TREGOTHNAN.
The writer, in giving a correct chronicle of the doings of the
Tringle family at this time, has to acknowledge that Gertrude, during
the prolonged absence of Captain Batsby at Brussels,--an absence
that was cruelly prolonged for more than a week,--did make another
little effort in another direction. Her father, in his rough way, had
expressed an opinion that she had changed very much for the worse in
transferring her affections from Mr. Houston to Captain Batsby, and
had almost gone so far as to declare that had she been persistent
with her Houston the money difficulty might have been overcome. This
was imprudent,--unless, indeed, he was desirous of bringing back Mr.
Houston into the bosom of the Tringles. It instigated Gertrude to
another attempt,--which, however, she did not make till Captain
Batsby had been away from her for at least four days without writing
a letter. Then it occurred to her that if she had a preference it
certainly was for Frank Houston. No doubt the general desirability of
marriage was her chief actuating motive. Will the world of British
young ladies be much scandalised if I say that such is often an
actuating motive? They would be justly scandalised if I pretended
that many of its members were capable of the speedy transitions which
Miss Tringle was strong enough to endure; but transitions do take
place, and I claim, on behalf of my young lady, that she should be
regarded as more strong-minded and more determined than the general
crowd of young ladies. She had thought herself to be off with the old
love before she was on with the new. Then the "new" had gone away to
Brussels,--or heaven only knows where,--and there seemed to be an
opportunity of renewing matters with the "old." Having perceived the
desirability of matrimony, she simply carried out her purpose with
a determined will. It was with a determined will, but perhaps with
deficient judgment, that she had written as follows:
"Papa has altered his mind altogether. He speaks of you in the
highest terms, and says that had you persevered he would have yielded
about the money. Do try him again. When hearts have been united it is
terrible that they should be dragged asunder." Mr. Traffick had been
quite right in telling his father-in-law that "the thing had been
talked about everywhere." The thing talked about had been Gertrude's
elopement. The daughter of a baronet and a millionaire cannot go off
with the half-brother of another baronet and escape that penalty. The
journey to Ostend was in everybody's mouth, and had surprised Frank
Houston the more because of the recent termination of his own little
affair with the lady. That he should already have re-accommodated
himself with Imogene was intelligible to him, and seemed to admit of
valid excuse before any jury of matrons. It was an old affair, and
the love,--real, true love,--was already existing. He, at any rate,
was going back to the better course,--as the jury of matrons would
have admitted. But Gertrude's new affair had had to be arranged
from the beginning, and shocked him by its celerity. "Already!"
he had said to himself,--"gone off with another man already?"
He felt himself to have been wounded in a tender part, and was
conscious of a feeling that he should like to injure the successful
lover,--blackball him at a club, or do him some other mortal
mischief. When, therefore, he received from the young lady the little
billet above given, he was much surprised. Could it be a hoax? It was
certainly the young lady's handwriting. Was he to be enticed once
again into Lombard Street, in order that the clerks might set upon
him in a body and maltreat him? Was he to be decoyed into Queen's
Gate, and made a sacrifice of by the united force of the housemaids?
Not understanding the celerity of the young lady, he could hardly
believe the billet.
When he received the note of which we have here spoken two months
had elapsed since he had seen Imogene and had declared to her his
intention of facing the difficulties of matrimony in conjunction with
herself as soon as she would be ready to undergo the ceremony with
him. The reader will remember that her brother, Mudbury Docimer, had
written to him with great severity, abusing both him and Imogene for
the folly of their intention. And Houston, as he thought of their
intention, thought to himself that perhaps they were foolish. The
poverty, and the cradles, and the cabbages, were in themselves evils.
But still he encouraged himself to think that there might be an evil
worse even than folly. After that scene with Imogene, in which she
had offered to sacrifice herself altogether, and to be bound to
him, even though they should never be married, on condition that he
should take to himself no other wife, he had quite resolved that it
behoved him not to be exceeded by her in generosity. He had stoutly
repudiated her offer, which he had called a damnable compact. And
then there had been a delightful scene between them, in which it had
been agreed that they should face the cradles and the cabbages with
bold faces. Since that he had never allowed himself to fluctuate in
his purpose. Had Sir Thomas come to him with Gertrude in one hand and
the much-desired £120,000 in the other, he would have repudiated the
lot of them. He declared to himself with stern resolution that he
had altogether washed his hands from dirt of that kind. Cabbages
and cradles for ever was the unpronounced cry of triumph with which
he buoyed up his courage. He set himself to work earnestly, if not
altogether steadfastly, to alter the whole tenor of his life. The
champagne and the woodcocks,--or whatever might be the special
delicacies of the season,--he did avoid. For some few days he
absolutely dined upon a cut of mutton at an eating-house, and as he
came forth from the unsavoury doors of the establishment regarded
himself as a hero. Cabbages and cradles for ever! he would say to
himself, as he went away to drink a cup of tea with an old maiden
aunt, who was no less surprised than gratified by his new virtue.
