 CHAPTER 37 It was now the middle of January, and Gertrude Tringle had received no reply from her lover to the overture which he had made him, nor indeed had she received any letter from him since that to which this overture had been a reply. It was now two months since her proposition had been made, and during that time her anger had waxed very hot against Mr. Houston. After all, it might be a question whether Mr. Houston was worth all the trouble which she, with a hundred thousand pounds, was taking on his behalf. She did not like the idea of abandoning him, because by doing so she would seem to yield to her father. Having had a young man of her own, it behooved her to stick with her young man in spite of her parents. But what is a girl to do with a lover who, at the end of two months, has made no reply to an offer from herself that he should run away with her and take her to Ostend? She was in this frame of mind when lo and behold she found her own letter still enclosed in her own envelope, but opened and thrust in among her father's papers. It was evident enough that the letter had never passed from out of the house. There had been treachery on the part of some servant, or perhaps her father might have condescended to search the little box, or more probable still, Augusta had betrayed her. Then she reflected that she had communicated her purpose to her sister, that her sister had abstained from any questions since the letter had been written, and that her sister, therefore, no doubt, was the culprit. There, however, was the letter which had never reached her lover's hands, and as a matter of course, her affections returned with all their full ardour to the unfortunate ill-used man. That her conduct was now watched, would she thought, be a matter of course? Her father knew her purpose, and like stern parents in general would use all his energies to thought it. Sir Thomas had in truth thought but little about the matter since he had first thrust the letter away. Tom's troubles, and the disgrace brought by them upon travers and trees and generally, had so occupied his mind that he cared but little for Gertrude and her lover. But Gertrude had no doubt that she was closely watched, and in these circumstances was driven to think how she could best use her wits so as to countermine her father. To run away from Queen's Gate would, she thought, be more difficult and more uncomfortable than to perform the same operation at Merle Park. It was intended that the family should remain in the country at any rate till Easter, and Gertrude resolved that there might yet be time for another effort before Easter should be passed, if only she could avoid those hundred-argus eyes which were, no doubt, fixed upon her from all sides. She prepared another letter to her lover which she addressed to him at his club in London. In this she told him nothing of her former project except that a letter written by her in November had fallen into the hands of enemies. Then she gave him to understand that there was need of the utmost caution, but that if adequate caution were used she did not doubt they might succeed. She said nothing about her great project but suggested to him that he should run down into Sussex and meet her at a certain spot indicated outside the Park Pailings half an hour after dusk. It might be, she said, impossible that the meeting should be effected, but she thought that she could so manage as to leave the house unwatched at the appointed hour. With the object of being especially safe she began and concluded her letter without any names, and then managed to deposit it herself in the box of the village post office. Huston, when he received this letter, had once made up his mind that he would not be found on the outer side of the Park Pailings in the evening named. He told himself that he was too old for the romance of love-making, and that should he be received when hanging about in the dark by some custodian with a cudgel he would have nothing to thank but his own folly. He wrote back, therefore, to say that he regarded the outside of the Park Pailings as indiscreet, but that he would walk up through the lodge gate to the house at three o'clock in the afternoon of the day named, and he would take it as an additional mark of her favour if she would meet him on the road. Gertrude had sent him a mysterious address. He was to direct the letter to O. P. Q. Post Office Hastings, and she was prepared to hire a country boy to act as love's messenger on the occasion. But of this instruction Frank took no notice addressing the letter to Merle Park in the usual way. Gertrude received her letter without notice from any one. On that occasion Argus, with all his eyes, was, by chance, asleep. She was very angry with her lover, almost determined to reject him altogether, almost disposed to yield to her angry parents and look out for some other lover who might be accepted in better part. But still, when the day came, she put on her hat and walked down the road toward the lodge. As Fortune had it, Fortune altogether unfavourable to those perils for which her soul was longing. No one watched her, no one dogged her steps, no one took any notice of her, until she met Frank Huston when he had passed about a hundred yards through the gates. "'And so you have come,' she said. "'Oh, yes, I've come. I was sure to come when I said so. No man is more punctual than I am in these matters. I should have come before. Only I did not catch your letter.' "'Oh, Frank!' "'Well, my darling, you look uncommonly well, and I'm so glad to see you. How are they all?' "'Frank!' "'What is it?' "'Oh, Frank, what are we to do?' "'The Governor will give way at last, I should say. "'Never. That is, while we are as we are now, if we were married. Ah, I wish we were. Wouldn't it be nice? Do you rarely think so?' "'Of course I do. I'm ready to mourn for the matter of that.' "'But could you do something great?' "'Something great. As to earning my bread, you mean. I do not think I could do that. I didn't turn my hand to it early enough.' "'I wasn't thinking of your bread.' "'You said, could I do something great?' "'Frank, I wrote you a letter and described it all. How I got the courage to do it I do not know. I feel as though I could not bring myself to say it now. I wonder whether you would have the courage.' "'I should say so. I don't know quite what sort of thing it is, but I generally have pluck enough for anything in a common way.' "'This is something in an uncommon way.' "'I couldn't break open travers and treason and get at the safe or anything in that way. It's another sort of safe of which you must break the lock, Frank. Another treasure you must steal. Do you not understand me?' "'Not in the least.' "'There is Tom,' said Gertrude. He's always wondering about the place now like a ghost. Let us go back to the gate.' Then Frank turned. You heard, I suppose, of that dreadful affair about the policeman.' "'There was a row,' I was told. "'Did you feel that the family were disgraced?' "'Not in the least. He had to pay five shillings, hadn't he, for telling a policeman to go about his business?' "'He was locked up,' said Gertrude solemnly. "'It's just the same. Nobody thinks anything about that kind of thing. Now, what is it I have got to do? We'd better turn back again as soon as we can, because I must go up to the house before I go.' "'You will?' "'Certainly. I will not leave it to your father to say that I came skulking about the place and was ashamed to show my face. That would not be the way to make him give you your money. I'm sure he'd give it, if we were once married. If we were married without having it assured beforehand we should look very blue if things went wrong afterwards. I asked you whether you had courage. Courage enough, I think, when my body is concerned, but I'm an awful coward in regard to money. I wouldn't mind hashed mutton and baked potatoes for myself, but I shouldn't like to see you eating them, dearest, after all the luxuries to which you've been accustomed. I should think nothing of it. Did you ever try? I never came absolutely to hashed mutton, but I've known our very uncomfortable it is not to be able to pay for the hot joints. I'm willing to own honestly that married life without an income would not have attractions for me. But if it were sure to come—ah, then, indeed, with you, I've just said how nice it would be. Have you ever been at Ostend? she asked suddenly. Ostend? Oh, yes. There was a man there who used to cheat horribly at a cottage. He did me out of nearly a hundred pounds one night. But there's a clergyman there, I'm told. I don't think this man was in orders, but he might have been. Parsons come out in so many shapes, this man called himself a count, who was seven years ago. I am speaking of today. I've not been there since. Would you like to go there with me? It isn't a nice sort of place, I should say, for a honeymoon, but you shall choose, when we're married, you shall go where you like. To be married, she exclaimed. Married at Ostend? Would your mother like that? Mother, oh, dear. I'll be shot if I know which you're after, Gertrude. If you've got anything to say, you'd better speak out. I want to go up to the house now." They had now taken one or two turns between the lodge and a point in the road from which the house could be observed, and at which Tom could still be seen wandering about, thinking no doubt of Ayala. Here Frank stopped as though determined not to turn to the lodge again. It was wonderful to Gertrude that he should not have understood what she had already said. When he talked of her mother going with them to the Ostend marriage, she was almost beside herself. This lover of hers was a man of the world and must have heard of elopements, but now had come a time in which she must be plain, unless she made up her mind to abandon her plan altogether. Frank, she said, if you were to run away with me, then we could be married at Ostend. Run away with you? It wouldn't be the first time that such a thing has been done? The commas thing in the world, my dear, when a girl has got her money in her own hands, nothing I should like so much. Money, it's always money, it's nothing but the money, I believe. That's unkind, Gertrude. Ain't you unkind? You won't do anything, I ask. My darling, that hashed mutton and those baked potatoes are too clear before my eyes. You think of nothing, I believe, but your dinner. I think, unfortunately, of a great many other things. Hashed mutton is simply symbolical. Under the head of hashed mutton I include poor lodgings, growlers, when we get ourselves asked to eat dinner at somebody's table, limited washing-bills, table napkins rolled up in their dirt every day for a week, anti-McCassas to save the backs of the chairs, a picture of you darning my socks while I'm reading a newspaper hired at a hipony from the public house around the corner, a pint of beer in the pewter between us, and maybe two babies in one cradle because we can't afford to buy a second. But, sir, in such an emergency I'm bound to give you the advantage both of my experience and imagination. Experience? Not about the cradles, that is imagination. My darling, it won't do. You and I have not been brought up to make ourselves happy on a very limited income. Papa would be sure to give us the money, she said eagerly. In a matter such as this, where your happiness is concerned, my dear, I will trust no one. My happiness! Yes, my dear, your happiness. I am quite willing to own the truth. I am not fitted to make you happy. If I will put upon the hashed mutton-regime, as I have described to you, I will not run the risk for your sake. For your own, you mean, she said. Nor for my own, if you wish me to add that also. Then they walked up toward the house for some little way in silence. What is it you intend, then, she asked. I will ask your father once again. He will simply turn you out of the house, she said. Upon this he shrugged his shoulders and they walked onto the hall door in silence. Sir Thomas was not at Merle Park, nor was he expected home that evening. Frank Houston could only therefore ask for Lady Tringle and her he saw together with Mr. and Mrs. Traffic. In presence of them all, nothing could be said of love affairs, and after sitting for half an hour during which he was not entertained with much cordiality, he took his leave, saying that he would do himself the honour of calling on Sir Thomas in the city. While he was in the drawing-room Gertrude did not appear. She had retired to her room and was there resolving that Frank Houston was not such a lover as would justify a girl in breaking her heart for him. And Frank, as he went to town, brought his mind to the same way of thinking. The girl wanted something romantic to be done, and he was not disposed to do anything romantic for her. He was not, in the least, angry with her, acknowledging to himself that she had quite as much right to her way of looking at things as he had to his. But he felt almost sure that the Tringle alliance must be regarded as impossible. If so, should he look out for another heiress or endeavour to enjoy life stretching out his little income as far as might be possible? Or should he assume altogether a new character, make a hero of himself and ask image and dosama to share with him a little cottage in whatever might be the cheapest spot to be found in the civilised parts of Europe? If it was to be hashed mutton and a united cradle, he would prefer image and dosama to Gertrude Tringle for his companion. But there was still open to him the one further chance with