"I NEVER THREATENED TO TURN YOU OUT."
Then there were written the following letters, which were sent and
received before Sir Thomas went to Merle Park, and therefore, also,
before he again saw Lucy.
DEAREST, DEAREST LOVE,
I have been, as desired, to Lombard Street, but I fear
that my embassy has not led to any good. I know myself
to be about as bad an ambassador as any one can send. An
ambassador should be soft and gentle,--willing to make
the best of everything, and never prone to take offence,
nor should he be addicted specially to independence. I
am ungentle, and apt to be suspicious,--especially if
anything be said derogatory to my art. I am proud of being
an artist, but I am often ashamed of myself because I
exhibit my pride. I may say the same of my spirit of
independence. I am determined to be independent if I
live,--but I find my independence sometimes kicking up its
heels, till I hate it myself.
From this you will perceive that I have not had a success
in Lombard Street. I was quite willing to answer your
uncle any questions he could ask about money. Indeed,
I had no secret from him on any subject. But when he
subjected me to cross-examination, forcing me into a
bathos of poverty, as he thought, I broke down. "Not five
hundred a-year!" "Not four!!" "Not three!!!" "Oh, heavens!
and you propose to take a wife!" You will understand how I
writhed and wriggled under the scorn.
And then there came something worse than this,--or rather,
if I remember rightly, the worst thing came first. You
were over in my studio, and will remember, perhaps,
some of my own abortive treasures, those melancholy but
soul-inspiring creations of which I have thought so much,
and others have thought so little? That no one else should
value them is natural, but to me it seems unnatural,
almost cruel, that any one should tell me to my face that
they were valueless. Your uncle, of course, had never seen
them, but he knew that sculptors are generally burdened
with these "wares," as he called them; and he suggested
that I should sell them by auction for what they might
fetch,--in order that the corners which they occupy might
be vacant. He thought that, perhaps, they might do for
country gentlemen to stick about among their shrubs.
You, knowing my foolish soreness on the subject, will
understand how well I must have been prepared by this to
endure your uncle's cross-examination.
Then he asked me as to my ideas,--not art ideas, but ideas
as to bread and cheese for the future. I told him as
exactly as I could. I explained to him that if you were
left in possession of a comfortable home, such as would
have been that of your father, I should think it best for
your sake to delay our marriage till I should be prepared
to do something better for you than I can at present;
but that I hold myself ready to give you all that I have
to give at a moment's notice, should you be required to
leave his house. And, Lucy, speaking in your name, I said
something further, and declared my belief that you, for
my sake, would bear the inconveniences of so poor a home
without complaining.
Then there arose anger both on his side and on mine; and I
must say, insult on his. He told me that I had no business
to suggest that you would be expelled from his house. I
replied that the threat had come, if not from him, then
from Lady Tringle. Upon this he accused me of positive
falsehood, asserting that your aunt had said nothing of
the kind. I then referred him to Lady Tringle herself, but
refused to stay any longer in the room with him, because
he had insulted me.
So you will see that I did less than nothing by my
embassy. I told myself that it would be so as I descended
into the underground cavern at the Gloucester Road
Station. You are not to suppose that I blame him more, or,
indeed, so much as I do myself. It was not to be expected
that he should behave as a gentleman of fine feeling. But,
perhaps, it ought to have been expected that I should
behave as a man of common sense. I ought to have taken
his advice about the auction, apparently, in good part.
I ought not to have writhed when he scorned my poor
earnings. When he asked as to my ideas, I should not have
alluded to your aunt's threat as to turning you out. I
should have been placid and humble; and then his want of
generous feeling would have mattered nothing. But spilt
milk and broken eggs are past saving. Whatever good things
may have come from your uncle's generosity had I brushed
his hair for him aright, are now clean gone, seeing that I
scrubbed him altogether the wrong way.
For myself, I do not know that I should regret it very
much. I have an idea that no money should be sweet to a
man except that which he earns. And I have enough belief
in myself to be confident that sooner or later I shall
earn a sufficiency. But, dearest, I own that I feel
disgusted with myself when I think that I have diminished
your present comfort, or perhaps lessened for the future
resources which would have been yours rather than mine.
