understanding what Lady Albury intended. But against such intentions as these she had no reason to fight. Why should she not be ready to see him? Why should she not have on her prettiest dress when he came? If he meant to say the word, then her prettiest dress would be all too poor, and her readiness dear is not quick enough to meet so great a joy. If he were not to say the other word, then should she shun him by staying behind, or be afraid of the encounter? Should she be less gaily attired, because it would be unnecessary to please his eye? Oh no! I'll be there at half-bar seven, she said, but I know the train will be late, and Sir Harry won't get his dinner until nine. Then, my dear, great as the Colonel is, he may come in and get what's left for him in the middle. Sir Harry will not wait a minute after eight. The Buxom woman came and dressed her. The Buxom woman probably knew what was going to happen was perhaps more keenly alive to the truth than Lady Albury herself. We've taken great care of it, haven't we, Miss, she said, as she fastened the dress behind. It's just as new still. New, said Ayala, it has to be new with me for the next two years. I don't know much about that, Miss. Somebody will have to pay for a good many more new dresses before two years are over, I take it. To this Ayala made no answer, but she was quite sure that the Buxom woman intended to imply that Colonel Stubbs would have to pay for the new dresses. Punctually at half-past seven she was in the drawing-room, and there she remained alone for a few minutes. She endeavoured to sit down and be quiet, but she found it impossible to compose herself. Almost immediately he would be there, and then, as she was quite sure, her fate would be known to her instantly. She knew that the first moment of his presence in the room with her would tell her everything. If that were told to her which he desired to hear, everything should be re-told to him as quickly. But if it were otherwise, then she thought that when the moment came she would still have strength enough to hide her sorrow. If he had come simply for the hunting, simply that they too might ride a hunting together so that he might show to her that all traces of his disappointment were gone, then she would know how to teach him to think that her heart towards him was as it had ever been. The thing to be done would be so sad as to call from her tears almost of blood in her solitude, but it should so be done that no one should know that any sorrow such as this had touched her bosom, not even to Lucy should this secret be told. There was a clock on the mantelpiece to which her eye was continually turned. It now wanted twenty minutes to eight, and she was aware that if the train was punctual he might now be at the hall-door. At this moment Lady Albury entered the room. Your knight has come at last, she said. I hear his wheels on the gravel. He's no knight of mine, said Ayala, with that peculiar frown of hers. Whose ever knight he is there he is. Knight or not, I must go and welcome him. Then Lady Albury hurried out of the room, and Ayala was again alone. The door had been left partly open so that she could hear the sound of voices and steps across the inner hall or billiard room. There were the servants waiting upon him, and Sir Harry bidding him to go up and dress at once so as not to keep the whole house waiting, and Lady Albury declaring that there was yet ample time as the dinner certainly would not be on the table for half an hour. She heard it all and heard him to whom all her thoughts were now given laughing as he declared that he had never been so cold in his life, and that he certainly would not dress himself until he had warmed his fingers. She was far away from the door, not having stirred from the spot on which she was standing when Lady Albury left her, but she fancied that she heard the murmur of some slight whisper, and she told herself that Lady Albury was telling him where to seek her. Then she heard the sound of the man step across the billiard room, she heard his hand upon the door, and there he was in her presence. When she thought of it all afterwards, as she did so many scores of times, she never could tell how it had occurred. When she accused him in her playfulness, telling him that he had taken for granted that of which he had had no sign, she never knew whether there had been ought of truth in her accusation. But she did know that he had hardly closed the door behind him when she was in his arms, and felt the burning love of his kisses upon her cheeks. There had been no more asking whether he was to have any other answer of that she was quite sure. Had there been such further question, she would have answered him, and some remembrance of her own words would have remained with her. She was quite sure that she had answered no question. Some memory of mingled granting and denying of repulses and a sense all quickly huddled upon one another, of attempts to escape while she was so happy to remain, and then of a delude of love terms which fell upon her ears, his own one, his wife, his darling, his Ayala, at last his own sweet Ayala. This was what remained to her of that little interview. She had not spoken a word. She thought she was sure of that. Her breath had left her so that she could not speak. And yet it had been taken for granted, though on former occasions he had pleaded with slow, piteous words. How had it been that he had come to know the truth so suddenly? Then she became aware that Lady Albury was speaking to Mrs. Gosling in the billiard room outside, detaining her other guest until the scene within should be over. At that moment she did speak a word which she remembered afterwards—'Go, go, you must go now!' Then there had been one other soft repulse, one other sweet ascent, and the man had gone. There was just a moment for her in which to tell herself that the Angel of Light had come for her, and had taken her to himself. Mrs. Gosling, who was a pretty little woman, crept softly into the room, hiding her suspicion if she had any. Lady Albury put out her hand to Ayala behind the other woman's back, not raising it high, but just so that her young friend might touch it if she pleased. Ayala did touch it, sliding her little fingers into the offered grasp. I thought it would be so, whispered Lady Albury. I thought it would be so. What the deuce you all up to, said Sir Harry, bursting into the room! It's eight now, and that man has only just gone up into his room. He hasn't been in the house about five minutes yet, said Lady Albury, and I think he's been very quick. Ayala thought so too. During dinner and afterwards they were very full of hunting for the next day. It was wonderful to Ayala that this should be thought for such a trifle when there was such a thing as love in the world. While there was so much to fill her heart, how could there be thoughts of anything else? But Jonathan, he was Jonathan to her now, her Jonathan, her Angel of Light, was very keen upon the subject. There was but one week left. He thought that Croppie might manage three days as there was to be but one week. Croppie would have leisure and rest enough afterwards. It's a little sharp, said Sir Harry. Oh, pray don't, said Ayala. But Lady Albury and Jonathan together silenced Sir Harry, and Mrs. Gosling proved the absurdity of the objection by telling the story of a pony who had carried a lady three days running. I should not have liked to be either the pony or the owner or the lady, said Sir Harry. But he was silenced. What did it matter, though the heavens fell so that Ayala was pleased? What is too much to be done for a girl who proves herself to be an Angel by accepting the right man at the right time? She had but one moment alone with her lover that night. I always loved you, she whispered to him as she fled away. The Colonel did not quite understand the assertion, but he was contented with it as he sat smoking his cigar with Sir Harry and Mr. Gosling. But though she could have but one word that night with her lover, there were many words between her and Lady Albury before they went to bed. And so, like wise people, you have settled it all between you at last, said Lady Albury. I don't know whether he is wise. We will take that for granted. At any rate, he has been very true. Oh, yes. And you, you knew all about it. No, I knew nothing. I did not think he would ever ask again. I only hoped. But why on earth did you give him so much trouble? I can't tell you, said Ayala, shaking her head. Do you mean there is still a secret? No, not that. I would tell you anything that I could tell because you have been so very, very good to me. But I cannot tell. I cannot explain even to myself. Oh, Lady Albury, why have you been so good to me? Shall I say, because I have loved you? Yes, if it be true. But it is not true. Oh, Lady Albury, I do love you dearly. I shall always love you now. I do hope I shall love you now, because you will be his wife. But I have not been kind to you, as you call it, because I loved you. Then why? Why? Because I loved him. Cannot you understand that? Because I was anxious that he should have all that he wanted. Was it not necessary that there should be some house in which he might meet you? Could there have been much of a pleasant time for wooing between you and your aunt's drawing-room in King's Recrescent? Oh, no, said Ayala. Could he have taken you out hunting, unless you had been here? How could he and you have known each other at all, unless I had been kind to you? Now you will understand. Yes, said Ayala. I understand now. Did he ask you? Well, he consulted me. We talked you all over and made up our minds between us, that if we petted you down here, that would be the best way to win you. Were we not right? It was a very nice way I do so like to be petted. Sir Harry was in the secret, and he did his petting by buying the frock. That was a success, too, I think. Did he care about that, Lady Albury? What he? Jonathan, said Ayala, almost stumbling over the word as she pronounced it aloud for the first time. I think he liked it, but whether he would have persevered without it you must ask yourself. If he tells you that he would never have said another word to you only for this frock, then I think you ought to thank Sir Harry and give him a kiss. I am sure he will not tell me that, said Ayala, with mock indignation. And now, my dear, as I have told you all my secret and have explained to you how we laid our heads together and plotted against you, I think you ought to tell me your secret. Why was it that you refused him so pertinaciously on that Sunday when you were out walking, and yet you knew your mind about it so clearly as soon as he arrived to-day? I can't explain it, said Ayala. You must know that you liked him. I always liked him. You must have more than liked him on that Sunday. I adored him. Then I don't understand you. Lady Aubrey, I think I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him. The Marquesa took me to a party in London and there he was. And did he say anything to you then? No, he was very funny as he often is. Don't you know his way? I remember every word he said to me. He came up without any introduction and ordered me to dance with him. And you did? Oh, yes, whatever he told me I should have done. Then he scolded me because I did not stand up quick enough. And he invented some story about a woman who was engaged to him and would not marry him because he had red hair and his name was Jonathan. I knew it was all a joke and yet I hated the woman. That must have been love at first sight. I think it was. From that day to this I have always been thinking about him. And yet you refused him twice over. Yes. At ever so long an interval. I are lobbed ahead at her companion. And why? Ah, that I can't tell. I shall try to tell him some day, but I know that I never shall. It was because—but Lady Aubrey, I cannot tell it. Did you ever picture anything to yourself in a waking dream? Build castles in the air, suggested Lady Aubrey. That's just it. Very often but they never come true. Never have come true exactly. I had a castle in the air and in the castle lived a night. She was still ashamed to say that the inhabitant of the castle was an angel of light. I wanted to find out whether he was the night who lived there. He was. And you were not quite sure until to-day? I've been sure a long time, but when we walked out on that Sunday I was such an idiot that I didn't know how to tell him. Oh, Lady Aubrey, I was such a fool. What should I have done if he hadn't come back? Send for him. Never, never. I should have been miserable always, but now I'm so happy. He is the real night. Oh, yes indeed. He is the real, real night that has always been living in my castle. Ayala's promotion was now so firmly fixed that the Buxom female came to assist her off with her clothes when Lady Aubrey had left her. From this time forth it was supposed that such assistance would be necessary. I take it, Miss," said the Buxom female, there will be many new dresses before the end of this time two years. From which Ayala was quite sure that everybody in the house knew all about it. But it was now, now, when she was quite alone, that the great sense of her happiness came to her. In the fullness of her dreams there had never been more than the conviction that such a being and none other could be worthy of her love. There had never been faith in the hope that such a one would come to her, never even though she would tell herself that angels had come down from