Sir Thomas, and this chance he could try with a comfortable feeling that he might be almost indifferent as to what Sir Thomas might say. To be prepared for either lot is very self-assuring when any matter of difficulty has to be taken in hand. On arriving at the house in Lombard Street, he soon found himself ushered once more into Sir Thomas's presence. Well, Mr. Houston, what can I do for you today? Ask the man of business with a pleasant smile. It is the old story, Sir Thomas. Don't you think, Mr. Houston, that there is something a little unmanly, shall I call it, in coming so often about the same thing? No, Sir Thomas, I do not. I think my conduct has been manly throughout. Weak, perhaps, would have been a better word. I do not wish to be uncurtious, and I will therefore withdraw unmanly. Is it not weak to encounter so many refusals on the same subject? I should feel myself to have been very strong, if after so many refusals I were to be successful at last. There is not the least chance of it. Why should there be no chance if your daughter's happiness depends upon it? There is no chance, because I do not believe that my daughter's happiness does depend upon it. She is foolish and has made a foolish proposition to you. What proposition? asked Houston, in surprise, having heard nothing of that intercepted letter. That journey to Ostend with the prospect of finding a good-natured clergyman in the town. I hardly think you would be full enough for that. No, Sir Thomas, I should not do that. I should think it wrong. This he said quite gravely, asking no questions, but was very much at a loss to know where Sir Thomas had got his information. I am sure you would think it foolish, and it would be foolish. I pledge you my word that were you to do such a thing, I should not give you a shilling. I should not let my girl starve, but I should save her from suffering in such a manner as to let you have no share of the sustenance I provided for her. There is no question of that kind, said Frank angrily. I hope not. Only as I know that the suggestion has been made, I have thought it well to tell you what would be my conduct if it were carried out. It will not be carried out by me, said Frank. Very well, I am glad to hear it. To tell the truth I never thought that you would run the risk. A gentleman of your sort, when he is looking for a wife with money, likes to have the money quite certain. No doubt, said Frank, determined not to be brow-beaten. And now, Mr. Hooster, let me say one word more to you, and then we may part, as I hope good friends. I do not mean my daughter Gertrude to marry any man such as you are. By that I mean an idle gentleman without means. Should she do so, in my teeth she would have to bear the punishment of sharing that poor gentleman's idleness and poverty. While I lived she would not be allowed absolutely to want, and when I died there would be some trifle for her, sufficient to keep the wolf from the door. But I give you my solemn word and honour that she shall never be the means of supplying wealth and luxury to such a husband as you would be. I have better purposes for my hard-earned money, now, good day. With that he rose from his chair and put out his hand. Frank rose also from his chair, took the hand that was offered him, and stepped out of Travers and Treason into Lombard Street, with no special desire to shake the dust off his feet as he did so. He felt that Sir Thomas had been reasonable, and he felt also that Gertrude Tringle would perhaps have been dear at the money. Two or three days afterwards he dispatched the following little note to poor Gertrude at Merle Park. Dear Gertrude, I have seen your father again and found him to be absolutely obdurate. I am sure he is quite in earnest when he tells me that he will not give his daughter to an impoverished idle fellow such as I am. Who shall say that he is wrong? I did not dare to tell him so anxious as I was that he should change his purpose. I feel myself bound in honour believing as I do that he is quite resolved in his purpose to release you from your promise. I should feel that I was only doing you an injury were I to ask you to be bound by an engagement which could not, at any rate for many years, be brought to a happy termination. As we may part as sincere friends, I hope you will consent to keep the little token of my regard which I gave you. Frank Houston I am as angel by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 38, Frank Houston is penitent. And now the Adriatic's free to wed another, said Houston to himself, as he put himself into a cab and had himself carried to his club. There he wrote that valedictory letter to Gertrude which is given at the end of the last chapter. Had he reasoned to complain of his fate or to rejoice? He had looked the question of an establishment full in the face, an establishment to be created by Sir Thomas Stringle's money, to be shared with Sir Thomas Stringle's daughter, and had made up his mind to accept it, although the prospects were not, as he told himself altogether, rosy. When he first made up his mind to marry Gertrude on condition that Gertrude should bring with her at any rate not less than three thousand a year, he was quite aware that he would have to give up all his old ways of life and all his little pleasures. He would become son-in-law to Sir Thomas Stringle with a comfortable house to live in, with plenty to eat and drink, and probably a horse or two to ride. If he could manage things at their best, perhaps he might be able to settle himself at Pau, or some other place of the kind so as to be as far away as possible from Stringle influences. But his little dinners at one club, his little rubbers of wist at the other club, his evenings at the opera, the pleasant smiles of the ladies whom he loved in a general way. These would be done with forever. Earn his own bread. Why, he was going to earn his bread and that in a most disagreeable manner. He would set up an establishment not because such an establishment would have any charms for him, but because he was compelled by lack of money to make some change in his present manner of life. And yet the time had been when he had looked forward to a marriage as the happiest thing that could befall him. As far as his nature could love, he had loved image and osama. There had come a glimpse upon him of something better than the little dinners and the little rubbers. There had been a prospect of an income, not ample as would have been that forthcoming from Sir Thomas, but sufficient for a sweet and modest home in which he thought that it would have sufficed for his happiness to paint a few pictures and read a few books and to love his wife and children. Even as to that there had been a doubt. There was a regret as to the charms of London life, but nevertheless he had made up his mind, and she, without any doubt, had made up hers. Then that wicked uncle had died and was found to have expended on his own pursuits the money which was to have been left to his nephew. Upon that there was an explanation between Frank and Imogen, and it was agreed that their engagement should be over, while a doubtful and dangerous friendship was to be encouraged between them. Such was the condition of things when Frank first met Gertrude Tringle at Rome, now considerably more than twelve months since. When Gertrude had first received his proposition favourably, he had written to Imogen a letter in that drolling spirit common to him, in which he declared his purpose, or rather, not his purpose, but his untoward fate, should the gods be unkind to him. She had answered him after the same fashion, saying that in regard to his future welfare she hoped that the gods would prove unkind. But had he known how to read all that her letter expressed between the lines, he would have perceived that her heart was more strongly moved than his own. Since that time he had learned the lesson. There had been a letter or two, and then there had been that walk in the wood on the Italian side of the Tyrellese Alps. The reader may remember how he was hurried away in the diligence for Innsbruck because it was considered that his further sojourn in the same house with Imogen was dangerous. He had gone, and even as he went had attempted to make a joke of the whole affair. But it had not been quite a joke to him even then. There was Imogen's love and Imogen's anger, and together with these an aversion towards the poor girl who he intended to marry, which became the stronger, the more strongly he was convinced both of Imogen's love and of her anger. Nevertheless, he persevered, not with the best success as has already been told. Now as he left the house in Lombard Street and wrote what was intended to be his last epistle to Gertrude, he was driven again to think of Miss Dosimer. Indeed, he had in his pocket, as he sat at his club, a little note which he had lately received from that lady, which in truth had disturbed him much when he made his last futile efforts at Merle Park and in Lombard Street. The little note was as follows. Dear Frank, one little friendly word in spite of our storm on the Tyrellese hillside. If Miss Tringle is to be the arbiter of your fate, why then let there be an end of everything between us? I should not care to be called upon to receive such a Mrs. Frank Houston as a dear friend. But if Tringle pair should at the last moment prove heart-hearted, then let me see you again, yours, I. With this letter in his pocket he had gone down to Merle Park, determined to put an end to the Tringle affair in one way or the other. His duty, as he had planned it to himself, would not be altered by Imogen's letter, but if that duty should become impracticable, why then it would be open to him to consider whatever Imogen might have to say to him. The Dossamas were now in London where it was their custom to live during six months of the year, but Houston had not been at their house since he had parted from them in the Tyrell. He had spent but little of his time in London since the autumn, and when there had not been anxious to see people who had at any rate treated him somewhat roughly. But now it would be necessary that he should answer Imogen's letter. What should be the nature of such answer he certainly had not as yet decided, nor could he have decided before those very convincing assurances of Sir Thomas Tringle? That matter was at any rate over, and now the Adriatic might wed another if the Adriatic thought well to do so. The matter, however, was one which required a good deal of consideration. He gave to it ten minutes of intense thought during which he consumed a cup of coffee in a cigarette, and then, throwing away the burnt end of the paper, he hurried into the morning-room and wrote to the lady as follows, Dear Imogen, you will not have to press to your bosom as my wife the second daughter of Sir Thomas Tringle, but the high honour of that alliance has at last been refused by him in very plain language. Had she become Mrs. Frank Houston, I do not doubt that you would have done your duty to your own cousin. That lot, however, has not been written for me in the book of Fates. The father is persistent in looking upon me as an idle, proflicate adventurer, and though he has been kind enough to hint more than once that it might be possible for me to achieve the young lady, he has succeeded in convincing me that I never should achieve anything beyond the barren possession of her beauty. A wife and family on my present very moderate income would be burdensome, and therefore, with infinite regrets, I have bade adieu to Miss Tringle. I have not hitherto been to see either you or your brother or Mrs. Dossomer, because I have been altogether unaware whether you or your brother or Mrs. Dossomer would be glad to see me. As you say yourself, there was a storm on the Tyrellese hillside, in which there was more than one wind blowing at the same time. I do not find fault with anybody. Perhaps a storm was needed to clear the air. But I hate storms. I do not pretend to be a very grand fellow, but I do endeavour not to be disagreeable. Your brother, if you remember, was a little hard. But in truth I say this only to account for my apparent incivility. And perhaps with another object, to gain a little time before I plunge into the stern necessity of answering all that you say in your very comprehensive letter of five lines. The first four lines I have answered, there will be no such Mrs. Frank Houston as that suggested. And then, as to the last line, of course you will see me again and that very speedily, so it would seem that the whole letter is answered. But yet it is not answered. There is so much in it that whole sheets would not answer it. A choir of notepapers stuffed full would hardly contain all that I might find to say an answer to it, on one side and the other. Nay, I might fill as many reams of folio as are required for a three-volume novel, and then I might call it by one of two names, the doubts of Frank Houston, or the constancy of image and osama, as I should at last bring my story to one ending or the other. But the novel would contain that fault which is so prevalent in the novels of the present day. The hero would be a very namby-pamby sort of fellow, whereas the heroine would be too perfect for human nature. The hero would be always repeating to himself a certain line out of a Latin poet, which of all lines is the most heartbreaking. The better course I see and know, the worse a one is where I go. But then in novels the most indifferent hero comes out right at last, some god comes out of a