ANOTHER DUEL.
Frank Houston on that Sunday afternoon became an altered man. The
reader is not to suppose by this that he is declared to have suddenly
thrown off all his weaknesses, and to have succeeded in clothing
himself in an armour of bright steel, proof for the rest of his life
against all temptations. Such suits of armour 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 juntas which were discussing
the great difficulty of the contumacious 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 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, Imogene, 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 their 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. Pau
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 require 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 Castlebar
might be a good locality for his nursery. There would be nothing to
do at Castlebar,--no amusement whatever for such a one as himself,
no fitting companion for Imogene. But then amusement for himself
and companions for Imogene must of course be out of the question.
He thought that perhaps he might turn his hand to a little useful
gardening,--parsnips instead of roses,--while Imogene 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
meerschaums, which, he had been told, smokers of pipes found to
be excellent. But, whether it should be Pau or whether it should
be Castlebar, 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
unaccustomed hour, he found that he had nothing to do. There was that
head of Imogene for which she 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 round 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 Docimer, and this was the letter;--
DEAR HOUSTON,
Of course I think that you and Imogene 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 for ever, just to satisfy the
romance of a moment? I call it wicked. So I told Imogene,
and so I tell you.
You have changed your mind so often that of course you may
change it again. I am sure that Imogene expects that you
will. Indeed I can hardly believe that you intend to be
such a Quixote. 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 DOCIMER.
"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 Imogene. 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 Docimer'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 averse to the proposed changes as to the nieces
had been received from Mrs. Dosett. "As Ayala does not wish it, of
course nothing can be done." Such was the decision as conveyed by
Mrs. Dosett. It seemed to Lady Tringle that this was absurd. It was
all very well extending charity to the children of her deceased
sister, Mrs. Dormer; 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 Dormer girls. "They are a 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. Dosett'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
surreptitious 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 mare 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 arrowroot would be good, and sago, but offered no other
prescription. Lady Tringle was disgusted by his ignorance, and
thought that 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 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. "Eats
well?" asked the doctor. Tom, who occasionally saw the family at
lunch, gave a description of his sister's general performance.
"She is a fine healthy young lady," said the doctor. Tom gave a
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 mamma 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. "You won't tell mamma, 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 heartrending 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 pass that a father was compelled to give his daughter
with a large fortune to an idle adventurer, or else to be responsible
for his daughter's life? Would Augusta have pined away and died had
she not been allowed to marry her Traffick? 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, heartrending;--
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
daresay it may have been so with Mr. Traffick. 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 write immediately;--and do come! Mamma
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 a 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 HOUSTON.
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 to 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 Houston. 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 had 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
a brother is bound to do that kind of thing for his sister. When he
has been called out, then probably he'll come round, 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 were still moments in 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."
"You will not?"
"Certainly not. It would be absurd. You ask 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 now-a-days.
I know what ought to be done in these kind of things, and such
interference as 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!"