heaven and had sought in marriage the hands of the daughters of men. Her dreams had been to her a barrier against love rather than an encouragement. But now he that she had in truth dreamed of had come for her. Then she brought out the Marquesa's letter and read that description of her lover. Yes, he was all that—true, brave, tender, a very hero. But then he was more than all that, for he was in truth the very angel of light. The Monday was devoted to hunting. I am not at all sure that writing about the country with a pack of hounds is an amusement specially compatible with that assured love entertainment which was now within the reach of Ayala and her angel. For the rudiments of love-making, for little endearing attentions, for a few sweet words to be whispered with shortened breath as one horse gallops beside another, perhaps for a length and a half hour together amidst the mazes of a large wood, when opportunities are no doubt given for private conversation, hunting may be very well. But for two persons who are engaged with the mutual consent of all their friends, a comfortable sofa is perhaps preferable. Ayala had heard as yet but very little of her lover's intentions, was acquainted only with that one single intention which he had declared in asking her to be his wife. There were a thousand things to be told to how, the when, and the where. She knew hitherto the why, and that was all. Nothing could be told to her while she was galloping about a big wood on crappie's back. I'm delighted to see you again in these parts, Miss," said Larry Twentyman suddenly. Oh, Mr. Twentyman, how's the baby? Her baby's quite well, Miss. His mama has been out ever so many times. I ought to have asked for her first. Does baby come out too? Not quite. But when the hounds are near, mama comes for an hour or so. We've had a wonderful season, quite wonderful. You've heard perhaps of our great run from Dillsborough Wood. We found him there, close to my place, you know, and run him down in the break country after an hour and forty minutes. There were only five or six of them. You'd have been one, Miss, to a moral, if you'd have been here on the pony. I say we never changed our fox. Ayala was well disposed towards Larry Twentyman, and was quite aware that, according to the records and established usages of that hunt, he was a man with whom she might talk safely. But she did not care about the fox as so much as she'd done before. There was nothing now for which she cared much except Jonathan Stubbs. He was always riding near her throughout the day, so that he might be with her should there arise anything special to be done. But he was not always close to her, as she would have had him. He had gained his purpose, and he was satisfied. She had entered in upon the fruition of positive bliss, but enjoyed it in perfection only when she heard the sound of his voice, or could look into his eyes as she spoke to him. She did not care much about the great run from Dillsborough, or even for the compliment with which Mr. Twentyman finished his narrative. They were writing about the big woods all day, not without killing a fox, but with none of the excitement of a real run. After that, Crobby would be quite fit to come again on Wednesday, suggested the Colonel on their way home, to which Saharia centred. What do you folks mean to do to-day, asked Lady Albury at breakfast on the following morning. Ayala had her own little plan in her head, but did not dare to propose it publicly. Will you choose to be driven, or will you choose to walk? said Lady Albury, addressing herself to Ayala. Ayala, in her present position, was considered to be entitled to special consideration. Ayala thought she would prefer to walk. At last there came a moment in which she could make her request to the person chiefly concerned. Walk with me to the wood with that absurd name, suggested Ayala. Gobble-goose Wood suggested the Colonel. Then that was arranged according to Ayala's wishes. A walk in a wood is perhaps almost as good as a comfortable seat in a drawing-room, and is perhaps less liable to intrusion. They started and walked the way which Ayala remembered so well when she had trudged along, pretending to listen to Saharian Captain Glomax as they carried on their discussion about the hunted fox, but giving all her ears to the Colonel and wondering whether he would say anything to her before the day was over. Then her mind had been in a perturbed state which she herself had failed to understand. She was sure that she would say no to him should he speak, and yet she desired that it should be yes. What a fool she had been, she told herself as she walked along now, and how little she had deserved all the good that had come to her. The conversation was chiefly with him as they went. He told her much now of the how and the when and the where. He hoped there might be no long delay. He would live, he said, for the next year or two at Aldershot, and would be able to get a house fit for her on condition that they should be married at once. He did not explain why the house could not be taken even though their marriage were delayed two or three months, but as to this she asked no questions. Of course they must be married in London if Mrs. Dosset wished it, but if not it might be arranged that the wedding would take place at Stullum. Upon this and many other things he had much to propose, and all that he said Ayala accepted as gospel. As the Angel of Light had appeared, as the night who was Lord of the Castle had come forth, of course he must be obeyed in everything. He could hardly have made a suggestion to which he would not have exceeded. When they had ended the wood, Ayala in her own quiet way led him to the very spot in which on that former day he had asked her his question. Do you remember this path? she asked. I remember that you and I were walking here together, he said. Ay, but this very turn, do you remember this branch? Well no, not the branch. You put your hand on it when you said that never, never to me. Did I say never, never? Yes, you did, when I was so untrue to you. Were you untrue? he asked. Jonathan, you remember nothing about it. It is all passed away from you just as though you were talking to Captain Glomaggs about the fox. Has it, dear? I remember every word of it. I remember how you stood and how you looked, even to the hat you wore and the little switch you held in your hand, when you asked for one little word, one glance, one slightest touch. There now you shall have all my weight to bear. Then she lent upon him with both her hands, turned around her arm, glanced up into his face, and opened her lips as though speaking that little word. Do you remember that I said I thought you had given it all up? I remember that, certainly. And was not that untrue? Oh, Jonathan, that was such a story! Had I thought so, I should have been miserable. Then why did you swear to me so often that you could not love me? I never said so, replied Ayala, never. Did you not? he asked. I never said so. I never told you such a story as that. I did love you then, almost as well as I do now. Oh, I had loved you for such a long time. Then why did you refuse me? Ah, that is what I would explain to you now, here on this very spot, if I could. Does it not seem odd that a girl should have all that she once offered to her, and yet not be able to take it? Was it all that you wanted? Indeed it was. When I was in church that morning I told myself that I never, never could be happy unless you came to me again. But when I did come you would not have me. I knew how to love you, she said, but I did not know how to tell you that I loved you. I can tell you now, can't I? And then she looked up at him and smiled. Yes, I think I shall never be tired of telling you now. It is sweet to hear you say that you love me, but it is sweetest still to be always telling you. And yet I could not tell you then. Suppose you'd taken me at my word. I told you that I should never give you up. It was only that that kept me from being altogether wretched. I think that I was ashamed to tell you the truth when I had once refused to do as you would have me. I had given you so much trouble all for nothing. I think that if you had asked me on that first day at the ball in London, I should have said yes if I told the truth. That would have been very sudden. I'd never seen you before that. Nevertheless it was so. I don't mind owning it to you now, though I never, never could own it to anyone else. When you came to us at the theatre, I was sure that no one else could ever have been so good. I certainly did love you then. Hardly that, Ayala. I did, she said. Now I've told you everything, and you can choose to think I've been very bad. Why, you must think so, and I must put up with it. Bad, my darling. I suppose it was bad to fall in love with a man like that, and very bad to give him the trouble of coming so often. But now I've made a clean breast of it, and if you want to scold me, you must scold me now. You may do it now, but you must never scold me afterwards because of that. It may be left the reader to imagine the nature of the scolding which he received. Then on their way home she thanked him for all the good that he had done to all those belonging to her. I've heard it all from Lucy how generous you've been to his adore. That has all come to nothing, he said. How come to nothing? I know that you sent him the money. I did offer to lend him something, and indeed I sent him a check, but two days afterwards he returned it. That tremendous uncle of yours. Uncle Tom? Yes, your Uncle Tom, the man of millions. He came forward and cut me out altogether. I don't know what went on down there in Sussex, but when he heard that they intended to be married shortly, he put his hand into his pocket as a magnificent uncle overflowing with millions ought to do. I did not hear that. Hamill sent my money back at once. And poor Tom, you were so good to poor Tom. I liked Tom. But he did behave badly. Well, yes, one gentleman shouldn't strike another, even though he be ever so much in love. It's an uncomfortable proceeding and never has good results, but then, poor fellow, he has been so much in earnest. Why couldn't he take a note when he got it? Why didn't I take a note when I got it? That was very different. He ought to have taken it. If you had taken it, you would have been very wrong and have broken a poor girl's heart. I'm sure you knew that all through. Did I? And then you were too good-natured. That was it. I don't think you really loved me, not as I love you. Oh, Jonathan, if you were to change your mind now, suppose you were to tell me that it was a mistake. Suppose I were to awake and find myself in bed at King's Precrescent. I hope there may be no such waking as that. I should go mad, stark mad. Shake me till I find out whether it's real, waking, downright, earnest. But, Jonathan, why did you call me, Miss Stormer, when you went away? That was the worst of all. I remember when you called me Ayala first. It went through and through me like an electric shock. But you never saw it, did you? On that afternoon, when she returned home, she wrote to her sister Lucy, giving a sister's account to her sister of all her happiness. I am sure Isidore is second best, but Jonathan is best. I don't want you to say so, but if you contradict me I shall stick to it. You remember my telling you that the old woman and the railway said that I was perverse. She was a clever old woman and knew all about it, for I was perverse. However, it has come all right now, and Jonathan is best of all. Oh, my man, my man! Is it not sweet to have a man of one's own to love? If this letter had been written on the day before, as would have been the case had not Ayala been taken out hunting, it would have reached Merle Park on the Wednesday. The news would have been made known to Aunt Emmeline, and so conveyed to poor Tom, and that disagreeable journey from Merle Park to Stalem would have been saved. But there was no time for writing on the Monday. The letter was sent away in the Stalem post-bag on the Tuesday evening, and did not reach Merle Park until the Thursday, after Lady Tringle had left the house. Had it been known on that morning that Ayala was engaged to Colonel Stubbs, that would have sufficed to send Tom away upon his travels without any more direct messenger from Stalem. On the Wednesday there was more hunting, and on this day Ayala, having liberated her mind to her lover in gobble-goose wood, was able to devote herself more satisfactorily to the amusement in hand. Her engagement was now an old affair. It had already become matter for joking to Sir Harry, and had been discussed even with Mrs. Gosling. It was, of course, a joy for ever, but still she was beginning to descend from the clouds and to walk the earth, no more than a simple queen. When, therefore, the hounds went away, and Larry told her that he knew the best way out of the wood, she collected her energies and rode like a little brick, as Sir Harry said when they got back to Stalem. On that afternoon she received the note from her aunt, and replied to it by telegram. On the Thursday she stayed at home and wrote various letters. The first was to the Marquesa and then one to Nina, in both of which much had to be said about Jonathan. To Nina also she could repeat her idea of the delight of having a man to love. Then there was the letter to Aunt Margaret, which certainly was due, and another to Aunt Emeline, which was not, however, received, until after Lady Tringle's