theatrical cloud, and leaves the poor devil ten thousand a year in a title. He isn't much of a hero when he does go right under such inducements, but he suffices for the plot, and everything is rose-coloured. I would be virtuous at a much cheaper rate, if only a young man with his family might have enough to eat and drink. What is your idea of the lowest income at which a prudent, say not idiotically quixotic hero, might safely venture to become heroic? Now I have written to you a long letter, and think that I have indicated to you the true state of my feelings. Whatever may turn up I do not think I shall go fortune-hunting again. If half a million in females' hands were to throw itself at my head, there is no saying whether I might not yield. But I do not think that I shall again make inquiry as to the amount of booty supposed to be within the walls of a city, and then sit down to besiege the city with regular lines of approach. It's a disgusting piece of work. I do not say but what I can lie, and did lie foully in the last siege operation, but I do not like it. And then to be told that one is unmanly by the father and a coward by the young lady as occurred to me in this affair is disheartening. They were both right, though I repudiated their assertions. This might be born as a prelude to success, but as part of a failure it is disgusting. At the present moment I am considering what economy might affect as to a future bachelor life, and I am meditating to begin with a couple of mutton chops and a half pint of sherry for my dinner to-day. I know I shall break down and have a woodcock and some champagne. I will come to you about three on Sunday, if you can manage that your brother should go out and make his calls, and your sister attend divine service in the afternoon it would be a comfort. Yours always, F. Houston. It was a long rambling letter, without a word in it of solid, clearly expressed meaning, but Imogen as she read it understood very well its real purport. She understood more than its purport, for she could see by it, more clearly than the writer did himself, how far her influence over the man had been restored, and how far she might be able to restore it. But was it well that she should regain her influence? Her influence regained would simply mean a renewed engagement. No doubt the storm on the hillside had come from the violence of true love on her part. No doubt her heart had been outraged by the idea that he should give himself up to another woman after all that had passed between them. She had been devoted to him altogether, but yet she had been taught by him to regard her love as a passion which of its nature contained something of the ridiculous. He had never ceased gently to laugh at himself even in her presence because he had subjected himself to her attraction. She had caught up the same spirit, or at any rate the expression of spirit, and deceived by that he had thought that to relieve herself from the burden of her love would be as easy to her as to him. In making this mistake he had been ignorant of the intrinsic difference in the nature of a man's and of a woman's heart, and had been unaware that that which to a man at his best can only be a part of his interest in his life's concerns will to a woman be everything. She had attempted to follow his lead when it did not seem that by doing so she would lose anything. But when the moment of trial came she had not in truth followed his lead at all. She made the attempt, and in making the attempt gave him her permission to go from her. But when she realized the fact that he was gone or going, then she broke down utterly. Then there came those contentions between her and her brother and that storm on the hillside. After that she passed some months of wretchedness. There was no possibility for her to drool away her love. She had taught herself to love the man whether he were good or whether he were bad, whether he was strong-hearted or whether he were fickle, and the thing was there present to her, either as a permanent blessing or much more probably a permanent curse. As the months went on she learned, though she never saw Frank himself, that his purpose of marrying Gertrude Tringle was not likely to be carried out. Then at last she wrote that comprehensive letter of five lines as Houston had called it. It had been intended to be comprehensive and did, in fact, contain much more than it seemed to say. If you can bring yourself to return to me and to endure whatever inconveniences may be incidental on your doing so, I hereby declare that I will do the same, and I declare also that I can find for myself no other content in the world except what may come to me from such an agreement between us. It was this that she had said in that last line in which she had begged him to come to her if at the last moment Tringle Pair should prove to be hard-hearted. All troubles of poverty, all the lingering annoyance of waiting, all her possible doubts as to his future want of persistency, would be preferable to the great loss which she found herself unable to endure. Yes, it would be very well that both her brother and sister-in-law should be absent when he came to her. To neither of them had she said a word of her last correspondence, to neither of them a word of her renewed hopes. For the objections which might be raised by either of them would she care little if she could succeed with Frank. But while that success was still doubtful it would be well to get at any rate the assistance of her sister-in-law. On the Sunday afternoon Mr. Dosimer would certainly be away from the house. It was his custom to go off among his friends almost immediately after lunch and his absence might be counted on as assured. But with his wife it was different. The project of sending her to church was quite out of the question. Mrs. Dosimer generally went to church of a Sunday morning and then always considered herself to have performed the duties of the day. Nor did Imogen like the idea of this appointment with her lover without a word spoken about it to her sister-in-law. Mary, she said, Frank Houston is coming here on Sunday. Frank, exclaimed Mrs. Dosimer, I thought we were to consider ourselves as altogether separated from that fortunate youth. I don't see why. Well, he left us not with the kindest possible feelings in the Tyrol, and he's allowed ever so many months to pass by without coming to see us. I asked Mudbury whether we should have him to dinner one day last week, and he said it would be better to let him go his own way. Nevertheless, he's coming here on Sunday. Has he written to you? Yes, he's written to me in answer to a line from me. I told him that I wished to see him. Was that wise? Wise or not, I did so. Why should you wish to see him? Am I to tell you the truth or a lie? Not a lie, certainly. I will not ask for the truth if the truth be unpalatable to you. It is unpalatable, but yet I might as well tell it you. I wrote to ask him to come and see me, because I love him so dearly. Oh, Imogen! It is the truth. Did you tell him so? No, I told him nothing. I merely said that if this match was over between him and that girl of Sir Thomas Stringle, then he might come and see me again. That was all that I said. His letter was very much longer, but yet it did not say much. However, he is to come, and I am prepared to renew our engagement should he declare that he's willing to do so. What will Mudbury say? I do not care very much what he says. I do not know that I'm bound to care. If I have resolved to entangle myself with a long engagement, and Mr. Houston is willing to do the same, I do not think that my brother should interfere. I am my own mistress and am dealing all together with my own happiness. Imogen, we have discussed this so often before. Not a doubt, and with such effect that with my permission Frank was unable to ask this young woman with a lot of money to marry him. Had it been arranged, I should have had no right to find fault with him. However sore of heart I might have been. All that has fallen through, and I consider myself quite entitled to renew my engagement again. I shall not ask him, you may be sure of that. It comes to the same thing, Imogen. Very likely it often happens that ladies mean that to be expressed, which it does not become them to say out loud. So it may be with me on this occasion. Nevertheless the word, if it have to be spoken, will have to be spoken by him. What I want you to do now is to let me have the drawing-room alone at three o'clock on Sunday. If anything has to be said, it will have to be said without witnesses. With some difficulty Mrs. Dossomer was induced to accede to the request, and to promise that at any rate for the present nothing should be said to her husband on the subject. In a very melancholy manner under her aunt's wings in Kingsbury Crescent was creating further havoc and disturbing the bosom of another lover. At Stulham she had met a certain Captain Batsby, and had there attracted his attention. Captain Batsby had begged her to ride with him on one of those hunting days, and had offered to give her a lead, having been at the moment particularly jealous of Colonel Stubbs. On that day both Ayala and Nina had achieved great honour, but this to the great satisfaction of Captain Batsby had not been achieved under the leadership of Colonel Stubbs. Larry Twentiman, long famous among the riding men of the Ufford and Rufford United Hunt, had been the hero of the hour. Thus Captain Batsby's feelings had been spared, and after that he imagined that any kindly feelings which Ayala might have had for the Colonel had sunk into abeyance. Then he had sought some opportunity to push himself into Ayala's favour, but hitherto his success in that direction had not been great. Captain Batsby was regarded by the inhabitants of Stulham as a nuisance, but as a nuisance which could not be avoided. He was half-brother to Sahari, whose mother had married, as her second husband, a certain opulent Mr. Batsby out of Lancashire. They were both dead now, and nothing of them remained but this Captain. He was good-natured, simple and rich, and in the arrangement of the all-break Come Batsby affairs which took place after the death of Mrs. Batsby made himself pleasant to everybody concerned. Sahari, who certainly had no particular affection for his half-brother, always bore with him on this account, and Lady Albury was equally gracious, mindful of the wisdom of keeping on good terms with a rich relation. It was as yet quite on the cards that the Batsby money might come to some of the Albury scions. But the Captain was anxious to provide himself with a wife who might be the mother of scions of his own. In fact, he had fallen fearfully in love with Ayala, and was quite resolved to ask her to be his wife, when he found that she was just on the point of flying from Stullum. He had intended to be quicker in his operations, but had lacked opportunity. On that last hunting-day the Colonel had always been still in his way, and circumstances had never seemed to favour him when he endeavoured to have a few words in private with the young lady. Then she was gone, and he could only learn respecting her that she lived with her aunt, Mrs. Dossett, in Kingsbury Crescent. I am blessed if Benjamin isn't smitten with that girl. Benjamin was Captain Batsby, and that girl was, of course, Ayala Dorma. The man who blessed himself was Sir Harry Albury, and the observation was addressed to his wife. This took place within an hour of Ayala's departure from Stullum. Benjamin, in love with Ayala Dorma, I don't believe a word of it, said Lady Albury. It was not surprising that she should not believe it. There was her special favourite, Colonel Stubbs, infatuated by the same girl, and, as she was aware, Tom Tringle, the heir of Travers and Treason, was in the same melancholy condition. And, after all, according to her thinking, there was nothing in the girl to justify all this fury. In her eyes Ayala was pretty, but no more. She would have declared that Ayala had neither bearing nor beauty nor figure. A bright eye, a changing colour, and something of vivacity about her mouth, was all of which Ayala had to boast. Yet here was certainly the heir of the man of millions, and that chryton of a Colonel both knocked off their legs. And now she was told that Captain Batsby, who always professed himself hard to please in the matter of young ladies, was in the same condition. Do you mean to say he told you, she asked? No, said Sir Harry. He is not at all the man to do that. In such a matter he is sure to have a great secret, and be sure also to let his secret escape in every word that he speaks. You'll find that what I say is truth. Before the day was out Lady Albury did find her husband to be correct. Captain Batsby, though he was very jealous of his secret, acknowledged to himself the necessity of having one confidant. He could hardly he thought follow Ayala without some assistance. He knew nothing of Mrs. Dosset, nothing of Kingsbury Crescent, and very little as to Ayala herself. He regarded Lady Albury as his chosen friend, and generally communicated to her whatever troubles he might have. These had consisted chiefly of the persecutions to which he had been subjected by the mothers of portionless young ladies. How not to get married off against his will had been the difficulty of his life. His half-sister-in-law had hitherto preserved him, and therefore to her he now went for assistance in this opposite affair. Rosland, he said in his gravest voice, what do you think I have to tell you? Lady Albury