But the milk has been spilt, and now we must only think
what we can best do without it. It seems to me that only
two homes are possible for you,--one with Sir Thomas
as his niece, and the other with me as my wife. I am
conceited enough to think that you will prefer the latter
even with many inconveniences. Neither can your uncle
or your aunt prevent you from marrying at a very early
day, should you choose to do so. There would be some
preliminary ceremony, of the nature of which I am
thoroughly ignorant, but which could, I suppose, be
achieved in a month. I would advise you to ask your aunt
boldly whether she wishes you to go or to stay with her,
explaining, of course, that you intend to hold to your
engagement, and explaining at the same time that you are
quite ready to be married at once if she is anxious to be
quit of you. That is my advice.
And now, dear, one word of something softer! For did any
lover ever write to the lady of his heart so long a letter
so abominably stuffed with matters of business? How shall
I best tell you how dearly I love you? Perhaps I may do it
by showing you that as far as I myself am concerned I long
to hear that your Aunt Emmeline and your Uncle Tom are
more hard-hearted and obdurate than were ever uncle and
aunt before them. I long to hear that you have been turned
out into the cold, because I know that then you must come
to me, though it be even less than three hundred a-year.
I wish you could have seen your uncle's face as those
terribly mean figures reached his ears. I do not for a
moment fear that we should want. Orders come slow enough,
but they come a little quicker than they did. I have never
for a moment doubted my own ultimate success, and if
you were with me I should be more confident than ever.
Nevertheless, should your aunt bid you to stay, and should
you think it right to comply with her desire, I will not
complain.
Adieu! This comes from one who is altogether happy in his
confidence that at any rate before long you will have
become his wife.
ISADORE HAMEL.
I quite expect to be scolded for my awkwardness. Indeed I
shall be disappointed if I am not.
The same post which brought Hamel's long letter to Lucy brought also
a short but very angry scrawl from Sir Thomas to his wife. No eyes
but those of Lady Tringle saw this epistle, and no other eyes shall
see it. But the few words which it contained were full of marital
wrath. Why had she threatened to turn her own niece out of his doors?
Why had she subjected him to the necessity of defending her by a
false assertion? Those Dormer nieces of hers were giving him an
amount of trouble and annoyance which he certainly had not deserved.
Lucy, though not a word was said to her of this angry letter, was
conscious that something had been added to her aunt's acerbity.
Indeed, for the last day or two her aunt's acerbity towards her
had been much diminished. Lady Tringle had known that her husband
intended to do something by which the Hamel marriage would be
rendered possible; and she, though she altogether disapproved of
the Hamel marriage, would be obliged to accede to it if Sir Thomas
acceded to it and encouraged it by his money. Let them be married,
and then, as far as the Tringles were concerned, let there be an end
of these Dormer troubles for ever. To that idea Lady Tringle had
reconciled herself as soon as Sir Thomas had declared his purpose,
but now,--as she declared to herself,--"all the fat was again in the
fire." She received Lucy's salutations on that morning with a very
bad grace.
But she had been desired to give no message, and therefore she was
silent on the subject to Lucy. To the Honourable Mrs. Traffick she
said a few words. "After all Ayala was not half as bad as Lucy," said
Lady Tringle.
"There, mamma, I think you are wrong," said the Honourable Mrs.
Traffick. "Of all the upsetting things I ever knew Ayala was the
worst. Think of her conduct with Septimus." Lady Tringle made a
little grimace, which, however, her daughter did not see. "And then
with that Marchesa!"
"That was the Marchesa's fault."
"And with Tom!"
"I don't think she was so much to blame with Tom. If she were, why
doesn't she take him now she can have him? He is just as foolish
about her as ever. Upon my word I think Tom will make himself ill
about it."
"You haven't heard it all, mamma."
"What haven't I heard?"
"Ayala has been down with the Alburys at Stalham."
"I did hear that."
"And another man has turned up. What on earth they see in her is what
I can't understand."
"Another man has offered to her! Who is he?"
"There was a Colonel Stubbs down there. Septimus heard it all from
young Batsby at the club. She got this man to ride about the country
with her everywhere, going to the meets with him and coming home. And
in this way she got him to propose to her. I don't suppose he means
anything; but that is why she won't have anything to do with Tom now.
Do you mean to say she didn't do all she could to catch Tom down at
Glenbogie, and then at Rome? Everybody saw it. I don't think Lucy has
ever been so bad as that."
"It's quite different, my dear."