visit to Stalem. There was much conversation between her and Lady Albury as to the possible purpose of the visit which was to be made on the morrow. Lady Albury was of the opinion that Lady Tringle had heard of the engagement and was coming with the intention of setting it on one side on Tom's behalf. But she can't do that, you know, said Ayala with some manifest alarm. She's nothing to me now, Lady Albury. She got rid of me, you know. I was changed away for Lucy. If there had been no changing away she could do nothing, said Lady Albury. About a quarter of an hour before the time for lunch on the following day Lady Tringle was shown into the small sitting-room which has been mentioned in a previous chapter, and Ayala, radiant with happiness and beauty, appeared before her. There was a look about her of being at home at Stalem, as though she were almost a daughter of the house that struck her out with surprise. There was nothing left of that submissiveness which, though Ayala herself had not been submissive, belonged as of right to gole so dependent as she and her sister Lucy. I'm so delighted to see you at Stalem, said Ayala, as she embraced her aunt. I am come to you, said Lady Tringle, on a matter of very particular business. Then she paused and assumed a look of peculiar solemnity. Have you got my letter, demanded Ayala? I got your telegram, and I thought it very civil of Lady Albury, but I cannot stay. Your poor cousin, Tom, is in such a condition that I cannot leave him longer than I can help. But you have not got my letter. I have had no letter from you, Ayala. I have sent you such news. Oh, such news, Aunt Emilyne! What news, my dear? Lady Tringle, as she asked the question, seemed to become more solemn than ever. Oh, Aunt Emilyne, I am— You are what, Ayala? I am engaged to be married to Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. Engaged? Yes, Aunt Emilyne, engaged. I wrote to you on Tuesday to tell you all about it. I hope you and Uncle Tom will approve. There cannot possibly be any reason against it, except only that I have nothing to give him in return—that is, in the way of money. Colonel Stubbs, Aunt Emilyne, is not what Uncle Tom will call a rich man, but everybody here says that he's got quite enough to be comfortable. If he had nothing in the world it could not make any difference to me. I don't understand how anybody is to love anyone or not to love them just because he's rich or poor. But you are absolutely engaged, exclaimed Lady Tringle. Oh, dear, yes, perhaps you'd like to ask Lady Albury about it. He did want it before, you know. But now you're engaged to him. In answer to this, Ayala thought it sufficient simply to nod her head. It's all over, then. All over, exclaimed Ayala, it's just going to begin. All over for poor Tom, said Lady Tringle. Oh, yes, it was always over for him, Aunt Emilyne. I told him ever so many times that it could never be so. Don't you know, Aunt Emilyne, that I did? But you said that to this man just the same. Aunt Emilyne, said Ayala, putting on all the serious dignity which he knew how to assume. I am engaged to Colonel Stubbs and nothing on earth that anybody can say can change it. If you want to hear all about it, Lady Albury will tell you. She knows that you're my aunt and therefore she will be quite willing to talk to you. Only nothing that anybody can say can change it. Poor Tom, ejaculated the rejected lover's mother. I'm very sorry if my cousin is displeased. He is ill, terribly ill. He will have to go away and travel all about the world, and I don't know that ever he will come back again. I am sure this Stubbs will never love you as he has done. Oh, Aunt, what's the use of that? Then Tom will have twice as much, but, however, Ayala stood silent, not seeing that any good could be done by addition to her former assurances. I will go and tell him, my dear, that's all. Will you not send him some message, Ayala? Oh, yes, any message that I can that you'll go along with my sincere attachment to Colonel Stubbs. You must tell him that I'm engaged to Colonel Stubbs. You will tell him, Aunt Emilyne. Oh, yes, if it must be so. It must, said Ayala. Then you may give him my love and tell him that I'm very unhappy that I should have been in trouble to him, and that I hope he will soon be well and come back from his travels. By this time Aunt Emilyne was dissolved in tears. I could not help it, Aunt Emilyne, could I? Her aunt had once terribly outraged her feelings by telling her that she had encouraged Tom. Ayala remembered at this moment the cruel words in the wound which they had inflicted on her, but nevertheless she behaved tenderly and endeavored to be respectful and submissive. I could not help it, could I, Aunt Emilyne? I suppose not, my dear. After that Lady Tringle declared that she would return to London at once. No, she would rather not go into lunch. She would rather go back at once to the station if they would take her. She had been weeping and did not wish to show her tears. Therefore, at Ayala's request, the carriage came round again to the great disgust, no doubt of the coachman, and Lady Tringle was taken back to the station without having seen any of the Albury family. End of Chapter 56 It was not until Colonel Stubbs had been three or four days at Stullam basking in the sunshine of Ayala's love that any of the Stullam family heard of the great event which had occurred in the life of Ayala's third lover. During that walk to and from Gobblegoose Wood something had been said between the lovers as to Captain Batsby, something no doubt chiefly in joke. The idea of the poor Captain having fallen suddenly into so melancholy a condition was droll enough. But he never spoke to me, said Ayala. He doesn't speak very much to any one, said the Colonel, but he thinks a great deal about things. He's had ever so many affairs with ever so many ladies, who generally, I fancy, want to marry him because of his money. How he's escaped so long nobody knows. A man, when he has just engaged himself to be married, is as prone as ever to talk of other men escaping, feeling that though other young ladies were no better than evils to be avoided, his young lady is to be regarded as almost a solitary instance of a blessing. Then two days afterwards arrived the news of the trip to our stand. Sir Harry received a letter from a friend, in which an account was given of his half-brother's adventure. What do you think has happened, said Sir Harry, jumping up from his chair at the breakfast table? What has happened? asked his wife. Benjamin has run off to our stand with a young lady. Benjamin with a young lady, exclaimed Lady Aubrey. Ayala and Stubbs were equally astonished, each of them knowing that the captain had been excluded from Stullum because of the ardour of his unfortunate love for Ayala. Ayala, that is your doing. No, said Ayala, but I'm very glad of his happy. Who's the young lady, our Stubbs? It's that which makes it so very peculiar, said Sir Harry, looking at Ayala. He had learned something of the Tingle family and was aware of Ayala's connection with them. Who is it Harry? demanded her ladyship. Sir Thomas Tringles' younger daughter. Gertrude, exclaimed Ayala, who also knew of the engagement with Mr. Houston. But the worst of it is, continued Sir Harry, that he's not at all happy. The young lady has come back, while nobody knows what has become of Benjamin. Benjamin never will get a wife, said Lady Aubrey. Thus all the details of the little event became known at Stullum, except the immediate condition and whereabouts of the lover. Of the captain's condition and whereabouts something must be told. When the great disruption came, and he had been abused and ridiculed by Sir Thomas at Ostend, he felt that he could neither remain there, where the very waiters knew what had happened, nor could he return to Dover in the same vessel with Sir Thomas and his daughter. He therefore took the first train and went to Brussels. But Brussels did not offer him many allurements in his present frame of mind. He found nobody there whom he particularly knew, and nothing particular to do. Solitude in a continental town with no amusements beyond those offered by the Tarble Dote and the theatre is oppressing. His time he endeavoured to occupy with thinking of the last promise he had made to Gertrude. Should he break it, or should he keep it? Sir Thomas Stringle was, no doubt, a very rich man. And then there was the fact which would become known to all the world that he had run off with the young lady. Should he ultimately succeed in marrying the young lady, the enterprise would bear less of an appearance of failure than it would do otherwise. But then should the money not be forthcoming, the consolation coming from the possession of Gertrude herself would hardly suffice to make him a happy man. Sir Thomas, when he came to consider the matter, would certainly feel that his daughter had compromised herself by the journey, and that it would be good for her to be married to the man who had taken her. It might be that Sir Thomas would yield and consent to make at any rate some compromise. A rumour had reached his ears that traffic had received two hundred thousand pounds with the elder daughter. He would consent to take half that sum. After a week spent amid the charms of Brussels, he returned to London without any public declaration of his doing so, sneaked back as a friend of his said of him at the club, and then went to work to carry out his purpose as best he might. All that was known of it at Stalem was that he had returned to his lodgings in London. On Friday the eleventh of April, when Ayala was a promised bride of nearly two weeks standing, and all the uncles and aunts were aware that her lot in life had been fixed for her, Sir Thomas was alone in the back room in Lombard Street, with his mind sorely diverted from the only joy of his life. The whole family were now in town, and Septimus' traffic with his wife was actually occupying a room in Queen's Gate. How it had come to pass Sir Thomas hardly knew. Some word had been extracted from him signifying a compliance with a request that Augusta might come to the house for a night or two, until a fitting resident should be prepared for her. Something had been said of Lord Bordetrae's house being vacated for her and her husband early in April. An occurrence to which married ladies' liable was about to take place with Augusta, and Sir Thomas certainly understood that the occurrence was to be expected under the roof of the coming infant's noble grandfather. Something as to ancestral halls had been thrown out in the chance way of conversation. Then he certainly had assented to some minimum of London hospitality for his daughter, as certainly not including the presence of his son-in-law. And now both of them were domiciled in the big front spare bedroom at Queen's Gate. This perplexed him sorely. And then Tom had been brought up from the country still as an invalid, his mother moaning and groaning over him as though he was sick almost past hope of recovery. And yet the nineteenth of the month, now only eight days' distance, was still fixed for his departure. Tom, on the return of his mother from Stullam, had to a certain extent accepted as irrevocable the fact of which he bore the tidings. Ayala was engaged to stubs, and would doubtless with very little delay become Mrs. Jonathan's stubs. I knew it, he said. I knew it. Nothing could have prevented it unless I had shot him through the heart. He told me that she had refused him, but no man could have looked like that after being refused by Ayala. Then he never expressed a hope again. It was all over for him as regarded Ayala. But he still refused to be well, or even for a day or two, to leave his bed. He had allowed his mother to understand that if the fact of her engagement were indubitably brought home to him he would gird up his loins for his journey and proceed at once wherever it might be thought would to send him. His father had sternly reminded him of his promise, but when so reminded Tom had turned himself in his bed and uttered groans instead of replies. Now he had been brought up to London and was no longer actually in bed, but even yet he had not signified his intention of girding up his loins and proceeding upon his journey. Nevertheless the preparations were going on and under Sir Thomas's directions the portmantos were already being packed. Gertrude also was a source of discomfort to her father. She considered herself to have been deprived of her two lovers one after the other in a spirit of cruel passimony. And with this heavy weight upon her breast she refused to take any part in the family conversations. Everything had been done for Augusta and everything was to be done for Tom. For her nothing had been done and nothing had been promised, and she was therefore very sulky. With these troubles all around him Sir Thomas was sitting oppressed and disheartened in Lombard Street on Friday the 11th of April. Then there entered to him one of the junior clerks with a card announcing the name of Captain Batsby. He looked at it for some seconds before he gave any notification of his intention and then desired the young man to tell the gentleman that he would not see him. The message had been delivered and Captain Batsby, with a frown of anger on his brow, was about to shake the dust off from his feet on the uncurtious threshold when there came another message, saying that Captain Batsby could go in and see Sir Thomas if he wished it. Upon this he