knew what was coming, but of course she hid her knowledge. I hope Mrs. Motherly has not written to you again, she said. Mrs. Motherly was a lady who had been anxious that her daughter should grace Captain Batsby's table, and had written to him letters asking him his intentions. Oh, dear, nothing of that kind. I do not care a straw for Mrs. Motherly or the girl, either. I never said a word to her that any one could make a handle of, but I want to say a word to somebody now. What sort of a word is it to be, then? Ah, he groaned. Rosland, you must understand that I never was so much in earnest in my life. You are always in earnest. Then he sighed very deeply. I shall expect you to help me through this matter, Rosland. Do I not always help you? Yes, you do, but you must stick to me now, like wax. What do you think of that young lady, Miss Dorma? I think she's a pretty girl, and the gentleman told me that she rides bravely. Don't you consider her divine? he asked. My dear Ben, one lady never considers another to be divine. Among ourselves we are terribly human, if not worse. Do you mean to tell me that you are in love with Ayala Dorma? You have guessed it, said he. You always do guess everything. I generally do guess as much as that, when young gentlemen find young ladies divine. Do you know anything about Miss Dorma? Nothing but her beauty, nothing but her wit, nothing but her grace. I know all that, and I don't seem to want to know any more. Then you must be in love. In the first place she hasn't got a sixpence in the world. I don't want sixpences, said the captain, proudly. And in the next place I'm not at all sure that you would like her people. Father and mother she has none. Then I cannot dislike them. But she has uncles and aunts who are, I am afraid, objectionable. She lives with a Mr. Dosset, who is a clerk at Somerset House, a respectable man, no doubt, but one whom you would not perhaps want at your house very often. I don't care about uncles and aunts, said Captain Batsby. Uncle and aunts can always be dropped much easier than fathers and mothers. At any rate, I'm determined to go on, and I want you to put me in the way. How must I find her? Go to number 10, King's Recrescent, Bayswater. Ask for Mrs. Dosset and tell her what you've come about. When she knows that you're well off, she will not turn a deaf ear to you. What the girl may do, it is beyond me to say, she is very peculiar. Peculiar, said the captain, with another sigh. Lady Aubrey did in truth think Ayala was very peculiar, seeing that she had refused to such men as Tom Tringle in spite of his wealth and Colonel Stubbs in spite of his position. This she had done, though she had no prospects of her own before her, and no comfortable home at the present. Might it not be more than probable that she would also refuse Captain Batsby, who was less rich than the one, and certainly less known to the world than the other? But as to this, it was not necessary that she should say anything. To assist Colonel Stubbs, she was bound by true affection for the man. In regard to her husband's half-brother, she was only bound to seem to assist him. I can write a line to Mrs. Dosset, if she wish it, she said, or to Miss Dorma. I wish you would. It would be best to the aunt and just tell her that I'm fairly well off. She'll tell Ayala I could make quite a proper settlement on her. That kind of thing does go a long way with young ladies. It ought to do at any rate, said Lady Aubrey. It certainly does with the old ladies. Then the matter was settled. She was to write to Mrs. Dosset and inform that lady that Captain Batsby intended to call at King's Precrescent in the form of a suitor for Miss Ayala Dorma's hand. She would go on to explain that Captain Batsby was quite in a position to marry and maintain a wife. And if she should accept me, you'll have her down here, Rosalind? Here was the difficulty, as it was already understood that Ayala was to be again brought down to Stullum on the Colonel's account. But Lady Aubrey could make the promise, as should the Captain be accepted, no harm would in that case be done to the Colonel. She was, however, tolerably sure that the Captain would not be accepted. And if she shouldn't take me all at once, still you might have her, suggested the lover. As to this, which was so probable, there would be a great difficulty. Ayala was to be seduced into coming again to Stullum if possible, but especially on the Colonel's per hoof. In such a case it must be done behind the Captain's back. Lady Aubrey saw the troubles which were coming, but nevertheless she promised that she would see what could be done. All this having been settled, Captain Batsby took his leave and went off to London. Mrs. Dossett, when she received Lady Aubrey's letter, was very much surprised. She too failed to understand what there was in Ayala to produce such a multiplicity of suitors one after another. When Lucy came to her, and had begun to be objectionable, she had thought that she might some day be relieved from her troubles by the girl's marriage. Lucy, to her eyes, was beautiful and mistress of a manor likely to be winning in a man's eyes, though ungracious to herself. But in regard to Ayala she had expressed nothing of the kind. Ayala was little and flighty and like an elf, as she had remarked to her husband. But now, within twelve months, three lovers had appeared, and each of them suitable for matrimonial purposes. She could only tell her husband, and then tell Ayala. Captain Batsby, I don't believe it, said Ayala, almost crying. If Colonel Stubbs could not be made to assume the garb of an angel of light, what was she to think of Captain Batsby? You can read Lady Aubrey's letter. I don't want to read Lady Aubrey's letter. I won't see him. I don't care what my uncle says. I don't care what anybody says. Yes, I do know him. I remember him very well. I spoke to him once or twice, and I didn't like him at all. You said the same of Colonel Stubbs. I didn't say the same of Colonel Stubbs. He's a great deal worse than Colonel Stubbs. And you said just the same of Tom. He is the same as Tom, just as bad. It's no good going on about him, Aunt Margaret. I won't see him. If I were locked up in a room with him, I wouldn't speak a word to him. He has no right to come. A gentleman, my dear, has always a right to ask a lady to be his wife if he's got means. You always say so, Aunt Margaret, but I don't believe it. There should be—there should have been—I don't know what, but I'm quite sure the man has no right to come to me, and I won't see him. To this resolution Ayala clung, and as she was very firm about it, Mrs. Dossett, after consultation with her husband, at last gave way and consented to see Captain Batsby herself. In due time Captain Batsby came. At any knock herded the door during this period Ayala flew out of the drawing-room into her own chamber, and at the captain's knock she flew with double haste, feeling sure that his was the special knock. The man was shown up, and in a set speech declared his purpose to Mrs. Dossett, and expressed a hope that Lady Aubrey might have written on the subject, might he be allowed to see the young lady. I fear that would be of no service, Captain Batsby. Of no service? On receiving Lady Aubrey's letter I was, of course, obliged to tell my niece the honour you propose to do her. I'm quite in earnest, you know, said the captain. So I suppose, as Lady Aubrey would not have written, nor would you have come on such a mission. But so is my niece in earnest. She will at any rate hear what I have got to say. She would rather not, said Mrs. Dossett. She thinks that it would only be painful to both of you, and she has quite made up her mind that she cannot accept the honour you propose to do her. What good would it serve? Is Miss Dorma at home? asked the captain, suddenly. Mrs. Dossett hesitated for a while, anxious to tell a lie on the matter, but fearing to do so. I suppose she is at home, continued the urgent lover. Miss Dorma is at present in her own chamber. Then I think I ought to see her, continued the captain. She can't know at present what is my income. Lady Aubrey has told us that it is sufficient. But that means nothing. Your niece cannot be aware that I have a very pretty little place of my own done in Berkshire. I don't think it would make a difference, said Mrs. Dossett. Or that I shall be willing to settle upon her a third of my income. It is not many gentlemen who will do as much as that free young lady when the young lady has nothing of her own. I'm sure you're very generous. Yes, I am. I always was generous, and I have no impediments to get rid of, not a trouble of that kind in all the world. And I don't owe a shilling. Very few young men who have lived as much in the world as I have can say that. I'm sure your position is all that is desirable. That's just it. No position could be more desirable. I should give up the service immediately as soon as I was married. At that, Mrs. Dossett bowed, not knowing what words to find for further conversation. After that, continued the captain, do you mean to say that I am not to be allowed to see the young lady? I cannot force her to come down, Captain Batsby. I would, if I were you. Force a young lady? Something ought to be done, said he, beginning almost to whine. I have come here on purpose to see her, and I'm quite prepared to do what is handsome. My half-sister, Lady Aubrey, had her down at Stullum, and is quite anxious to have her there again. I suppose you have no objection to make to me, Mrs. Dossett? Oh, dear no! Or, Mr. Dossett? I do not say that he has, Captain Batsby, but this is a matter in which a young lady's word must be paramount. We cannot force her to marry you, or even to speak to you. The captain still went on within treaties until Mrs. Dossett found herself so far compelled to accede to him as to go up to Ayala's room and beg her to come down and answer this third suitor with her own voice. But Ayala was immovable. When her aunt came near her she took hold of the bed as though fearing an attempt would be made to drag her out of the room. She again declared that if she were forced into the room below nothing could oblige her to speak even a word. As for thanking him, she said, you can do that yourself aren't Margaret, if you like. I'm not a bit obliged to him, but if you choose to say so you may. Only pray do tell him to go away and tell him never, never to come back any more. Then Mrs. Dossett returned to the drawing-room and declared that her embassy had been quite in vain. In all my life, said Captain Batsby, as he took his leave, I never heard of such conduct before. Nevertheless, as he went away he made up his mind that Lady Albury should get Ayala again down to Stullum. He was very angry, but his love remained as hot as ever. As I did not succeed in seeing her, he said in a letter to his half-sister, of course I do not know what she might have said to me herself. I might probably have induced her to give me another hearing. I put it all down to that abominable aunt, who probably has some scheme of her own and would not let Miss Dorma come down to me. If you will have her again at Stullum, everything may be made to go right. At home, in King's Precrescent, when Ayala had gone to bed, both Mr. and Mrs. Dossett expressed themselves as much troubled by the peculiarity of Ayala's nature. Mrs. Dossett declared her conviction that the promised legacy from Uncle Tom would never be forthcoming, because he'd been so much offended by the rejection of his own son. And even should the legacy remain written in Sir Thomas's will, where would Ayala find a home if Mr. Dossett were to die before the baronet? This rejection of suitors of fit, well-to-do, unobjectionable suitors was held by Mrs. Dossett to be very wicked and a direct flying in the face of Providence. Does she think, said Mrs. Dossett, urging the matter with all her eloquence to her husband, that young men with incomes are to be coming after her always like this? Mr. Dossett shook his head and scratched it at the same time, which was always a sign with him that he was not at all convinced by the arguments used, but that he did not wish to incur further hostility by answering them. Why shouldn't she see an eligible man when he comes recommended like this? I suppose, my dear, she didn't think him nice enough. Nice? Sure, I call it a direct flying in the face of Providence. If he were ever so nasty and twice as old, she ought to think twice about it in her position. There is poor Tom, as they say, absolutely ill. The housekeeper was over here from Queensgate the other day, and she declares that that affair about the policeman all came from his being in love. And now he's left the business and has gone to Merle Park, because he's so knocked in a heap that he cannot hold up his head. I don't see why love should make a man punch a policeman's breath out of him, said Mr. Dossett. Of course Tom was foolish, but he would do very well if she would have him. Of course your sister and Sir Thomas and all of them will be very furious. What right will she have to expect money after that? Tom is an ass, said Mr. Dossett. I suppose Colonel Stubbs is an ass, too. What I want to know is what she looks for. Like any other girl she expects to get married some day, I suppose, but she has been reading poetry and novels and trash till she's got her head so full of nonsense that she doesn't know what it is she does want. I should like to shake her till I shook all the romance out of her. If there is anything I do hate, it is romance, while bread and