Therefore, when it had at last absolutely come home to him that
the last little note had in truth been written by Gertrude with no
object of revenge, but with the intention of once more alluring
him into the wealth of Lombard Street, he simply put it into his
breastcoat-pocket, and left it there unanswered.
Mudbury Docimer did not satisfy himself with writing the very
uncourteous letter which the reader has seen, but proceeded to do his
utmost to prevent the threatened marriage. "She is old enough to look
after herself," he had said, as though all her future actions must be
governed by her own will. But within ten days of the writing of that
letter he had found it expedient to go down into the country, and
to take his sister with him. As the head of the Docimer family he
possessed a small country-house almost in the extremity of Cornwall;
and thither he went. It was a fraternal effort made altogether on his
sister's behalf, and was so far successful that Imogene was obliged
to accompany him. It was all very well for her to feel that as
she was of age she could do as she pleased. But a young lady is
constrained by the exigencies of society to live with somebody. She
cannot take a lodging by herself, as her brother may do. Therefore,
when Mudbury Docimer went down to Cornwall, Imogene was obliged to
accompany him.
"Is this intended for banishment?" she said to him, when they had
been about a week in the country.
"What do you call banishment? You used to like the country in the
spring." It was now the middle of April.
"So I do, and in summer also. But I like nothing under constraint."
"I am sorry that circumstances should make it imperative upon me to
remain here just at present."
"Why cannot you tell the truth, Mudbury?"
"Have I told you any falsehood?"
"Why do you not say outright that I have been brought down here to be
out of Frank Houston's way?"
"Because Frank Houston is a name which I do not wish to mention to
you again,--at any rate for some time."
"What would you do if he were to show himself here?" she asked.
"Tell him at once that he was not welcome. In other words, I would
not have him here. It is very improbable I should think that he would
come without a direct invitation from me. That invitation he will
never have until I feel satisfied that you and he have changed your
mind again, and that you mean to stick to it."
"I do not think we shall do that."
"Then he shall not come down here; nor, as far as I am able to
arrange it, shall you go up to London."
"Then I am a prisoner?"
"You may put it as you please," said her brother. "I have no power of
detaining you. Whatever influence I have I think it right to use. I
am altogether opposed to this marriage, believing it to be an absurd
infatuation. I think that he is of the same opinion."
"No!" said she, indignantly.
"That I believe to be his feeling," he continued, taking no notice
of her assertion. "He is as perfectly aware as I am that you two are
not adapted to live happily together on an income of a few hundreds
a year. Some time ago it was agreed between you that it was so. You
both were quite of one mind, and I was given to understand that the
engagement was at an end. It was so much at an end that he made
an arrangement for marrying another woman. But your feelings are
stronger than his, and you allowed them to get the better of you.
Then you enticed him back from the purpose on which you had both
decided."
"Enticed!" said she. "I did nothing of the kind!"
"Would he have changed his mind if you had not enticed him?"
"I did nothing of the kind. I offered to remain just as we are."
"That is all very well. Of course he could not accept such an offer.
Thinking as I do, it is my duty to keep you apart as long as I can.
If you contrive to marry him in opposition to my efforts, the misery
of both of you must be on your head. I tell you fairly that I do not
believe he wishes anything of the kind."
"I am quite sure he does," said Imogene.
"Very well. Do you leave him alone; stay down here, and see what will
come of it. I quite agree that such a banishment, as you call it,
is not a happy prospect for you;--but it is happier than that of a
marriage with Frank Houston. Give that up, and then you can go back
to London and begin the world again."
Begin the world again! She knew what that meant. She was to throw
herself into the market, and look for such other husband as
Providence might send her. She had tried that before, and had
convinced herself that Providence could never send her any that could
be acceptable. The one man had taken possession of her, and there
never could be a second. She had not known her own strength,--or her
own weakness as the case might be,--when she had agreed to surrender
the man she loved because there had been an alteration in their
prospects of an income. She had struggled with herself, had attempted
to amuse herself with the world, had told herself that somebody would
come who would banish that image from her thoughts and heart. She had
bade herself to submit to the separation for his welfare. Then she
had endeavoured to quiet herself by declaring to herself that the
man was no hero,--was unworthy of so much thinking. But it had all
been of no avail. Gertrude Tringle had been a festering sore to her.