turned around and was shown into the little sitting-room. Well, Captain Batsby, said Sir Thomas, what can I do for you now? I'm glad to see that you've come back safely from foreign parts. I have called, said the Captain, to say something about your daughter. What more can you have to say about her? At this the Captain was considerably puzzled. Of course Sir Thomas must know what he had to say. The way in which we were separated at Dostend was very distressing to my feelings, I dare say. And also I should think to Miss Stringles. Not him probably. I have always observed that when people are interrupted in the performance of some egregious stupidity their feelings are hurt. As I said before, what can I do for you now? I am very anxious to complete the alliance which I have done myself the honor to propose to you. I did not know that you'd proposed anything. You came down to my house under a false pretence, and then you persuaded my daughter, or else she persuaded you, to go off together to Ostend. Is that what you call an alliance? That, as far as it went, was an allopment. Am I to understand that you now want to arrange another allopment, and that you have come to ask my consent? Oh, dear no! Then what do you mean by completing an alliance? I want to make, said the Captain, an offer for the young lady's hand in a proper form. I consider myself to be in a position which justifies me in doing so. I am possessed of the young lady's affections, and have means of my own equal to those which I presume you will be disposed to give her. Very much better means, I hope, Captain Batsby, otherwise I do not see what you and your wife would have to live upon. I will tell you exactly what my feelings are in this matter. My daughter has gone off with you, forgetting all the duty that you owed to me and to her mother, and throwing aside all ideas of propriety. After that I will not say that you shall not marry her if both of you think fit. I do not doubt your means, and I have no reason for supposing that you would be cruel to her. You are two fools, but after all fools must live in the world. What I do say is that I will not give a sixpence toward supporting you in your folly. Now, Captain Batsby, you can complete the alliance or not as you please. Captain Batsby had been called a fool also at our stand, and there, amidst the distressing circumstances of his position, had been constrained to bear the appropriate name little customary as it was for one gentleman to allow himself to be called a fool by another. But now he had collected his thoughts and had reminded himself of his position in the world, and had told himself that it did not become him to be too humble before this city-man of business. It might have been all very well at our stand, but he was not going to be called a fool in London without resenting it. Sir Thomas said he, fool and folly at terms which I cannot allow you to use to me. If you do not present yourself to me here, Captain Batsby, or at my own house, or perhaps I may say at our stand, I will use no such terms to you. I suppose you will acknowledge that I am entitled to ask for your daughter's hand. I suppose you will acknowledge that when a man runs away with my daughter, I am entitled to express my opinion of his conduct. That is all over now, Sir Thomas, what I did, I did for love. There is no good in crying over spilt milk. The question is as to the future happiness of the young lady. That is the only wise word I have heard you say, Captain Batsby. There is no good in crying after spilt milk. Our journey to our stand is done and gone. It was not very agreeable, but we have lived through it. I quite think that you show a good judgment in not intending to go there again in quest of a clergyman. If you want to be married, there are plenty of them in London. I will not oppose your marriage, but I will not give you a shilling. No man ever had a better opportunity of showing the disinterestedness of his affection. Now, good morning. But Sir Thomas! Captain Batsby, my time is precious. I have told you all that there is to tell. Then he stood up, and the captain with a stern demeanor and angry brow left the room and took himself in silence away from Lombard Street. Do you want to marry Captain Batsby? Sir Thomas said to his daughter that evening, having invited her to come apart with him after dinner. Yes, I do. You think that you prefer him on the whole to Mr. Huston? Mr. Huston is a scoundrel. I wish that you would not talk about him, Papa. I like him so much the best of the two, said Sir Thomas, but, of course, it is for you to judge. I could have brought myself to give something to Huston. Luckily, however, Captain Batsby has got an income of his own. He has, Papa. Are you sure that you would like to take him as your husband? Yes, Papa. Very well. He's been with me to-day. Is he in London? I tell you that he has been with me to-day in Lombard Street. What did he say? Did he say anything about me? Yes, my dear. He came to ask me for your hand. Well, Papa, I told him that I should make no objection, that I should leave it altogether to you. I only interfered with one small detail, as to my own wishes. I assured him that I should never give him or you a single shilling. I don't suppose it will matter much to him, as he has, you know, means of his own. It was thus that Sir Thomas punished his daughter for her misconduct. Captain Batsby and the Traffics were acquainted with each other. The Member of Parliament had, of course, heard of the journey to Osten from his wife, and had been instigated by her to express an opinion that the young people ought to be married. It's such a very serious thing, said Augusta to her husband, to be four hours on the sea together, and then, you know. Mr. Traffick acknowledged that it was serious, and was reminded by his wife that he, in the capacity of brother, was bound to interfere on his sister's behalf. Papa, you know, understands nothing about these kinds of things. You, with your family interest in your seat in Parliament, ought to be able to arrange it. Mr. Traffick probably knew how far his family interest in his seat in Parliament would avail. They had, at any rate, got him a wife with a large fortune. They were promising for him still further certain domiciliary advantages. He doubted whether he could do much for Batsby, but still he promised to try. If he could arrange these matters, it might be that he would carry fresh favour with Sir Thomas by doing so. He therefore made it his business to encounter Captain Batsby on the Sunday afternoon at a club to which they both belonged. So you have come back from your little trip, said the Member of Parliament. The Captain was not unwilling to discuss the question of their family relations with Mr. Traffick. If anybody would have influence with Sir Thomas, it might probably be Mr. Traffick. Yes, I have come back. Without your bride. Without my bride as yet. That is a kind of undertaking, and which a man is apt to run many dangers before he can carry it through. I daresay I never did anything of the kind myself. Of course you know that I am the young lady's brother-in-law. Oh, yes. And therefore you won't mind me speaking. Don't you think you ought to do something further? Something further, by George, I should think so, said the Captain exultingly. I mean to do a great many things further. You don't suppose I'm going to give it up? You oughtn't, you know. When a man has taken a girl off with him in that way, he should go on with it. It's a due serious thing, you know. It was his fault in coming after us. That was a matter of course. If he hadn't done it, I must. I have made the family my own, and of course must look after its honour. The noble scion of the House of Traffick, as he said this, showed by his countenance that he perfectly understood the duty which circumstances had imposed upon him. He made himself very rough, you know, said the Captain. I daresay he would, and said things, well, things which he ought not to have said. In such a case as that a father may say pretty nearly what comes uppermost. That was just it. He did say what came uppermost, and very rough it was. What does it matter? Not much, if he'd do as he ought to do now, as you are her brother-in-law. I'll tell you just how it stands. I've been to him and made a regular proposal. Since you've been back? Yes, the day before yesterday, and what you think he says. What does he say? He gives his consent only—only what? He won't give her a shilling. Such an idea, you know, as though she were to be punished after marriage for running away with the man she did marry. Take your chance, Batsby, said the Member of Parliament. What chance? Take your chance at the money. I'd have done it only, of course, it was different with me. He was glad to catch me, and therefore the money was settled. I've got a tidy income of my own, you know, said the Captain, thinking that he was entitled to be made more welcome as a son-in-law than the younger son of a peer who had no income. Take your chance, continued traffic. What on earth can a man like Tringle do with his money except give it to his children? He's rough, as you say, but he's not hard-hearted, nor yet stubborn. I can do pretty nearly what I like with him. Can you, though? Yes, by smoothing him down the right way. You run your chance, and we'll get it all put right for you. The Captain hesitated, rubbing his head carefully to encourage the thoughts which were springing up within his bosom. The honourable Mr. Traffic might perhaps succeed in getting the affair put right, as he called it, in the interest rather of the elder than of the second daughter. I don't see how you can hesitate now as you've been off with the girl, said Mr. Traffic. I don't know about that. I should like to see the money settled. There would have been nothing settled if you'd married her at Ostend. But I didn't, said the Captain. I tell you what you might do. You might talk him over and make him a little more reasonable. I should be ready to borrow if he'd come forward. What's the sum you want? The same as yours, I suppose. That's out of the questions, said Mr. Traffic shaking his head. Suppose we say sixty thousand pounds. Then after some shuffling on the subject it was decided between them that Mr. Traffic should use his powerful influence with his father-in-law to give his daughter on her marriage, say a hundred thousand pounds if it were possible, or sixty thousand pounds at the least. End of Chapter Fifty-Seven Mr. Traffic entertained some grand ideas as to the house of Travers and Treason. Why should not he become a member and ultimately the leading member of that firm? Sir Thomas was not a young man though he was strong and hearty. Tom had hitherto succeeded only in making an ass of himself. As far as transacting the affairs of the firm, Tom, so thought Mr. Traffic, was altogether out of the question. He might perish in those extensive travels which he was about to take. Mr. Traffic did not desire any such catastrophe, but the young man might perish. There was a great opening. Mr. Traffic, with his thorough knowledge of business, could not but see that there was a great opening. Besides Tom, there were but two daughters, one of whom was his own wife, Augusta. His wife was, he thought, certainly the favorite at the present moment. Sir Thomas could indeed say rough things even to her, but then Sir Thomas was of his nature rough. Now, at this time, the rough things said to Gertrude were very much the rougher. In all these circumstances, the wisdom of interfering in Gertrude's little affairs was very clear to Mr. Traffic. Gertrude would, of course, get a self-married sooner or later, and almost any other husband would obtain a larger portion than that which would satisfy Batsby. Sir Thomas was now constantly saying good things about Mr. Huston. Mr. Huston would be much more objectionable than Captain Batsby, much more likely to interfere. He would require more money at once, and might possibly come forward himself in the guise of a partner. Mr. Traffic saw his way clearly. It was incumbent upon him to see that Gertrude should become Mrs. Batsby with as little delay as possible. But one thing he did not see. One thing he had failed to see since his first introduction to the Tringle family. He had not seen the peculiar nature of his father-in-law's foibles. He did not understand either the weakness or the strength of Sir Thomas, either the softness or the hardness. Mr. Traffic himself was blessed with a very hard skin. In the carrying out of a purpose there was nothing which his skin was not sufficiently serviceable to endure. But Sir Thomas, rough as he was, had but a thin skin, a thin skin and a soft heart. Had Huston and Gertrude persevered he would certainly have given way. For Tom, in his misfortune, he would have made any sacrifice. Though he had given the broadest hints which he had been able to devise, he had never as yet brought himself absolutely to turn traffic out of his house. When Ayala was sent away he still kept her name in his will and added also that of Lucy as soon as Lucy had been entrusted to him. Had things gone a little more smoothly between him and Hamill when they met, had he not unluckily advised that all the sculptor's grand design should be sold by auction for what they would fetch he would have put Hamill and Lucy upon their legs. He was a soft-hearted man, but there never was one less willing to endure interference in his own affairs. At the present moment he was very sore as to the