meat and coals and washing are so dear. With this Mrs. Dossett took herself and her troubles up to her bedroom. Mr. Dossett sat for a while, gazing with speculative eyes at the embers of the fire. He was conscious in his heart that some part of that attack upon romance in general was intended for himself. Though he did not look to be romantic, especially when seated at his desk in Somerset House with his big index book before him, still there was left about him some touch of poetry and an appreciation of the finer feelings of our nature. Though he could have wished that Ayala should have been able to take one of these three well-to-do suitors who were so anxious to obtain her hand, still he could not bring himself not to respect her. Still he was unable not to love her, because she was steadfastly averse to accept as a husband a man for whom she had no affection. As he looked at the embers he asked himself how it ought to be. Here was a girl whose only gift in life was her own personal charm. That that charm must be powerful was evident from the fact that she could attract such men as these. Of the good things of the world, of a pleasant home, of ample means, and of all that absence of care which comes from money poor Mr. Dosset had by no means a poor appreciation. That men are justified in seeking these good things by their energy, industry, and talents he was quite confident. How was it with a girl who had nothing else but her beauty, or perhaps her wit, in lieu of energy and industry? Was she justified in carrying her wares also into the market, and making the most of them? The embers had burned so low, and he had become so cold before he had settled the question in his own mind, that he was obliged to go up to bed, leaving it unsettled. END OF CHAPTER XXXIV A few days after this, just as the bread and cheese had been put on the table for the modest midday meal at Kingsbury Crescent, there came a most unwonted honour on Mrs. Dosset. It was a call from no lesser person than Lady Tringle herself, who had come all the way up from Merle Park on purpose. It was a Saturday. She had travelled by herself and intended to go back on the same day with her husband. This was an amount of trouble which she very seldom gave herself, not often making a journey to London during the periods of her rural sojourn, and when she began by assuring her sister-in-law that she made the journey with no object but that of coming to Kingsbury Crescent, Mrs. Dosset was aware that something very important was to be communicated. Mrs. Dosset and Ayala were together in the dining-room when Lady Tringle appeared, and the embracings were very affectionate. They were particularly affectionate towards Ayala, who was kissed as though nothing had ever happened to interfere with the perfect love existing between the aunt and the niece. They were more than friendly, almost sisterly, towards Mrs. Dosset, whom in truth Lady Tringle met hardly more than once in a year. It was very manifest that Aunt Emmeline wanted to have something done. No, my darling, she said turning to Ayala, if you would not mind going away for ten minutes, I could say a few words on a very particular business to your aunt. Then she gave her niece a tender little squeeze and assumed her sweetest smile. It will be as well to go back a little and tell the cause which had produced this unexpected visit. There had been very much of real trouble at Merle Park. Everything was troublesome. Gertrude had received her final letter from her lover, had declared herself to be broken-hearted, and was evincing her sorrow by lying in bed half the day abstaining from her meals, and relieving herself from famine by sly visits to the larder. It was supposed that her object was to bend the stony heart of her father, but the process added an additional trouble to her mother. Then the traffics were a sore vexation. It was now nearly the end of January, and they were still at Merle Park. There had been a scene in which Sir Thomas had been very harsh. My dear, he had said to his wife, I find that something must be done to the chimney of the North Room. The workman must be in it by the first of February. See and have all the furniture taken out before they come. Now the North Room was the chamber in which the traffic slept, and the traffics were present when the order was given. No one believed the story of the chimney. This was the mode of expulsion which Sir Thomas had chosen on the spur of the moment. Mr. Traffic said not a word, but in the course of the morning Augusta expostulated with her mother. This was also disagreeable. Then the condition of Tom was truly pitiable. All his trust in champagne, all his bellicose humour had deserted him. He moped about the place, the most miserable of human beings, spending hour after hour in imploring his mother's assistance. But Lucy, with her quiet determination and mute persistency in waiting, was a source of almost greater annoyance to her aunt than even her own children. That Lucy should, in any degree, have had her way with Mr. Hummel, had gone against the grain with her. Mr. Hummel, to her thinking, was a person to be connected with, whom would be a disgrace. She was always speaking of his birth, of his father's life, and of those Roman iniquities. She had given way for a time when she had understood that her husband intended to give the young people money enough to enable them to marry. In that case Lucy would be at once taken away from the house. But now all that had come to an end. Sir Thomas had given no money and had even refused to give any money. Nevertheless he was peacefully indulgent to Lucy, and was always scolding his wife because she was hostile to Lucy's lover. In this emergency she induced him to accede to a proposition by which one of her miseries would be brought to an end, and another might perhaps be remedied. A second exchange should be made. Lucy should be sent back to Kingsbury Crescent, and Ayala should once more be brought into favour at Moll Park, Queensgate and Glen Bogey. Your brother will never put up with it, said Sir Thomas. Lady Tringle was not afraid of her brother, and thought that by soft words she might even talk over her sister-in-law. Ayala, she knew, had been troublesome in Kingsbury Crescent. She was sure, she said, Ayala's whims would, of their nature, be more troublesome to such a woman as Mrs. Dosset than Lucy's obstinacy. Ayala had no doubt been pert and disobedient at Glen Bogey and at Rome, but there had been an unbending objuracy about Lucy, which had been more distasteful to Aunt Emily than even Ayala's pert disobedience. It will be the only way, she had said to Sir Thomas, to put Tom on his legs again. If the girl comes back here, she will be sure to have him at last. There was much in this which, to Sir Thomas, was weak and absurd. That prolonged journey round by San Francisco, Japan, and P. Kin, was the remedy which recommended itself to him. But he was less able to dispatch Tom at once to Japan than the elder faddle had been to send off the younger faddle to the stern realities of life in Aberdeen. He was quite willing that Tom should marry Ayala if it could be arranged, and therefore he gave his consent. So armed Lady Tringle had come up to Kingsbury Crescent and was now about to undertake a task which she acknowledged to herself to be difficult. She, in the first place, had had her choice and had selected a niece. Then she had quarrelled with her own selection and had changed nieces. This had been done to accommodate her own fancy, and now she wanted to change the nieces back again. She felt aware that her request was unreasonable and came therefore determined to wrap it up in her blandest smiles. When Ayala had left the room Mrs. Dosset sat mute in attention. She was quite aware that something very much out of the ordinary way was to be asked of her. In her ordinary way Lady Tringle never did smile when she came to Kingsbury Crescent. She would be profused in finery and would seem to throw off sparks of wealth at every word she spoke. Now even her dress had been turned down to her humbler manner, and there was no touch of her husband's purse in her gate. Margaret, she said, I have a proposition of great importance to make to you. Mrs. Dosset opened her eyes wider and sat still mute. That poor girl is not—is not—is not doing perhaps the very best for herself here at Kingsbury Crescent. Why is she not doing the best for herself? asked Mrs. Dosset angrily. Do not for a moment suppose that I am finding fault either with you or my brother. You'd be very wrong if you did. No doubt, but I am not finding fault. I know how very generous you have both been. Of course a Thomas is a rich man, and what he gives to one of the girls comes to nothing. Of course it is different with you. It is hard upon my brother to have any such burden put upon him, and it is very good both in him and you to bear it. What is it you want us to do now, Emmeline? Well, I was going to explain. I do think at a great pity that Tom and Ayala should not become man and wife. If ever any young man did love a girl, I believe that he loves her. I think he does. It's dreadful I never saw anything like it. He's just for all the world like those young men we'd read of who do all manner of horrible things for love—smothering themselves and their young woman with charcoal, or throwing them into the regents' canal. I am constantly afraid of something happening. It was all because of Ayala that he got into that terrible row at the police court. And then we were afraid he was going to take to drink. He's given all that up now. I'm very glad he has given drink up. That wouldn't do him any good. He's quite different now. The poor fellow hardly takes anything. He'll sit all the afternoon, smoking cigarettes and sipping tea. It's quite sad to see him. Then he comes and talks to me, and it's always asking me to make Ayala have him. I don't think that anybody can ever make Ayala do anything. Not quite by talking to her, I dare say not. I did not mean to say a word to her about it just now. We can do nothing, I fear, said Mrs. Dossett. I was going to suggest something, but I wanted at first to say a word or two about poor Lucy. They were just at present all poor to Lady Tringle, Ayala, Lucy, Tom and Gertrude. Even Augusta was poor because she was to be turned out of her bedroom. Is she in trouble? Oh, dear, yes, but she added thinking well to correct herself, so that Mrs. Dossett might not imagine that she would have to look forward to troubles with Lucy. She could arrange her affairs, no doubt, if she were not with us. She has engaged to that Mr. Isidore Hummel, the sculptor. So I have heard. He does not earn very much just at present, I fear. Sir Thomas did offer to help him, but he was perhaps a little hoity-toity, giving himself airs. That, however, did not come off, and there they are, waiting. I don't mean to say a word against poor Lucy. I think it a pity, you know, but perhaps it was natural enough. He isn't what I should have liked for a niece who was living with me just as though she were my daughter, but I couldn't help that. But what are we to do, Emilyne? Let them just change places again. Change again. Ayala to go to you and Lucy to come back here. Just that. If Ayala were with us, she would be sure to get used to Tom at last. And then Lucy could manage her affairs with Mr. Hummel so much better if she were with you. Why should she manage her affairs better if she were with us? Lady Tringle was aware that this was the weak part of her case. On the poor Ayala and poor Tom's side of the question there was a good deal which might be said. Then, though she might not convince, she might be eloquent. But touching Lucy she could say nothing which did not simply signify that she wanted to get rid of the girl. Now Mrs. Dossett had also wanted to get rid of Lucy when the former exchange had been made. What I mean is that if she were away Sir Thomas would be more likely to do something for her. This was an invention at the spur of the moment. Do you not feel that the girls should not be chucked about like balls from a battle door? Ask Mrs. Dossett. For their own good, Margaret, I only propose it for their own good. You can't but think it would be a good thing for Ayala to be married to our Tom. If she liked him. Why shouldn't she like him? You know what that means. Poor Ayala is young and a little romantic. She would be a great deal happier if all that could be knocked out of her. She has to marry somebody and the sooner she settles down the better. Sir Thomas will do anything for them, a horse and carriage and anything she could set her heart upon. There is nothing Sir Thomas would not do for Tom so as to get him put upon his legs again. I don't think Ayala would go. She must, you know, whispered Lady Tringle, if we both tell her. And Lucy? She must too, again whispered Lady Tringle. If they are told they are to go what else can they do? Why shouldn't Ayala wish to come? There were quarrels before. Yes, because of Augusta. Augusta is married now. Lady Tringle could not quite say that Augusta was gone. Will you speak to Ayala? Perhaps it would come better from you, Margaret, if you agree with me. I am not sure that I do. I am quite sure that your brother would not force her to go whether she wished it or not. No doubt we should be glad of the marriage could be arranged but we cannot force a girl to marry and her aversion in this case is so strong. Aversion? Aversion to being married, I mean. It is so strong that I do not think she will go of her own accord to any house