GERTRUDE IS UNSUCCESSFUL.
It was now the middle of January, and Gertrude Tringle had received
no reply from her lover to the overture which she 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 her
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 behoved
her to stick to 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 inclosed in her own
envelope,--but opened, and thrust in amongst some of 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 thwart 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 Treason 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 past, 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-palings, 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.
Houston, when he received this letter, at once made up his mind that
he would not be found on the outer side of the Park-palings on 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-palings 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 towards 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, till she met Frank Houston
when he had passed about a hundred yards on through the gates. "And
so you have come," she said.
"Oh, yes; I have 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 get your letter."
"Oh, Frank!"
"Well, my darling. You are looking uncommonly well, and I am 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 really think so?"
"Of course I do. I'm ready to-morrow 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 is 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 is always wandering 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 had 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 am sure he'd give it,--if we were once married."
"If we were married without having it assured before hand 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 am 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 have been
accustomed."
"I should think nothing of it."
"Did you ever try? I never came absolutely to hashed mutton, but I've
known how 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 was sure to come?"
"Ah, then indeed,--with you! I have 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
écarté. 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.
It was seven years ago."
"I am speaking of to-day."
"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 are 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 what 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 commonest 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 a dinner at
somebody's table, limited washing-bills, table-napkins rolled up in
their dirt every day for a week, antimacassars to save the backs of
the chairs, a picture of you darning my socks while I am reading
a newspaper hired at a halfpenny from the public-house round the
corner, a pint of beer in the pewter between us,--and perhaps two
babies in one cradle because we can't afford to buy a second."
"Don't, Sir."
"In such an emergency I am 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 such a matter 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 were 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 towards 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 on to 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. Traffick. 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 a
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 Imogene Docimer 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 Imogene Docimer 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 the 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 to-day?"
asked 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
uncourteous, 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 fool 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 browbeaten.
"And now, Mr. Houston, 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 despatched 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.