presence of traffic in Queensgate. The Easter parliamentary holidays were just at hand and there was no sign of any going. Augusta had whispered to her mother that the pokey little house in Mayfair would be very uncomfortable for the coming event, and Lady Tringle, though she had not dared to saven as much as that in plain terms to her husband, had endeavoured to introduce the subject by little hints which Sir Thomas had clearly understood. He was hardly the man to turn a daughter and an expected grandchild into the streets, but he was in his present mood a father-in-law who would not unwillingly have learned that his son-in-law was without a shelter except that afforded by the House of Commons. Why on earth should he have given up one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, six thousand pounds a year as it was under his fostering care, to a man who could not even keep a house over his wife's head? This was the humour of Sir Thomas when Mr. Traffic undertook to prevail with him to give an adequate fortune to his youngest daughter on her marriage with Captain Batsby. The conversation between Traffic and Batsby took place on a Sunday. On the following day the Captain went down to the house and saw the member. No, I have not spoken to him yet. I was with him on Friday, you know, said Batsby. I can't well go and call on the ladies in Queen's Gate until I hear he has changed his mind. I should. I don't see what difference it would make. Then Captain Batsby was again very thoughtful. It would make a difference, you know, if I were to say a word to Gertrude now as to being married or anything of that kind. It would seem that I meant to go on whether I got anything or not. And you should seem to want to go on, said Traffic, with all that authority which the very surroundings of the House of Commons always give to the words and gait of a member. But then I might find myself dropped in a hole at last. My dear Batsby, you made that hole for yourself when you ran off with the young lady. We settled all that before. Not quite. What we did settle was that we'd do our best to fill the hole up. Of course you ought to go and see them. You went off with the young lady, and since that have been accepted as a suitor by her father, you're bound to go and see her. Do you think so? Certainly, certainly. It never does to talk to Tringle about business at his own house. I'll make an hour to see him in the city to-morrow. I'm so pressed by business that I can hardly get away from the house after twelve, but I'll do it. But while I'm in Lombard Street, do you go to Queensgate?" The captain, after further consideration, said that he would go to Queensgate. At three o'clock on the next day he did go to Queensgate. He had many misgivings feeling that by such a step he would be committing himself to matrimony with or without the money. No doubt he could so offer himself even to Lady Tringle as a son-in-law, that it should be supposed that the offer would depend upon the father-in-law's goodwill. But then the father-in-law had told him that he would be welcomed to the young lady without a farthing. Should he go on with his matrimonial purpose, towards which this visit would be an important step, he did not see the moment in which he could stop the proceedings by demand for money. Nevertheless he went, not being strong enough to oppose Mr. Traffic. Yes, the ladies were at home, and he found himself at once in Lady Tringle's presence. There was at the time no one with her, and the captain acknowledged to himself that a trying moment had come to him. "'Dear me, Captain Batsby,' said her ladyship, who had not seen him since he and Gertrude had gone off together. "'Yes, Lady Tringle, as I have come back from abroad I thought that I might as well come and call. I did see Sir Thomas in the city.' "'Was that not a very foolish thing you did?' "'Perhaps it was, Lady Tringle. Perhaps it would have been better to ask permission to address your daughter in the regular course of things. There was perhaps a little romance in going off in that way. "'It gave Sir Thomas a deal of trouble.' "'Well, yes, he was so quick upon us, you know. Might I be allowed to see Gertrude now?' "'Upon my word I hardly know,' said Lady Tringle, hesitating. "'I did see Sir Thomas in the city. But did he say you were at a common call?' He gave his consent to the marriage. "'But I'm afraid there was to be no money,' whispered Lady Tringle. "'If money is no matter, I suppose you may see her.' But before the captain had resolved how he might best answer this difficult suggestion, the door opened, and the young lady herself entered the room, together with her sister. "'Benjamin,' said Gertrude, "'is this really you?' and then she flew into his arms. "'My dear,' said Augusta, "'do control your emotions.' "'Yes, indeed, Gertrude,' said the mother, "'as the things are at present, you should control yourself. Nobody is yet knows what may come of it.' "'Oh, Benjamin!' again exclaimed Gertrude, tearing herself from his arms, throwing herself on the sofa, and covering her face with both her hands. "'Oh, Benjamin, so you have come at last!' "'I am afraid he has come too soon,' said Augusta, who, however, had received her lesson from her husband, and had communicated some portion of her husband's tidings to her sister. "'Why, too soon,' exclaimed Gertrude, "'it can never be too soon. Oh, Mama, tell him that you make him welcome to your bosom as your second son-in-law.' "'Upon my word, my dear, I do not know without consulting your father.' "'But Papa has consented,' said Gertrude. "'But only if—' "'Oh, Mama,' said Mrs. Traffic, "'do not talk about matters of business on such an occasion as this. All that must be managed between the gentlemen. If he is here as Gertrude's acknowledged lover, and if Papa has told him that he shall be accepted as such, I don't think that we ought to say a word about money. I do hate money. It does make things so disagreeable.' "'Nobody can be more noble in everything of that kind than Benjamin,' said Gertrude. "'It is only because he loves me with all his heart that he is here. Why else was it that he took me off to our stand?' Captain Batsby, as he listened to all this, felt that he ought to say something. And yet how dangerous might a word be! It was apparent to him, even in his perturbation, that the ladies were in fact asking him to renew his offer, and to declare that he renewed it altogether independently of any money consideration. He could not bring himself quite to agree with that noble sentiment in expressing which Mrs. Traffic had declared her hatred of money. In becoming the son-in-law of a millionaire, he would receive the honest congratulations of all his friends on condition that he received some comfortable fraction out of the millions. But he knew well that he would subject himself to their ridicule, were he to take the girl and lose the plunder. If he were to answer them now, as they would have him answer, he would commit himself to the girl without any bargain as to the plunder. And yet what else was there for him to do? He must be a brave man who can stand up before a girl and declare that he will love her for ever, on condition that she shall have so many thousand pounds. That he must be more than brave, he will be heroic, who can do so in the presence not only of the girl, but of the girl's mother and married sister as well. Captain Batsby was no such hero. Of course, he said at last. Of course, what? asked Augusta. It was because I loved her. I knew that he loved me, subbed Gertrude. And you are here because you intend to make her your wife in presence of all men? asked Augusta. Oh, certainly. Then I suppose that it will be all right, said Lady Tringle. It will be all right, said Augusta. And now, Mama, I think that we may leave them alone together. But to this Lady Tringle would not give her assent. She had not had confided to her the depth of Mr. Traffic's wisdom, and declared herself opposed to any absolute overt love-making, until Sir Thomas should have given his positive consent. It is all the same thing, Benjamin, is it not, said Augusta, assuming already the familiarity of a sister-in-law. Oh, quite, said the Captain. But Gertrude looked as though she did not think it to be exactly the same. Such deficiency is that, however, she had to endure, and she received from her sister, after the Captain's departure, full congratulations as to her lover's return. To tell you the truth, said Augusta, I didn't think that you would ever see him again. After what Papa said to him in the city, he might have got off, and nobody could have said a word to him. Now he's fixed. Captain Batsby affected his escape as quickly as he could, and went home a melancholy man. He, too, was aware that he was fixed, and, as he thought of this, a dreadful idea fell upon him that the honourable Mr. Traffic had perhaps played him false. In the meantime Mr. Traffic was true to his word and went into the city. In the early days of his married life, his journeys to Lombard Street were frequent. The management and investing of his wife's money had been to him a matter of much interest, and he had felt a gratification in discussing any money matter with the man who handled millions. In this way he had become intimate with the ways of the house, though latterly his presence there had not been encouraged. I suppose I can go into Sir Thomas, he said, laying his hand upon a leaf in the counter, which he had been accustomed to raise for the purpose of his own entrance. But here he was stopped. His name should be taken in, and Sir Thomas duly apprised. In the meantime he was relegated to a dingy little waiting-room, which was odious to him, and there he was kept waiting for half an hour. This made him angry, and he called to one of the clerks. Will you tell Sir Thomas that I must be done at the house almost immediately, and that I am particularly anxious to see him on business of importance? For another ten minutes he was still kept, and then he was shown into his father-in-law's presence. I'm very sorry, Traffic, said Sir Thomas, but I rarely can't turn to directors of the Bank of England out of my room, even for you. I only thought I would just let you know that I'm in a hurry. So am I, for the matter of that. Have you gone to your father's house today, so that you would not be able to see me in Queensgate? This was intended to be very severe, but Mr. Traffic bore it. It was one of those rough things which Sir Thomas was in the habit of saying, but which really meant nothing. No, my father is still at his house as yet, though they are thinking of going every day. It's about another matter, and I did not want to trouble you with it at home. Let's hear what it is. Captain Batsby has been with me. Oh, he has, has he. I've known him ever so long. He's a foolish fellow. So he seems. But a gentleman. Perhaps I'm not so good a judge of that. His folly I did perceive. Oh, yes, here's a gentleman. You may take my word for that. And he has means. That's an advantage. While that fellow Houston is hardly more than a beggar, and Batsby is quite an earnest about Gertrude. If the two of them wish it, he can have her tomorrow. She's made herself conspicuous ass by running away with him, and perhaps it's the best thing she can do. That's just it. Augusta sees it in quite the same light. Augusta was never tempted. You wouldn't have run away. It wasn't necessary, Sir Thomas, was it? There he is, ready to marry her to-morrow. But, of course, he is a little anxious about the money. I daresay he is. I've been talking to him, and the upshot is that I have promised to speak to you. He isn't at all a bad fellow. He'd keep a house over his wife's head, you think? Sir Thomas had been particularly irate that morning, and before the arrival of his son-in-law had sworn to himself that traffic should go. Augusta might remain if she pleased for the occurrence, but the honourable Septimus should no longer eat and drink as an inhabitant of his house. He'd do his duty by her, as a man should do, said traffic, determined to ignore the disagreeable subject. Very well, there she is. But, of course, he would like to hear something about money. Would he? That's only natural. You found it so, did you not? What's the good of giving a girl money when her husband won't spend it? Perhaps this Captain Batsby would expect to live at Queen's Gate or Merle Park. It was impossible to go on enduring this without notice. Mr. Traffic, however, only frowned and shook his head. It was clear at last that Sir Thomas intended to be more than rough, and it was almost imperative upon Mr. Traffic to be rough in return. I am endeavouring to do my duty by the family, he said. Oh, indeed! Gertrude has eloped with this man, and the thing is talked about everywhere. Augusta feels it very much. She does, does she? And I have thought it right to ask his intentions. He didn't knock you down or anything of that sort? Knock me down? For interfering, but he hasn't plucked for that. Houston would have done it immediately, and I should have said he was right. But if you have got anything to say, you'd better say it. When you've done, then I shall have something to say. I've told him that he couldn't expect as much as you would have given her, but for this running away. You told him that. Yes, I told him that. Then some some had to be mentioned. He suggested a hundred thousand pounds. How very modest! Why should he have put up with less than you seeing that he has got something of his own? He hasn't