where she is likely to meet her cousin. I dare say she may be a fool. I say nothing about that. Of course she shall be asked, and if she wishes to go then Lucy can be asked too, but of course it must all depend upon what your brother says. Then Lady Tringle took her leave without again seeing Ayala herself, and as she went declared her intention of calling at Somerset House. She would not think it right, she said, in a matter of such importance to leave London without consulting her brother. It might be possible, she thought, that she would be able to talk her brother over, whereas his wife, if she had the first word, might turn him the other way. His Aunt Emmeline gone, asked Ayala when she came down. I am glad she's gone because I never know how to look when she calls me dear. I know she hates me. I hope not, Ayala. I'm sure she does because I hated Augusta. I do hate Augusta, and my Aunt hates me. The only one of the lot I like is Uncle Tom. Then the proposition was made. Ayala, sitting with her mouth wide open, as the details, one after another, were opened out to her. Her Aunt did it with exquisite fairness, abstaining from opening out some of the details, which might be clear enough to Ayala without any explanation. Her Aunt Emmeline was very anxious to have her back again, the only reason for her former expulsion having been the enmity of Augusta. Her Uncle Tom and her Aunt, and no doubt Gertrude, would be very glad to receive her. Not a word was said about Tom. Then something was urged as to the material comforts of the jingle establishments and of the necessary poverty of Kingsbury Crescent. And Lucy is to have the poverty, said Ayala indignantly. I think it probable, my dear, that before long Lucy will become the wife of Mr. Hummel. And you want to get rid of me? demanded Ayala. No, my dear, not so. You must not think that for a moment. The proposition has not originated with me at all. I am endeavouring to do my duty by explaining to you the advantages which you would enjoy by going to your Aunt Emmeline and which you certainly cannot have if you remain here. And I must tell you that if you return to Sir Thomas he will probably provide for you. You know what I mean by providing for you? No, I don't, said Ayala, who had in her mind some dim idea that her cousin Tom was supposed to be a provision. She was quite aware that her Aunt Margaret in her explanation as hitherto given had not mentioned Tom's name and was sure that it had not been omitted without reason. By providing, I mean that if you are living in his house he will leave you something in his will, as would be natural that he should do for a child belonging to him. Your Uncle Reginald, as she said in a low and very serious tone, will, I fear, have nothing to leave to you. Then there was silence for some minutes, after which Mrs. Dossett asked the important question. Well, Ayala, what do you think about it? Must I go, said Ayala, may I stay? Yes, my dear, you may certainly stay if you wish it. Then I will stay, said Ayala, jumping up onto her feet. You do not want to turn me out, Aunt Margaret? Then she went down on her knees and leaning on her aunt's lap, looked up into her face. If you will keep me, I will try to be good. My dear, you are good. I have nothing to complain of. Of course we will keep you. Nobody has thought for a moment of bidding you go, but you should understand that when your aunt made the propositioner was bound to tell it to you. Then there was great embracing and kissing, and Ayala felt that she was relieved from a terrible danger. She had often declared that no one could make her marry her cousin Tom, but it had seemed to her for a moment that if she were given up bodily to the tringles no mode of escape would be open to her short of suicide. There had been a moment, or most of regret, that she had never brought herself to regard Jonathan Stubbs as an angel of light. At Somerset House Lady Tringle made her suggestion to her brother with even more flowery assurance of general happiness than she had used in endeavouring to persuade his wife. Ayala would, of course, be married to Tom in the course of the next six months, and during the same period Lucy no doubt would be married to that very enterprising but somewhat obstinate young man, Mr. Hummel. Thus there would be an end to all the dormant troubles. And you, Reginald, she said, will be relieved from a burden which never ought to have been laid upon your shoulder. We will think of it, he said very gravely, over and over again. Beyond that, we will think of it, he could not be induced to utter a word. END OF CHAPTER XIV Three days were allowed to Frank Houston to consider within his own mind what he would say for himself and what he would propose finally to do when he should see Miss Dossamer on the appointed Sunday. He was called upon to decide whether, after so many resolutions made to the contrary, he would now at last bring himself to encounter poverty in a family, genteel poverty with about seven hundred and fifty pounds a year between himself and his wife. He had hitherto been very staunch on the subject, and had unfortunately thought that image in Dossamer had been as firmly fixed in her determination. His theory had in itself been good. If two people marry they are likely, according to the laws of nature, to have very soon more than two. In the process of a dozen years they might not improbably become ever so many more than two. Funds which were barely enough, if enough for two, would certainly fail to be enough for half a dozen. His means were certainly not enough for himself as he had hitherto found them. Image means were left even than his own. Therefore it was clear that he and Imageon ought not to marry and encounter the danger of all those embryo mouths. There was a logic about it which it seemed to him to be unanswerable. It was a logic which applied to his case above all others. The man who had a hope of earning money need not be absolutely bound by it. To him the money might come as quickly as the mouths. With the cradles would arrive the means of buying the cradles. And to the man who had much more than enough for himself, to such a man as he had expected to be while he was looking forward to the coffin of that iniquitous uncle, the logic did not apply at all. In defending himself, both to himself and to Imageon, he was very strong upon that point. A man who had plenty and would not divide his plenty with another might with truth be called selfish. Rich old bachelor's might with propriety be called curmudgins. But was it right that a man should be abused, even by a young lady to whom under more propitious circumstances he had offered his heart, when he declared himself unwilling to multiply suffering by assisting to bring into the world human beings whom he would be unable to support. He had felt himself to be very strong in his logic, and had unfortunately made the mistake of supposing that it was as clear to Imageon as to himself. Then he had determined to rectify the inconvenience of his position. It had become manifest to him whilst he was waiting for his uncle's money, that not only were his own means insufficient for married life, but even for single comfort. It would always come to pass that when he had resolved on two mutton chops and half a pint of sherry, the humble little meal would spread itself into woodcock and champagne. He regarded it as an unkindness in providence that he should not have been gifted with economy. Therefore he had to look about him for a remedy, and as Imageon was out of the question he found a remedy in Gertrude Tringle. He had then believed that everything was settled for him, not indeed in a man a very pleasant, but after a fashion that would make life possible for him. Sir Thomas had given one of his daughters, with a large sum of money, to such a man as septimus traffic, a man more impecunious than himself, one whom Frank did not hesitate to pronounce to be much less of a gentleman. That seat in the House of Commons was to him nothing, though many men in the House of Commons to whom he would hardly condescend to speak. To be the younger son of a latter-day peer was to him nothing. He considered himself in all respects to be a more eligible husband than septimus traffic. Therefore he had entertained, but little doubt, when he found himself accepted by Gertrude herself and her mother. Then by degrees he had learned to know something of the young lady to whom he intended to devote himself, and it had come to pass that the better he had known the less he had liked her. Nevertheless he had persevered, groaning in spirit as he thought of the burden with which he was about to inflict himself. Then had come the release. Sir Thomas had explained to him that no money would be forthcoming, and the young lady had made to him a foolish proposition which as he thought fully justified him in regarding the matches at an end. And then he had three days in which to make up his mind. It may be a question whether three days are ever much better than three minutes for such a purpose. A man's mind will very generally refuse to make itself up until it be driven and compelled by emergency. The three days are passed not in forming but in postponing judgment. In nothing is procrastination so tempting as in thought. So it came to pass that through the Thursday, the Friday, and the Saturday Frank Houston came to no conclusion, though he believed that every hour of the time was devoted to forming one. Then as he ate his dinner on Saturday night at his club a letter was brought to him, the handwriting of which was familiar to him. The letter assisted him little in thinking. The letter was from Gertrude Tringle and need not be given in its entirety. There was a good deal of reproach in that he had been so fickle as to propose to abandon her at the first touch of adversity. Then she had gone on to say that knowing her father a great deal better than he could do, she was quite satisfied that the money would be all right. But the last paragraph of the letter shall be given. Papa has almost yielded already. I have been very ill. Here the extent of her malady was shown by the strength of the underscoring with which the words were made significant. Very ill indeed, she went on to say, as you will understand if you have ever really loved me. I have kept my bed almost ever since I got your cruel letter. Bed and cruel were again strenuously underscored. It has made Papa very unhappy, and though he has said nothing to myself, he has told Mama that if I am really in earnest he will do something for us. The letter was long, but this is all the reader need to see of it. But it must be explained that the young lady had greatly exaggerated her mother's words and that her mother had exaggerated those which Sir Thomas had spoken. She is a stupid idiot, Sir Thomas had said to his wife, if she is obedient and does her duty, of course I shall do something for her some day. This had been stretched to that promise of concession which Gertrude communicated to her lover. This was the assistance which Frank Houston received in making up his mind on Saturday night. If what the girl said was true, there was still open to him the manner of life which he had prepared for himself, and he did believe the announcement to be true. Though Sir Thomas had been so persistent in his refusals, his experience in life had taught him to believe that a parent's sternness is never a match for a daughter's obstinacy. Had there been a touch of tenderness in his heart to the young lady herself, he would not have abandoned her so easily. But he had found his consolation when giving up his hope of Sir Thomas's money. Now should he again take to the girl and find his consolation in accepting the money? Should he resolve upon doing so, this would materially affect any communication which he might make to Imogen on the following day. While thus in doubt he went into the smoking-room, and there he found any thinking to be out of the question. A great question was being debated as to club law. One man had made an assertion. He had declared that another man had been seen playing cards in a third man's company. A fourth man had, thereupon, put his hat on his head, and had declared conchumaciously that the assertion was not true. Having so declared, he had conchumaciously stalked out of the room, and had banged the door off to him very conchumaciously indeed. The question was whether the conchumacious gentleman had misbehaved himself in accordance with the rules of the club, and if so what should be done to him? Not true is as bad as false. False, applied to a gentleman in a club, must be matter either of an apology or expulsion. The objectionable word had no doubt been said in defence of an absent man, and need not, perhaps, have been taken up, had the speaker not at once put on his hat and stalked out of the room, and banged the door. It was asserted that a lie may be given by the way in which a door is banged, and yet no club punishes the putting on of hats or stalking off or the banging of doors. It was a difficult question, and occupied Frank Houston till two o'clock in the morning, to the exclusion of Gertrude Tringle and Imogen Dossomer. On the Sunday morning he was not up early nor did he go to church. The conchumacious gentleman was a friend of his whom he knew that no arguments would induce to apologise. He believed also that gentleman number three might have been seen playing cards with gentleman number two, so that there was no valid excuse for the banging of the door. He was much exercised by the points to be