"She has come from a low father," said the Honourable Mrs. Traffick,
proudly, "and therefore she has naturally attached herself to a low
young man. There is nothing to be wondered at in that. I suppose they
are fond of each other, and the sooner they are married the better."
"But he can't marry her because he has got nothing."
"Papa will do something."
"That's just what your papa won't. The man has been to your father
in the City and there has been ever such a row. He spoke ill of me
because I endeavoured to do my duty by the ungrateful girl. I am
sure I have got a lesson as to taking up other people's children. I
endeavoured to do an act of charity, and see what has come of it. I
don't believe in charity."
"That is wicked, mamma. Faith, Hope, and Charity! But you've got to
be charitable before you begin the others."
"I don't think it is wicked. People would do best if they were made
to go along on what they've got of their own." This seemed to Augusta
to be a direct blow at Septimus and herself. "Of course I know what
you mean, mamma."
"I didn't mean anything."
"But, if people can't stay for a few weeks in their own parents'
houses, I don't know where they are to stay."
"It isn't weeks, Augusta; it's months. And as to parents, Lord
Boardotrade is Mr. Traffick's parent. Why doesn't he go and stay with
Lord Boardotrade?" Then Augusta got up and marched with stately step
out of the room. After this it was not possible that Lucy would find
much immediate grace in her aunt's eyes.
From the moment that Lucy had received her letter there came upon her
the great burden of answering it. She was very anxious to do exactly
as Hamel had counselled her. She was quite alive to the fact that
Hamel had been imprudent in Lombard Street; but not the less was she
desirous to do as he bade her,--thinking it right that a woman should
obey some one, and that her obedience could be due only to him. But
in order to obey him she must consult her aunt. "Aunt Emmeline," she
said that afternoon, "I want to ask you something?"
"What is it now?" said Aunt Emmeline, crossly.
"About Mr. Hamel."
"I don't want to hear any more about Mr. Hamel. I have heard quite
enough of Mr. Hamel."
"Of course I am engaged to him, Aunt Emmeline."
"So I hear you say. I do not think it very dutiful of you to come and
talk to me about him, knowing as you do what I think about him."
"What I want to ask is this. Ought I to stay here or ought I to go
away?"
"I never heard such a girl! Where are you to go to? What makes you
ask the question?"
"Because you said that I ought to go if I did not give him up."
"You ought to give him up."
"I cannot do that, aunt."
"Then you had better hold your tongue and say nothing further about
it. I don't believe he earns enough to give you bread to eat and
decent clothes to wear. What would you do if children were to come
year after year? If you really love him I wonder how you can think of
being such a millstone round a man's neck!"
This was very hard to bear. It was so different from the delicious
comfort of his letter. "I do not for a moment believe that we should
want." "I have never for one moment doubted my own ultimate success."
But after all was there not more of truth in her aunt's words, hard
and cruel as they were? And on these words, such as they were, she
must found her answer to her lover; for he had bade her ask her
aunt what she was to do as to staying or preparing herself for an
immediate marriage. Then, before the afternoon was over, she wrote to
Hamel as follows;--
DEAR ISADORE,
I have got ever so much to say, but I shall begin by doing
as you told me in your postscript. I won't quite scold
you, but I do think you might have been a little gentler
with poor Uncle Tom. I do not say this because I at all
regret anything which perhaps he might have done for us.
If you do not want assistance from him certainly I do
not. But I do think that he meant to be kind; and, though
he may not be quite what you call a gentleman of fine
feeling, yet he has taken me into his house when I had no
other to go to, and in many respects has been generous to
me. When he said that you were to go to him in Lombard
Street, I am sure that he meant to be generous. And,
though it has not ended well, yet he meant to be kind to
both of us.
There is what you will call my scolding; though, indeed,
dearest, I do not intend to scold at all. Nor am I in the
least disappointed except in regard to you. This morning
I have been to Aunt Emmeline, as you desired, and I must
say that she was very cross. Of course I know that it is
because she is my own aunt that Uncle Tom has me here at
all; and I feel that I ought to be very grateful to her.
But, in spite of all that you say, laughing at Uncle Tom
because he wants you to sell your grand work by auction,
he is much more good-natured than Aunt Emmeline. I am
quite sure my aunt never liked me, and that she will
not be comfortable till I am gone. But when I asked her
whether I ought to stay, or to go, she told me to hold my
tongue, and say nothing further about it. Of course, by
this, she meant that I was to remain, at any rate for the
present.