my position, sir. You know that well enough. Now, to make a long and short of it, I suggested sixty. Out of your own pocket? Not exactly. But out of mine. You're her father, and I suppose you intend to provide for her. And you have come here to dictate to me the provision which I am to make for my own child. That is an amount of impudence which I did not expect even from you. But suppose that I agree to the terms. Will he, do you think, consent to have a clause put into the settlement? What clause? Something that you'll bind him to keep a house for his own wife's use, so that he shall not take my money and then come and live upon me afterwards. Sir Thomas, said the Member of Parliament, that is a mode of expression so uncourteous that I cannot bear it even from you. Is there any mode of expression that you cannot bear? If you want me to leave your house, say it at once. Why, I have been saying it for the last six months. I have been saying it almost daily, since you were married. If so, you should have spoken more clearly, for I have not understood you. Heavens and earth, ejaculated Sir Thomas. Am I to understand that you wish your child to leave your roof during this inclement weather in her present delicate condition? Are you in a delicate condition? asked Sir Thomas. To this Mr. Traffic could condescend to make no reply. Because, if not, you at any rate had better go, unless you find the weather to inclement. Of course I shall go, said Mr. Traffic. No consideration on earth shall induce me to eat another meal under your roof, until you have thought good to have expressed regret for what you have said. Then it is very long before I shall have to give you another meal. And now what shall I say to Captain Batsby? Tell him from me, said Sir Thomas, that he cannot possibly set about his work more injudiciously than by making you his ambassador. Then Mr. Traffic took his departure. It may be as well to state here that Mr. Traffic kept his threat religiously, at any rate to the end of the session. He did not eat another meal during that period under his father-in-law's roof, but he slept there for the next two or three days until he had suited himself with lodgings in the neighbourhood of the house. In doing this, however, he contrived to get in and out without encountering Sir Thomas. His wife, in her delicate condition, and because of the inclemancy of the weather, awaited the occurrence at Queen's Gate. End of Chapter 58 The writer, in giving a correct chronicle of the doings of the Tringle family at this time, has to acknowledge that Gertrude, during the prolonged absence of Captain Batsby at Brussels, an absence that was cruelly prolonged for more than a week, did make another little effort in another direction. Her father, in his rough way, had expressed an opinion that she had changed very much for the worse in transferring her affections from Mr. Houston to Captain Batsby, and had almost gone so far as to declare that had she been persistent with her Houston, the money difficulty might have been overcome. This was imprudent, unless indeed he was desirous of bringing back Mr. Houston into the bosom of the Tringles. It instigated Gertrude to another attempt, which, however, she did not make until Captain Batsby had been away from her for at least four days without writing a letter. Then it occurred to her that if she had a preference it certainly was for Frank Houston. No doubt the general desirability of marriage was her chief actuating motive. Will the world of British young ladies be much scandalised if I say that such is often an actuating motive? They would be justly scandalised if I pretended that many of its members were capable of the speedy transitions which Miss Tringle was strong enough to endure. But transitions do take place, and I claim, on behalf of my young lady, that she should be regarded as more strong-minded and more determined than the general crowd of young ladies. She had thought herself to be off with the old love before she was on with the new. Then the new had gone away to Brussels, or heaven only knows where, and there seemed to be an opportunity of renewing matters with the old. Having perceived the desirability of matrimony, she simply carried out her purpose with a determined will. It was with a determined will, but perhaps with deficient judgment that she had written as follows. Papa has altered his mind altogether. He speaks of you in the highest terms, and says that had you persevered he would have yielded about the money. Do try him again. When hearts have been united it is terrible that they should be dragged asunder. Mr. Traffic had been quite right in telling his father-in-law that the thing had been talked about everywhere. The thing talked about had been Gertrude's elopement. The daughter of a baronet and a millionaire cannot go off the half-brother of another baronet and escape that penalty. The journey to Ostend was in everybody's mouth and had surprised Frank Huston the more because of the recent termination of his own little affair with the lady. That he should already have reaccommodated himself with image and was intelligible to him and seemed to admit of a valid excuse before any jury of matrons. It was an old affair, and the love, real true love, was already existing. He, at any rate, was going back to the better course, as the jury of matrons would have admitted. But Gertrude's new affair had had to be arranged from the beginning and shocked him by its celerity. Already, he had said to himself, gone off with another man already. He felt himself to have been wounded in a tender part and was conscious of a feeling that he should like to injure the successful lover, blackball him at a club or do him some other mortal mischief. When, therefore, he received from the young lady the little billet given above, he was much surprised. Could it be a hoax? It was certainly the young lady's handwriting. Was he to be enticed once again into Lombard Street in order that the clerks might sit upon him in a body and maltreat him? Was he to be decoyed into Queensgate and made a sacrifice of by the united force of the housemaids? Not understanding the celerity of the young lady, he could hardly believe the billet. When he received the note of which we have here spoken, two months had elapsed since he had seen Imogen and had declared to her his intention of facing the difficulties of matrimony in conjunction with herself as soon as she would be ready to undergo the ceremony with him. The reader will remember that her brother, Mudbury Dosimer, had written to him with great severity abusing both him and Imogen for the folly of their intention, and Houston, as he thought of their intention, thought to himself that perhaps they were foolish. The poverty and the cradles and the cabbages were in themselves evils. But still he encouraged himself to think that there might be an evil worse even than folly. After that scene with Imogen, in which she had offered to sacrifice herself altogether, and to be bound to him, even though they should never be married, on condition that he should take to himself no other wife, he had quite resolved that it behooved him not to be exceeded by her in generosity. He had startily repudiated her offer, which he had called a damnable compact. And then there had been a delightful scene between them, in which it had been agreed that they should face the cradles and the cabbages with bold faces. Since that he had never allowed himself to fluctuate in his purpose. Had Sir Thomas come to him with Gertrude in one hand, and the much desired a hundred and twenty thousand pounds in the other, he would have repudiated the lot of them. He declared to himself with stern resolution that he had altogether washed his hands from dirt of that kind. Cabbages and cradles forever was the unpronounced cry of triumph with which he buoyed up his courage. He set himself to work earnestly, if not altogether steadfastly, to alter the whole tenor of his life. The champagne and the woodcocks, or whatever might be the special delicacies of the season, he did avoid. For some few days he absolutely dined upon a cut of mutton at an eating-house, and as he came forth from the unsavory doors of the establishment, regarded himself as a hero. Cabbages and cradles forever, he would say to himself, as he went away to drink a cup of tea with an old maiden aunt, who was no less surprised than gratified by his new virtue. Therefore, when it had at last absolutely come home to him that the last little note had in truth been written by Gertrude, with no object of revenge, but with the intention of once more alluring him into the wealth of Lombard Street, he simply put it into his breastcoat pocket, and left it there unanswered. Mudbidossama did not satisfy himself with writing the very uncurtious letter which the reader has seen, but proceeded to do his utmost to prevent the threatened marriage. She is old enough to look after herself, he had said, as though all her future actions must be governed by her own will. But within ten days of the writing of that letter he had found it expedient to go down into the country and to take his sister with him. As the head of the Dossama family he possessed a small country house almost in the extremity of Cornwall, and thither he went. It was a fraternal effort made altogether on his sister's behalf, and was so far successful that Imogen was obliged to accompany him. It was all very well for her to feel that as she was of age she could do as she pleased, but a young lady is constrained by the exigencies of society to live with somebody. She cannot take a lodging by herself as her brother may do. Therefore, when Mudbidossama went down to Cornwall, Imogen was obliged to accompany him. Is this intended for banishment, she said to him, when there had been about a week in the country? What do you call banishment you used to like the country in the spring? It was now the middle of April. So I do, and in some are also, but I like nothing under constraint. I am sorry that circumstances should make it imperative upon me to remain here just at present. Why can't you tell the truth, Mudbury? Have I told you any falsehood? Why do you not say outright that I have been brought down here to be out of Frank Houston's way? Because Frank Houston is a name which I do not wish to mention to you again at any rate for some time. What would you do if he were to show himself here?" she asked. Tell him at once that he was not welcome. In other words, I would not have him here. It is very improbable. I should think that he would come without a direct invitation from me. That invitation he will never have until I feel satisfied that you and he have changed your mind again, and that you mean to stick to it. I do not think that we shall do that. Then he shall not come down here, nor as far as I am able to arrange it shall you go up to London. Then I am a prisoner. You may put it as you please," said her brother. I have no power of detaining you. Whatever influence I have I think it right to use. I am altogether opposed to this marriage, believing it to be an absurd infatuation. I think that he is of the same opinion. No, said she indignantly. That, I believe, to be his feeling he continued taking no notice of her assertion. He is as perfectly aware as I am that you two are not adapted to live happily together on an income of a few hundreds a year. Some time ago it was agreed between you that it was so. You both were quite of one mind, and I was given to understand that the engagement was at an end. It was so much at an end that he made an arrangement for marrying another woman. But your feelings are stronger than his, and you allowed them to get the better of you. Then you enticed him back from the purpose on which you had both decided. Enticed, said she, I did nothing of the kind. Would he have changed his mind if you had not enticed him? I did nothing of the kind I offered to remain just as we are. That is all very well. Of course he could not accept such an offer. Thinking as I do, it is my duty to keep you apart as long as I can. If you can drive to marry him in opposition to my efforts, the misery of both of you must be on your head. I tell you fairly that I do not believe he wishes anything of the kind. I am quite sure he does, said Imogen. Very well. Do you leave him alone, stay down here, and see what will come of it? I quite agree that such a banishment, as you call it, is not a happy prospect for you. But it is happier than that of a marriage with Frank Houston. Give that up, and then you can go back to London and begin the world again. Begin the world again. She knew what that meant. She was to throw herself into the market and look for such other husband as Providence might send her. She had tried that before, and had convinced herself that Providence could never send her any that could be acceptable. The one man had taken possession of her, and there never could be a second. She had not known her own strength or her own weakness as the case might be, when she had agreed to surrender the man she loved because there had been an alteration in their prospects of an income. She had struggled with herself, had attempted to amuse herself with the world, had told herself that somebody would come who would banish that image from her thoughts and heart. She had bad herself to submit to the separation for his welfare. Then she had endeavoured to quiet herself by declaring to herself that the man was no hero, was unworthy of so much thinking. But it had