decided, so that when he got into a cab to be taken to Mrs. Dossomer's house he had hardly come to any other conclusion than that one which had arisen to him from a comparison between the two young ladies. Imogen was nearly perfect, and Gertrude was as nearly the reverse as a young lady could be with the proper number of eyes in her head and a nose between them. The style of her letter was abominable to him. Very ill indeed, as you will understand if you ever really loved me. There was a mawkish clap-trap about it which thoroughly disgusted him. Everything from Imogen was straightforward and downright, whether it were love or whether it were anger. But then to be settled with an income of three thousand pounds a year would relieve him from such a load of care. And so Tringle Pair does not see the advantage of such a son-in-law, said Imogen, after the first greetings were over between them. The greetings have been very simple, just a touch of the hand, just a civil word, civil, but not in the least tender, just an inclination of the head, and then two seats occupied with all the rug between them. Yes, indeed, said Frank, the man is a fool, because you'll probably get somebody who'll behave less well to his daughter and make a worse use of his money. Just so one can only be astonished at his folly. Is there no hope left? A glimmer there is. Oh, indeed. I got a letter last night from my lady-love in which she tells me that she is very ill and that her sickness is working upon her father's bowels. Frank! It is the proper language, working upon her father's bowels of compassion. Fathers always have bowels of compassion at last. You will return, then, of course. What do you say? As for myself or as for you? As a discreet and trusty counsellor. To me you have always been a trusty counsellor. Then I should put a few things into a bag, go down to Merle Park, and declare that in spite of all the edicts that ever came from a father's mouth you cannot absent yourself while you know that your gutterhood is ill. And so prepare a new cousin for you to breast your bosom. If you can endure her for always why should not I for an hour or two now and again? Why not indeed? In fact, Imogen, this enduring and not enduring even this living and not living is, after all, but an affair of the imagination, who can tell but that as years roll on she may be better looking even than you, certainly, and have as much to say for herself, a great deal more that is worth hearing, and behave herself as the mother of a family with quite as much propriety. In all that I do not doubt that she would be my superior, more obedient, I'm sure she would be, or she would be very disobedient. And then she can provide me and my children with ample comforts, which I take is the real purpose for which a wife should be married. Therefore, said he, and then he stopped. And therefore there should be no doubt. Though I hate her, he said, clenching his fist with violence as he spoke, with every fibre of my heart, still you think there should be no doubt? That Frank is violent language and foolish. And though I love you so intensely that whenever I see her the memory of you becomes an agony to me. Such language is only more violent and more foolish. Surely not if I have made up my mind at last that I will never willingly see Miss Tringle again. Here he got up and walking across the rug stood over her, and waited as though expecting some word from her. But she, putting her two hands up to her head and brushing her hair away from her forehead, looked up to him for what further words might come to him. Surely not, he continued, if I have made up my mind at last, that nothing shall ever again serve to rob me of your love, if I may still hope to possess it. Oh Frank, she said, how mean I am to be a creature obedient to the whistle of such a master as you. But are you obedient? You know that well enough. I have had no Gertrude with whom I have vacillated, whether for the sake of love or Luca. Whatever you may be, whether mean or noble, you are the only man with whom I can endure to live, for whom I would endure to die. Of course I had not expected that your love should be like mine. How should it be so, seeing that you were a man and that I am but a woman? Here he attempted to seat himself by her on the sofa which he occupied, but she gently repulsed him, motioning him towards the chair which he had occupied. Sit there, Frank, she said, so that we may look into each other's faces and talk seriously. Is it to come to this, then, that I am to ruin you at last? There will be no ruin. But there will, if we are married now. Shall I tell you the kind of life which would satisfy me? Some little place abroad, he asked. Oh dear no, no place to which you would be confined at all. If I may remain as I am, knowing that you intend to marry no one else, feeling confident that there is a bond binding us together, even though we should never become man and wife, I should be, if not happy, at least contented. That is a cold prospect. Cold but not ice cold as would have been the other, cold but not wretchedly cold as would be the idea always present to me that I had reduced you to poverty. Frank, I am so far selfish that I cannot bear to abandon the idea of your love, but I am not so far selfish as to wish to possess it at the expense of your comfort. Shall it be so? Be how? said he, speaking almost in anger. Let us remain just as we are. Only you will promise me that as I cannot be your wife, there shall be no other. I need hardly promise you that there will be no other husband. Now he sat frowning at her, while she, still pressing back her hair with her hands, looked eagerly into his face. If this will be enough for you, she said, it shall be enough for me. No, my God! Frank! It will certainly not be enough for me. I will have nothing to do but so damnable or compact. Damnable? Yes, that is what I call it. That is what any man would call it, and any woman, too, who would speak her mind. Then, sir, perhaps you will be kind enough to make your proposition. I have made mine, such as it is, and I am sorry that it should not have been received at any rate with courtesy. But, as she said this, there was a gleam of bright spirit in her eyes, such as he had not seen since first the name of Gertrude had been mentioned to her. Yes, said he, you have made your proposition, and now it is only fair that I should make mine. Indeed, I made it already when I suggested that little place abroad. Let it be abroad or at home, or of what nature it may, so that you shall be there and I with you, it shall be enough for me. That is my proposition, and if it be not accepted, then I shall return to Miss Tringle and all the glories of Lombard Street. Frank, she said, then before she could speak another word, he had risen from his seat and she was in his arms. Frank, she continued, pushing back his kisses. How impossible it is that I should not be obedient to you in all things! I know that I am agreeing to that which will cause you some day to repent. By heavens no, he said, I am changed in all that. A man cannot change at once. Your heart is soft, but your nature remains the same. Frank, I could be so happy at this moment, if I could forget the picture which my imagination points to me of your future life. Your love and your generous words and the look out of your dear eyes are sweet to me now, as when I was a child whom you first made so proud by telling her that she owned your heart. If I could only revel in the return of your affections. It's no return, said he. There's never been a moment in which my affections have not been the same. Well, then, in these permitted signs of your affection, if it were not that I cannot shut out the future, do not press me to name any early day, because no period of my future life will be so happy to me as this. Is there any reason why I should not intrude, said Mrs. Dossmer, opening the door when the above conversation had been extended for perhaps another hour? Not in the least, as far as I'm concerned, said Frank, a few words have been spoken between us, all of which may be repeated to you if Imogen can remember them. Every one of them, said Imogen, but I hardly think that I shall repeat them. I suppose they've been very much a matter of course, said Mrs. Dossmer. The old story repeated between you two for the fourth or fifth time, considering all things do you think that I should congratulate you? I ask for no congratulation, said Imogen. You may certainly congratulate me, said Frank. After that the conversation became tame, and the happy lover soon escaped from the house into the street. When there he found very much to occupy his mind. He had certainly made his resolution at last, and had done so in a manner which would now leave him no power of retrogression. The whole theory of his life had, with the vengeance, been thrown to the winds. The little place abroad, or elsewhere, was now a settled certainty. He had nearly got the better of her. He had all but succeeded in putting down his own love and hers by little gentle ridicule and by a few half-wise phrases, which she at the moment had been unable to answer, but she now had in truth vanquished him by the absolute sincerity of her love. The reader is not to suppose by this that he has declared to have suddenly thrown off all his weaknesses, and to have succeeded in clothing himself in an armor of bright steel proof for the rest of his life against all temptations. Such suits of armor are not to be had at a moment's notice, nor, as I fear, can a man ever acquire one quite perfect at all points who has not begun to make it for himself before Houston's age. But he did on that day dine off the two mutton chops, and comforted himself with no more than the half pint of sherry. It was a great beginning. Throughout the whole evening he could not be got for a moment to join any of the club hunters which were discussing the great difficulty of the contumatious gentleman. I think he must really be going to be married at last, one club pundit said, when a question was asked as to Houston's singular behaviour on the occasion. He was indeed very sober, so sober that he left the smoking-room as soon as his one silent cigar was finished, and went out alone in order that he might roam the streets in a thoughtful solitude. It was a clear, frosty night, and as he buttoned his great coat around him he felt that the dry, cold air would do him good and assist his meditations. At last then everything was arranged for him, and he was to encounter exactly that mode of life which he had so often told himself to be most unfit for him. There were to be the cradles always full, and his little coffer so nearly empty, and he had done it all for himself. She, Imogen, had proposed a mode of life to him which would at any rate have saved him from this. But it had been impossible that he should accept a plan so cruel to her when the proposition came from herself. It must all soon be done now. She had asked that a distant day might be fixed for the marriage. Even that request, coming from her, made it almost imperative upon him to insist upon an early day. It would be well for him to look upon to-morrow or a few morrows whose short distance would be immaterial as the time fixed. No, there should be no going back now, so he declared to himself endeavouring to prepare the suit of armour for his own wearing. Powell might be the best place, or perhaps one of those little towns in Brittany. Dresden would not do because there would be society at Dresden, and he must, of course, give up all ideas of society. He would have liked Rome, but Rome would be far too expensive, and then residents in Rome required to be absent three or four months every year. He and his wife and large family, he had no doubt in life as to the large family, would not be able to allow themselves any recreation such as that. He thought he had heard that the ordinary comforts of life were cheap in the west of Ireland, or if not cheap, unobtainable, which would be the same thing. Perhaps Castle Bar might be a good locality for his nursery. There would be nothing to do at Castle Bar, no amusement whatever for such a one as himself, no fitting companion for Imogen. But then amusement for himself and companions for Imogen must, of course, be out of the question. He thought that perhaps he might turn his hand to a little useful gardening, fast snips instead of roses, while Imogen would be at work in the nursery. He would begin at once and buy two or three dozen pipes because tobacco would be so much cheaper than cigars. He knew a shop at which were to be had some very pretty new-fashioned miershems, which he had been told smokers of pipes found to be excellent. But whether it should be power or whether it should be Castle Bar, whether it should be pipes or whether in regard to economy no tobacco at all, the question now was at any rate settled for him. He felt rather proud of his gallantry as he took himself home to bed, declaring to himself that he would answer that last letter from Gertrude in a very few words and in a very decided tone. There would be many little troubles. On the Monday morning he got up early, thinking that as a family man such a practice would be necessary for him. When he had disturbed the house and nearly driven his own servant mad by demanding breakfast at an altogether and a custom dower, he found that he had nothing to do. There was that head of Imogen for which he had only once sat and at which he had occasionally worked from memory because of her refusal to sit again, and he thought