My own dearest, I do think this will be best, though I
need not tell you how I look forward to leaving this, and
being always with you. For myself I am not a bit afraid,
though Aunt Emmeline said dreadful things about food
and clothes, and all the rest of it. But I believe much
more in what you say, that success will be sure to come.
But still will it not be wise to wait a little longer?
Whatever I may have to bear here, I shall think that I am
bearing it for your dear sake; and then I shall be happy.
Believe me to be always and always your own
LUCY.
This was written and sent on a Wednesday, and nothing further was
said either by Lucy herself, or by her aunt, as to the lover, till
Sir Thomas came down to Merle Park on the Saturday evening. On his
arrival he seemed inclined to be gracious to the whole household,
even including Mr. Traffick, who received any attention of that kind
exactly as though the most amicable arrangements were always existing
between him and his father-in-law. Aunt Emmeline, when it seemed that
she was to encounter no further anger on account of the revelation
which Hamel had made in Lombard Street, also recovered her temper,
and the evening was spent as though there were no causes for serious
family discord. In this spirit, on the following morning, they all
went to church, and it was delightful to hear the flattering words
with which Mr. Traffick praised Merle Park, and everything belonging
to it, during the hour of lunch. He went so far as to make some
delicately laudatory hints in praise of hospitality in general, and
especially as to that so nobly exercised by London merchant-princes.
Sir Thomas smiled as he heard him, and, as he smiled, he resolved
that, as soon as the Christmas festivities should be over, the
Honourable Septimus Traffick should certainly be turned out of that
house.
After lunch there came a message to Lucy by a page-boy, who was
supposed to attend generally to the personal wants of Aunt Emmeline,
saying that her uncle would be glad of her attendance for a walk. "My
dear," said he, "have you got your thick boots on? Then go and put
'em on. We will go down to the Lodge, and then come home round by
Windover Hill." She did as she was bade, and then they started. "I
want to tell you," said he, "that this Mr. Hamel of yours came to me
in Lombard Street."
"I know that, Uncle Tom."
"He has written to you, then, and told you all about it?"
"He has written to me, certainly, and I have answered him."
"No doubt. Well, Lucy, I had intended to be kind to your Mr. Hamel,
but, as you are probably aware, I was not enabled to carry out my
intentions. He seems to be a very independent sort of young man."
"He is independent, I think."
"I have not a word to say against it. If a man can be independent it
is so much the better. If a man can do everything for himself, so
as to require neither to beg nor to borrow, it will be much better
for him. But, my dear, you must understand that a man cannot be
independent with one hand, and accept assistance with the other, at
one and the same time."
"That is not his character, I am sure," said Lucy, striving to hide
her indignation while she defended her lover's character.
"I do not think it is. Therefore he must remain independent, and I
can do nothing for him."
"He knows that, Uncle Tom."
"Very well. Then there's an end of it. I only want to make you
understand that I was willing to assist him, but that he was
unwilling to be assisted. I like him all the better for it, but there
must be an end of it."
"I quite understand, Uncle Tom."
"Then there's one other thing I've got to say. He accused me of
having threatened to turn you out of my house. Now, my dear--"
Hereupon Lucy struggled to say a word, hardly knowing what word she
ought to say, but he interrupted her,--"Just hear me out till I've
done, and then there need not be another word about it. I never
threatened to turn you out."
"Not you, Uncle Tom," she said, endeavouring to press his arm with
her hand.
"If your aunt said a word in her anger you should not have made
enough of it to write and tell him."
"I thought she meant me to go, and then I didn't know whom else to
ask."
"Neither I nor she, nor anybody else, ever intended to turn you out.
I have meant to be kind to you both,--to you and Ayala; and if things
have gone wrong I cannot say that it has been my fault. Now, you had
better stay here, and not say a word more about it till he is ready
to take you. That can't be yet for a long time. He is making, at
present, not more than two hundred a year. And I am sure it must be
quite as much as he can do to keep a coat on his back with such an
income as that. You must make up your mind to wait,--probably for
some years. As I told you before, if a man chooses to have the glory
of independence he must also bear the inconvenience. Now, my dear,
let there be an end of this, and never say again that I want to turn
you out of my house."