all been of no avail. Gertrude Tringle had been a festering sore to her. Frank, whether a hero or only a commonplace man, was, as she owned to herself, hero enough for her. Then came the opening for a renewal of the engagement. Frank had been candid with her, and had told her everything. The Tringle money would not be forthcoming on his behalf. Then, not resolving to entice him back again, she had done so. The word was odious to her, and was rejected with disdain when used against her by her brother, but when alone she acknowledged to herself that it was true, she had enticed her lover back again to his great detriment. Yes, she certainly had enticed him back. She certainly was about to sacrifice him because of her love. If I could only die and there be an end of it, she exclaimed to herself. Though Trigothnan Hall, as the Dossamers' house was called, was not open to Frank Houston, there was the post running always. He had written to her half a dozen times since she had been in Cornwall, and had always spoken of their engagement as an affair at last irrevocably fixed. She, too, had written little notes, tender and loving, but still tinged by that tone of despondency which had become common to her. As for naming a day, she said once, suppose we fix the first of January ten years hence. Mudbury's opposition will be worn out by old age, and you will have become thoroughly sick of the pleasures of London. But join to this, there would be a few jokes, and then some little word of warmest, most enduring, most trusting love. Don't believe me if I say that I am not happy in knowing that I am altogether your own. Then there would come a simple eye as a signature, and after that some further bandinage respecting her Cerberus, as she called her brother. But after that word, that odious word enticed, there went another letter up to London of altogether another nature. I have changed my mind again, she said, and have become aware that though I should die in doing it, though we should both die if it were possible, there would be an end of everything between you and me. Yes, Frank, there, I send you back your truth, and demand my own in return. After all, why should not one die, hang oneself if it be necessary? To be self-denying is all that is necessary, at any rate, to a woman. Hanging or lying down and dying, or lingering on and saying one's prayers and knitting stockings, is altogether immaterial. I have sometimes thought Mudbury to be brutal to me, but I have never known him to be untrue, or even as I believe mistaken. He sees clearly and knows what will happen. He tells me that I have enticed you back. I am not true as he is. So I threw him back the word in his teeth, though its truth at the moment was going like a dagger through my heart. I know myself to have been selfish, unfeeling, and feminine, when I induced you to surrender yourself to a mode of life which will make you miserable. I have sometimes been proud of myself because I have loved you so truly, but now I hate myself and despise myself because I have been incapable of the first effort which love should make. Love should, at any rate, be unselfish. He tells me that you will be miserable and the misery will be on my head, and I believe him. There shall be an end of it. I want no promise from you. There may, perhaps, be a time in which Imogen Dosama, as a sturdy old maid, shall be respected and serene of mind. As a wife who had enticed her husband to his misery, she would be respected neither by him nor by herself, and as for serenity it would be quite out of the question. I have been unfortunate, that is all, but not half so unfortunate as others that I see around me. Pray, pray, pray take this as final, and thus save me from renewed trouble and renewed agony. Now I am yours truly. Never again will I be affectionate to any one with true feminine love. Imogen Dosama. Huston, when he received the above letter, of course, had no alternative but to declare that he could not possibly be regarded as having any avail. And indeed he had heart enough in his bosom to be warmed to something like true heat, by such words as these. The cabbages and cradles ran up in his estimation. The small house at Pow, which in some of his more despondent moments had assumed an unqualified appearance of domestic discomfort, was now ornamented and occluded until it seemed to be a little paradise. The very cabbages blossomed into roses, and the little babies in the cradles produced a throb of paternal triumph in his heart. If she were woman enough to propose to herself such an agony of devotion, could he not be man enough to demand from her a devotion of a different kind? As to Mudbury Dosama's truth, he believed in it not at all, but was quite convinced of the man's brutality. Yes, she should hang herself, but it should be around his neck. The serenity should be displayed by her not as an aunt, but as a wife and mother. As for enticing, did he not now, just in this moment of his manly triumph, acknowledged to himself that she had enticed him to his happiness, to his glory, to his welfare? In this frame of mind he wrote his answer as follows. My dearest, you have no power of changing your mind again. There must be some limit to vacillations, and that has been reached. Something must be fixed at last. Something has been fixed at last, and I most certainly shall not consent to any further unfixing. What right has Mudbury to pretend to know my feelings? Or, for the matter of that, what right have you to accept his description of them? I tell you now that I place my entire happiness in the hope of making you my wife. I call upon you to ignore all the selfish declarations as to my own ideas which I have made in times past. The only right which you could now possibly have to separate yourself from me would come from your having ceased to love me. You do not pretend to say that such is the case, and therefore with considerable indignation, but still very civilly, I desire that Mudbury, with his hard-hearted counsels, may go to the dash. Enticed? Of course you've enticed me. I suppose that women do as a rule entice men either to their advantage or disadvantage. I will leave it to you to say whether you believe that such enticement, if it be allowed its full scope, will lead to one or the other as far as I am concerned. I never was so happy as when I felt that you had enticed me back to the hopes of former days. Now I am yours, as always, and most affectionately, Frank Houston. I shall expect the same word back from you by return of post scored under as eagerly as those futile praise. Imagine when she received this was greatly disturbed, not knowing how to carry herself in her great resolve, or whether indeed that resolve must not again be abandoned. She had determined, should her lover's answer be as she had certainly intended it to be when she wrote her letter, to go at once to her brother and to declare to him that the danger was at an end, and that he might return to London without any fear of relapse on her part. But she could not do so with such a reply, as that she now held in her pocket. If that reply could, in very truth, be true, then there must be another revulsion, another change of purpose, another yielding to absolute joy. If it could be the case that Frank Houston no longer feared the dangers that he had feared before, if he had in truth reconciled himself to a state of things which he had once described as simple poverty, if he rarely placed his happiness on the continuation of his love, then why should she make the sacrifice? Why should she place such implicit confidence in her brother's infallibility against error, seeing that by doing so she would certainly shipwreck her own happiness, and his too, if his words were to be trusted? He called upon her to write to him again by return of post. She was to write to him and unsay those prayers, and comfort him with the repetition of that dear word which she had declared that she would never use again with all its true meaning. That was his express order to her. Should she obey it, or should she not obey it? Should she vacillate again, or should she leave his last letter unanswered with stern objuracy? She acknowledged to herself that it was a dear letter deserving the best treatment at her hands, giving her love a credit probably for more true honesty than he deserved. What was the best treatment? Her brother had plainly shown his conviction that the best treatment would be to leave him without meddling with him any further. Her sister-in-law, although milder in her language, was she feared of the same opinion? Would it not be better for him not to be meddled with? Or not that be her judgment looking at the matter all round? She did not at any rate obey him at all points, for she left his letter in her pocket for three or four days, while she considered the matter backwards and forwards. It was a hard apprenticeship, and coming as it did rather late in life for such a beginning, and after much luxurious indulgence required some sympathy and consolation. There were Tom Shuttlecock and Lord John Battledore at the club. Lord John was the man as to whose expulsion, because of his contumatious language, so much has been said, but who lived through that and various other dangers. These had been his special friends, and to them he had confided everything in regard to the Tringle marriage. Shuttlecock had ridiculed the very idea of love, and had told him that everything else was to be thrown to the dogs in pursuit of a good income. Battledore had reminded him that there was a deuce-deal of cut-and-come-again and one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. They had been friends not always altogether after his own heart, but friends who had served his purpose when he was making his raid upon Lombard Street. But they were not men to whom he could descant on the wholesomeness of cabbages as an article of daily food, or who would sympathize with the struggling joys of an embryo father. To their thinking women were occasionally very convenient as being the depositories of some of the accruing wealth of the world. Frank had been quite worthy of their friendship as having spotted and nearly run down for himself a well-laden city heiress. But now Tom Shuttlecock and Lord John Battledore were distasteful to him, as would be he to them. But he found the confidential friend in his maiden aunt. Miss Houston was an old lady, older than her time as are some people, who lived alone in a small house in Green Street. She was particular in calling it Green Street High Park. She was very anxious to have it known that she never occupied it during the months of August, September and October, though it was often the case with her that she did not in truth expatriate herself for more than six weeks. She was careful to have a fashionable seat in a fashionable church. She dearly loved to see her name in the papers when she was happy enough to be invited to a house whose entertainments were chronicled. There were a thousand little tricks, I will not be harsh enough to call them unworthy, by which she served mammon. But she did not limit her service to the evil spirit, when in her place in church she sincerely said her prayers, when in London or out of it she gave a modicum of her slender income to the poor. And though she liked to see her name in the papers as one of the fashionable world, she was a great deal too proud of the blood of the Houston's to toady any one or to ask for any favour. She was a neat, clean, nice-looking old lady who understood that if economies were to be made in eating and drinking they should be affected at her own table and not at that of the servants who waited upon her. This was the confidential friend whom Frank trusted in his new career. It must be explained that Aunt Rosina, as Miss Houston was called, had been well acquainted with her nephew's earlier engagement and had approved of image in his future wife. Then had come the unexpected collapse in the uncle's affairs by which Aunt Rosina as well as others in the family had suffered, and Frank, much to his aunt's displeasure, had allowed himself to be separated from the lady of his love on account of his comparative poverty. She had heard of Gertrude Tringle and all her money, but from a high standing of birth and social belongings had despised all the Tringles and all their money. To her, as a maiden lady, truth in love was everything. To her, as a well-born lady, good blood was everything. Therefore, though there had been no quarrel between her and Frank, there had been a cessation of sympathetic interest, and he had been thrown into the hands of the battle-doors and shuttlecocks. Now again the old sympathies were revived, and Frank found it convenient to drink tea with his aunt when other engagements allowed it. I call that an infernal interference, he said to his aunt, showing her Imogen's letters. My dear Frank, you need not curse and swear, said the old lady. Infernal is not cursing, nor yet swearing. Then Miss Houston, having liberated her mind by her remonstrance, proceeded to read the letter. I call that abominable, said Frank, alluding, of course, to the illusions made in the letter to Mudbury Dosimer. It's a beautiful letter, just what I should have expected from Imogen. My dear, I will tell you what I propose. Remain as you are, both of you, for five years. Five years, that sheer nonsense. Five years, my dear, will run by like a dream. Five years to look back upon is there's nothing. But these five years are five years to be