for a moment that this might be good employment for him now. But his art was only an expense to him. He could not now afford for himself paint and brushes and canvas, so he turned the half-finished head around upon his easel. Then he took out his banker's-book, a bundle of bills and some blotted scraps of ruled paper with which he set himself to work to arrange his accounts. When he did this he must certainly have been in earnest. But he had not as yet succeeded in seeing light through his figures when he was interrupted by the arrival of a letter which altogether arrested his attention. It was from Mudbury Dossomer, and this was the letter. Dear Huston, of course I think that you and Imogen are two fools. She has told me what took place here yesterday, and I have told her the same as I tell you. I have no power to prevent it, but you know as well as I do that you and she cannot live together on the interest of sixteen thousand pounds. When you've paid everything that you owe, I don't suppose there will be so much as that. It had been arranged between you that everything should be over, and if I had thought that anything of the kind would have occurred again, I would have told them not to let you into the house. What is the good of two such people as you making yourselves wretched forever just to satisfy the romance of a moment? I call it wicked. So I told Imogen, and so I tell you. You have changed your mind so often that of course you may change it again. I am sure that Imogen expects that you will. Indeed I can hardly believe that you intend to be such a coyote. But at any rate I have done my duty. She is old enough to look after herself, but as long as she lives with me as my sister I shall tell her what I think, and until she becomes your wife, which I hope she never will be, I shall tell you the same. Yours truly, Mudbury Dossomer. He always was a hard-unfeeling fellow, said Frank to himself, then he put the letter by with a crowd of others, assuring himself that it was one which required no answer. On the afternoon he called at the house, as he did again on the Tuesday, but on neither day did he succeed in seeing Imogen. This he thought to be hard, as the pleasure of her society was as sweet to him as ever, though he was doubtful as to his wisdom in marrying her. On the Wednesday morning he received a note from her, asking him not to come at once because Mudbury had chosen to put himself into a bad humour. Then a few words of honey were added. Of course you know that nothing that he can say will make a change. I am too well satisfied to allow of any change that shall not come from you yourself. He was quite alive to the sweetness of the honey and declared to himself that Mudbury Dossomer's ill humour was a matter to him of no concern whatever. But on the Wednesday there came also another letter, in regard to which it will be well that we should travel down again to Merle Park. An answer altogether reversed to the proposed changes as to the nieces had been received from Mrs. Dosset, as Ayala does not wish it, of course nothing can be done. Such was the decision as conveyed by Mrs. Dosset. It seemed to Lady Tringle that this was absurd. It was all very well extending charity to the children of her deceased sister, Mrs. Dorma, but all the world was agreed that beggars should not be choosers. As Ayala does not wish it, why should not Ayala wish it? What a fool must Ayala be not to wish it! Why should not Ayala be made to do as she was told whether she wished it or not? Such were the indignant questions which Lady Tringle asked of her husband. He was becoming sick of the young ladies altogether, of her own girls as well as the Dorma girls. There are pack of idiots together, he said, and Tom is the worst of the lot. With this he rushed off to London and consoled himself with his millions. Mrs. Dosset's letter had reached Merle Park on the Tuesday morning, Sir Thomas having remained down in the country over the Monday. Gertrude, having calculated the course of the post with exactness, had hoped to get a reply from Frank to that last letter of hers dated from her sick bed but written in truth after a little syrup-tissues visit to the larder after the servants' dinner on the Sunday morning. This had been possible and would have evinced a charming alacrity on the part of her lover. But this she had hardly ventured to expect. Then she had looked with anxiety to the arrival of letters on the Monday afternoon but had looked in vain. On the Tuesday morning she had felt so certain that she had contrived to open the post-bag herself in spite of illness, but there had been nothing for her. Then she sent the dispatch which reached Frank on the Wednesday morning and immediately afterwards took to her bed again with such a complication of disorders that the mayor with the broken knees was sent at once into hastings for the doctor. A little rice will be the best thing for her, said the doctor. But the poor child takes nothing, literally nothing, said Lady Tringle, who was frightened for her child. Then the doctor went on to say that Ararut would be good in Sego but offered no other prescription. Lady Tringle was disgusted by his ignorance and thought it might be well to send up to London for some great man. The doctor bowed and made up his mind that Lady Tringle was an ass, but being an honest man and also tender-hearted he had contrived to get hold of Tom before he left the house. Your sister's health is generally good, he said, Tom assented, as far as he knew Gertrude had always been as strong as a horse. Eat well, asked the doctor. Tom, who occasionally saw the family at lunch, gave a description of his sister's general performance. She's a fine healthy young lady, said the doctor. Tom gave her brother's ready adhesion to the word healthy but passed over the other epithet as being superfluous. Now, I'll tell you what it is, said the doctor. Of course, I don't want to inquire into any family secrets. My father, you know, said Tom, won't agree about the man she's engaged to. That is it. I knew there was some little trouble, but I did not want to ask any questions. Your mother is unnecessarily frightened, and I have not wished to disturb her. Your sister is taking plenty of nourishment. She does not come to table, nor yet have it in her own room. She gets it somehow. I can say that it is so. Her veins are full, and her arms are strong. Perhaps she goes into the kitchen. Have a little tray made ready for her with something nice. She will be sure to find it, and when she has found it two or three times, she will know that she has been discovered. If Lady Tringle does send for a physician from London, you could perhaps find an opportunity of telling him what I have suggested. Her mama need know nothing about it. This took place on the Tuesday and on the Wednesday morning Gertrude knew that she had been discovered at any rate by Tom and the doctor. I took care to keep a wing for you, said Tom. I carved them myself at dinner. As he so addressed her, he came out from his hiding place in the kitchen about midnight and surprised her in the larder. She gave a fearful scream which, however luckily, was not heard through the house. He won't tell mama, Tom, will you? Tom promised that he would not, on condition that she would come down to breakfast on the following morning. This she did, and the London physician was saved a journey. But in the meantime Gertrude's second letter had gone up to Frank, and also a very heart-rending epistle from Lady Tringle to her husband. Poor Gertrude is in a very bad state, if ever there was a girl really broken hearted on account of love she is one. I did not think she would ever set her heart upon a man with such violent affection. I do think you might give way when it becomes a question of life and death. There isn't anything really against Mr. Houston. Sir Thomas, as he read this, was a little shaken. He had hitherto been inclined to agree with Rosalind that men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love. But now he did not know what to think about it. There was Tom undoubtedly in a bad way, and here was Gertrude brought to such a condition simply by her love that she refused to take her meals regularly. Was the world come to such a past that a father was compelled to give his daughter with a large fortune to an idle adventurer, or else be responsible for his daughter's life? Would Augusta have pined away and died had she not been allowed to marry her traffic? Would Lucy pine and die unless money were given to her sculptor? Upon the whole Sir Thomas thought that the cares of his family were harder to bear than those of his millions. In regard to Gertrude he almost thought that he would give way if only that he might be rid of that trouble. It must be acknowledged that Frank Houston, when he received the young lady's letter, was less soft-hearted than her father. The letter was or should have been heart-rending. You cruel man! You must have received my former letter, and though I told you that I was ill and almost dying, you have not heeded it. Three posts have come, and I have not had a line from you. In your last you were weak enough to say that you were going to give it all up, because you could not make papa do just what you wanted all at once. Do you know what it is to have taken possession of a young lady's heart, or is it true, as Augusta says of you, that you care for nothing but the money? If it is so, say it at once, and let me die. As it is, I am so very ill that I cannot eat a mouthful of anything, and have hardly strength left to me to write this letter. But I cannot really believe what Augusta says, though I dare say it may have been so with Mr. Traffic. Perhaps you have not been to your club, and so you have not got my former letter, or it may be that you are ill yourself. If so, I do wish that I could come and nurse you, though indeed I am so ill that I am quite unable to leave my bed. At any rate, pray right immediately, and do come. Mama seems to think that papa will give way because I am so ill. If so, I shall think my illness the luckiest thing in the world. You must believe, dearest Frank, that I am now, as ever, yours most affectionately, Gertrude. Frank Houston was less credulous than Sir Thomas, and did not believe much in the young lady's sickness. It was evident that the young lady was quite up to the work of deceiving her father and mother, and would no doubt be willing to deceive himself if anything could be got by it. But whether she were ill or whether she were well, he could offer her no comfort. Nevertheless, he was bound to send her some answer, and with troubled spirit he wrote as follows. My dear Miss Tringle, it is to me a matter of inexpressible grief that I should have to explain again that I am unable to persist in seeking the honour of your hand in opposition to the absolute and repeated refusals which I have received from your father. It is so evident that we could not marry without his consent that I need not now go into that matter. But I think myself bound to say that considering the matter in all its bearing, I must regard our engagement as finally at an end. Were I to hesitate in saying this very plainly, I think I should be doing you an injury. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell and trust that you may soon recover your health, your sincere friend Frank Huston. On the next morning Gertrude was still in her bed having there received her letter when she sent a message to her brother. Would Tom come and see her? Tom attended at her behest and then sat down by her bedside on being told in a mysterious voice that she had to demand from him a great service. Tom, she said, that man has treated me most shamefully and most falsely. What man? What man? Why Frank Huston? There has never been any other man. After all that has been said and done he is going to throw me over. The Governor threw him over, said Tom. That amounts to nothing. The Governor would have given way, of course, and if he hadn't that was no matter of his. After he had had my promise he was bound to go on with it, don't you think so? Perhaps he was, said Tom dubiously. Of course he was. What else is the meaning of a promise? Now I'll tell you what you must do. You must go up to London and find him out. You'd better take a stick with you and then ask him what he means to do. And if he says he'll do nothing? Then Tom you should call him out. It is just the position in which your brother is bound to do that kind of thing for his sister. When he's been called out then probably he'll come around and all will be well. The prospect was one which Tom did not at all like. He had had one duel on his hands on his own account and had not as yet come through it with flying colours. There was still momentum which he felt that he would be compelled at last to take to violence in reference to Colonel Stubbs. He was all but convinced that were he to do so he would fall into some great trouble, but still it was more than probable that his outraged feelings would not allow him to resist. But this second quarrel was certainly unnecessary. That's all nonsense, Gertrude, he said. I can do nothing of the kind. He will not? Certainly not. It would be absurd. You are septimus and he will tell you that it is so. Septimus indeed? At any rate, I won't. Men don't call each other out nowadays. I know what ought to be done in these kind of things and such interferences that would be altogether improper. Then Tom, said she, raising herself in bed and looking round upon him, I will never call you my brother again.