looked forward to. It is out of the question. But you say that you could not live as a married man. Live, I suppose we could live. Then he thought of the cabbages and the cottage at Powell. There would be seven hundred a year, I suppose. Couldn't you do something, Frank? What, to earn money? No, I don't think I could. If I attempted to break stones, I shouldn't break enough to pay for the hammers. Couldn't you write a book? That would be worse than the stones. I sometimes thought I could paint a picture, but if I did, nobody would buy it. As to making money, that is hopeless. I could save some by leaving off gloves and allowing myself only three clean shirts a week. That would be dreadful, Frank. It would be dreadful, but it is quite clear that I must do something, an effort has to be made. This, he said, with a voice the tone of which was almost heroic. Then they discussed the matter at great length, in doing which Aunt Rosina thoroughly encouraged him in his heroism. That idea of remaining unmarried for another short period of five years was allowed to go by the board, and when they parted on that night it was understood that steps were to be taken to bring about a marriage as speedily as possible. Perhaps I can do a little to help, said Aunt Rosina, in a faint whisper as Frank left the room. Frank Huston, when he showed Imogen's letter to his aunt, had already answered it. Then he waited a day or two, not very patiently, for a further rejoinder from Imogen, in which she, of course, was to unsay all that she had said before. But when, after four or five days, no rejoinder had come, and his fervour had been increased by his expectation, then he told his aunt that he should immediately take some serious step. The more ardent he was, the better his aunt loved him. Could he have gone down and carried off his bride, and married her at once, in total disregard of the usual wedding-cake and St. George's Hanover Square ceremonies, to which the Huston family had always been accustomed, she could have found it in her heart to forgive him. Do not be rash, Frank, she said. He merely shook his head, and as he again left her, declared that he was not going to be driven this way and that by such a fellow as Mudbury Dosama. As I live, there's Frank coming through the gate. This was said by Imogen to her sister-in-law, as they were walking up and down the road which led from the lodge to the Trugothnan house. The two ladies were at that moment discussing Imogen's affairs. No rejoinder had as yet been made to Frank's last letter which, to Imogen's feeling, was the most charming epistle which had ever come from the hands of a true lover. There had been passion and sincerity in every word of it, even when he had been a little too strong in his language, as he denounced the hard-hearted counsels of her brother. But yet she had not responded to all this sincerity, nor had she as yet withdrawn the resolution which she had herself declared. Mrs. Dosama was of opinion that that resolution should not be withdrawn, and had striven to explain that the circumstances were now the same, as when, after full consideration, they had determined that the engagement should come to an end. At this very moment she was speaking words of wisdom to this effect, and as she did so, Frank appeared walking up from the gate. What will Mudbury say, was Mrs. Dosama's first ejaculation? But Imogen, before she had considered how this danger might be encountered, rushed forward and gave herself up, I fear we must confess, into the arms of her lover. After that it was felt at once that she had withdrawn all her last resolution, and had vacillated again. There was no ground left even for an argument, now that she had submitted herself to be embraced. Frank's words of affection need not here be repeated, but they were of a nature to leave no doubt in the minds of either of the two ladies. Mudbury had declared that he would not receive Houston in his house as his sister's lover, and had expressed his opinion that even Houston would not have the face to show his face there. But Houston had come, and something must be done with him. It was soon ascertained that he had walked over from Penzance, which was but two miles off, and had left his portmanteau behind him. I wouldn't bring anything, said he. Mudbury would find it easier to maltreat my things than myself. It would look so foolish to tell the man with a fly to carry them back at once. Is he in the house? He's about the place, said Mrs. Dosimer, almost trembling. Is he very fierce against me? He thinks it had better be all over. I am of a different way of thinking, you see. I cannot acknowledge that he has any right to dictate to Imogen. Nor can I, said Imogen. Of course he can turn me out. If he does, I shall go with you, said Imogen. We have made up our minds to it, said Frank, and he had better let us do as we please. He can make himself disagreeable, of course, but he has got no power to prevent us. Now they had reached the house, and Frank was, of course, allowed to enter. Had he not entered, neither would Imogen, who was so much taken by this further instance of her lover's ardour, that she was determined now to be led by him in everything. His explanation of the word, enticed, had been so thoroughly satisfactory to her that she was no longer in the least angry with herself because she had enticed him. She had quite come to see that it is the duty of a young woman to entice a young man. Frank and Imogen were soon left alone, not from any kindness of feeling on the part of Mrs. Dosimer, but because the wife felt it necessary to find her husband. Oh, Mudbury, who do you think has come? He's here. Houston? Yes, Frank Houston. In the house? He is in the house, but he hasn't brought anything. He doesn't mean to stay. What does that matter? He shall not be asked even to dine here. If he is turned out, she will go with him. If she says so, she'll do it. You cannot prevent her. That's what would come of it if she were to insist on going up to London with him. He's a scoundrel. No Mudbury, not a scoundrel. You cannot call him a scoundrel. There's something firm about him, isn't there? To come to my house when I told him not. But he does really love her. Bother. At any rate, there they are in the breakfast parlour, and something must be done. I couldn't tell him not to come in, and she wouldn't have come without him. There will be enough for them to live upon. Don't you think you'd better? Dosimer, as he returned at the house, declared that he did not think he'd better, but he had to confess to himself that whether it were better or whether it were worse, he could do very little to prevent it. The greeting of the two men was anything but pleasant. What I've got to say I would rather say outside, said Dosimer. Certainly, said Frank, I suppose I'm to be allowed to return. If he does not, said Imogen, who at her brother's request had left the room but still stood at the open door, if he does not I shall go to him in panzance. You will hardly attempt to keep me a prisoner. Who says that he's not to return? I think that you two are idiots, but I'm quite aware that I cannot prevent you from being married if you are both determined. Then he led the way out through the hall, and Frank followed him. I cannot understand that any man should be so fickle, he said, when they were both out on the walk together. Constance, I should suppose you mean. I said fickle, and I meant it. It was at your own suggestion that you and Imogen were to be separated. No doubt it was at my suggestion and with her consent, but you see that we have changed our minds, and will change them again. We are steady enough in our purpose now at any rate. You hear what she says. If I came down here to persuade her to alter her purpose, to talk her into doing something of which you disapproved, and as to which she agreed with you, then you might do something by quarrelling with me. But what's the use of it when she and I are of one mind? You know that you cannot talk her over. Where do you mean to live? I'll tell you about that if you'll allow me to send in to Penzance for my things. I cannot discuss matters with you if you proclaim yourself to be my enemy. You say we're both idiots. I do. Very well, then you had better put up with two idiots. You can't cure their idiocy, nor have you any authority to prevent them from exhibiting it. The argument was efficacious, though the idiocy was acknowledged. The portmanteau was sent for, and before the evening was over, Frank had again been received at Trugothnan as imagines accepted lover. Then Frank had his story to tell and his new proposition to make. Aunt Rosina had offered to join Hermines with his. The house in Green Street, no doubt, was small, but room it was thought could be made, at any rate until the necessity had come for various cribs and various cradles. I cannot imagine that you will endure to live with Aunt Rosina, said the brother. Why on earth should I object to Aunt Rosina, said Imogen? She and I have always been friends. In her present mood she could hardly have objected to live with any old woman, however objectionable. And we shall be able to have a small cottage somewhere, said Frank. She will keep the house in London, and we shall keep the cottage. And what on earth will you do with yourself? I have thought of that too, said Frank. I shall take to painting pictures in earnest, portraits probably. I don't see why I shouldn't do as well as anybody else. That head of yours of old Mrs. Jones, said Imogen, was a great deal better than dozens of things one sees every year in the academy. Bother, exclaimed Dosama. I don't see why he should not succeed if he really will work hard, said Mrs. Dosama. Bother. Why should it be bother, said Frank, put upon his metal? Ever so many fellows have begun and got on older than I am. And even if I don't own anything, I've got an employment. And is the painting room to be in Green Street also, asked Dosama? Just at present I shall begin by copying things at the National Gallery, explained Huston, who was not as yet prepared with his answer to that difficulty as to a studio in the little house in Green Street. When the matter had been carried as far as this, it was manifest enough that anything like opposition to Imogen's marriage was to be withdrawn. Huston remained at Trogothnan for a couple of days, and then returned to London. A week afterwards the Dosamas followed him, and early in the following June the two lovers, after all their troubles and many vacillations, were made one at St George's Church, to the great delight of Aunt Rosina. It cannot be said that the affair gave equal satisfaction to all the bridegroom's friends, as may be learnt from the following narration of two conversations which took place in London very shortly after the wedding. Fancy after all that fellow Huston going and marrying such a girl as Imogen Dosama without a single blessed chilling to keep themselves alive. This was said in the smoking-room of Huston's club by Lord John Battledore to Tom Shuttelcock, but it was said quite aloud so that Huston's various acquaintances might be able to offer their remarks on so interesting a subject, and to express their pity for the poor object of their commiseration. It's the most infernal piece of folly I ever heard in my life, said Shuttelcock. There was that tingled girl with two hundred thousand pounds to be had just for the taking, traffic's wife's sissy, you know. There was something wrong about that, said another. Benjamin Batsby, that stupid fellow who used to be in the twentieth, ran off with her just when everything had been settled between Huston and old Tringle. Not a bit of it, said Battledore. Tringle had quarrelled with Huston before that. Batsby did go with her, but the governor wouldn't come down with the money. Then the girl was brought back and there was no marriage. Upon that the condition of poor Gertrude in reference to her lovers and her fortune was discussed by those present with great warmth, but they all agreed that Huston had proved himself to be a bigger fool than any of them had expected. By George he's going to set up for painting portraits, said Lord John, with great disgust. In Queensgate the matter was discussed by the ladies there very much in the same spirit. At this time Gertrude was engaged to Captain Batsby, if not with the full approbation, at any rate with the consent both of her father and mother, and therefore she could speak of Frank Huston and his bride, if with disdain still without wounded feelings. Here it is in the papers. Francis Huston and Imogen Dossomer, said Mrs. Traffic. So she's really caught him at last, said Gertrude. There was not much to catch, rejoined Mrs. Traffic. I doubt whether they have got five hundred pounds a year between them. It does seem so very sudden, said Lady Tringle. Sudden, said Gertrude, they've been about it for the last five years. Of course he's tried to wriggle out of it all through. I'm glad that she succeeded at last, if only because he deserves it. I wonder where they'll find a place to live in, Sir Augusta. This took place in the bedroom which Mrs. Traffic still occupied in Queensgate, when she had been just a month the mother. Thus, with the kind assistance of Aunt Rosina, Frank Huston and Imogen Dossomer were married at last, and the chronicler hereby expresses a hope that it may not belong before Frank may see a picture of his own hanging on the walls of the Academy, and that he may live to be afraid of the coming of no baby.