Frank, whether a hero or only a commonplace man, was,--as she owned
to herself,--hero enough for her. Then came the opening for a renewal
of the engagement. Frank had been candid with her, and had told her
everything. The Tringle money would not be forthcoming on his behalf.
Then,--not resolving to entice him back again,--she had done so.
The word was odious to her, and was rejected with disdain when used
against her by her brother;--but, when alone, she acknowledged to
herself that it was true. She had enticed her lover back again,--to
his great detriment. Yes; she certainly had enticed him back. She
certainly was about to sacrifice him because of her love. "If I could
only die, and there be an end of it!" she exclaimed to herself.
Though Tregothnan Hall, as the Docimers' house was called, was not
open to Frank Houston, there was the post running always. He had
written to her half-a-dozen times since she had been in Cornwall,
and had always spoken of their engagement as an affair at last
irrevocably fixed. She, too, had written little notes, tender and
loving, but still tinged by that tone of despondency which had become
common to her. "As for naming a day," she said once, "suppose we fix
the first of January, ten years hence. Mudbury's opposition will be
worn out by old age, and you will have become thoroughly sick of the
pleasures of London." But joined to this there would be a few jokes,
and then some little word of warmest, most enduring, most trusting
love. "Don't believe me if I say that I am not happy in knowing that
I am altogether your own." Then there would come a simple "I" as
a signature, and after that some further badinage respecting her
"Cerberus," as she called her brother.
But after that word, that odious word, "enticed," there went another
letter up to London of altogether another nature.
"I have changed my mind again," she said,
and have become aware that, though I should die in doing
it,--though we should both die if it were possible,--there
should be an end of everything between you and me. Yes,
Frank; there! I send you back my troth, and demand my own
in return. After all why should not one die;--hang oneself
if it be necessary? To be self-denying is all that is
necessary,--at any rate to a woman. Hanging or lying down
and dying, or lingering on and saying one's prayers and
knitting stockings, is altogether immaterial. I have
sometimes thought Mudbury to be brutal to me, but I have
never known him to be untrue,--or even, as I believe,
mistaken. He sees clearly and knows what will happen. He
tells me that I have enticed you back. I am not true as
he is. So I threw him back the word in his teeth,--though
its truth at the moment was going like a dagger through
my heart. I know myself to have been selfish, unfeeling,
unfeminine, when I induced you to surrender yourself to
a mode of life which will make you miserable. I have
sometimes been proud of myself because I have loved you so
truly; but now I hate myself and despise myself because I
have been incapable of the first effort which love should
make. Love should at any rate be unselfish.
He tells me that you will be miserable and that the misery
will be on my head,--and I believe him. There shall be an
end of it. I want no promise from you. There may, perhaps,
be a time in which Imogene Docimer as a sturdy old maid
shall be respected and serene of mind. As a wife who had
enticed her husband to his misery she would be respected
neither by him nor by herself,--and as for serenity
it would be quite out of the question. I have been
unfortunate. That is all;--but not half so unfortunate as
others that I see around me.
_Pray_, _pray_, PRAY, take this as final, and thus save
me from renewed trouble and renewed agony.
Now I am yours truly,--
never again will I be affectionate to any one
with true feminine love,
IMOGENE DOCIMER.
Houston when he received the above letter of course had no
alternative but to declare that it could not possibly be regarded
as having any avail. And indeed he had heart enough in his bosom to
be warmed to something like true heat by such words as these. The
cabbages and cradles ran up in his estimation. The small house at
Pau, which in some of his more despondent moments had assumed an
unqualified appearance of domestic discomfort, was now ornamented and
accoutred till it seemed to be a little paradise. The very cabbages
blossomed into roses, and the little babies in the cradles produced
a throb of paternal triumph in his heart. If she were woman enough
to propose to herself such an agony of devotion, could he not be
man enough to demand from her a devotion of a different kind? As to
Mudbury Docimer's truth, he believed in it not at all, but was quite
convinced of the man's brutality. Yes; she should hang herself--but
it should be round his neck. The serenity should be displayed by her
not as an aunt but as a wife and mother. As for enticing, did he
not now,--just in this moment of his manly triumph,--acknowledge to
himself that she had enticed him to his happiness, to his glory, to
his welfare? In this frame of mind he wrote his answer as follows;--
MY DEAREST,
You have no power of changing your mind again. There must
be some limit to vacillations, and that has been reached.
Something must be fixed at last. Something has been fixed
at last, and I most certainly shall not consent to any
further unfixing. What right has Mudbury to pretend to
know my feelings? or, for the matter of that, what right
have you to accept his description of them? I tell you now
that I place my entire happiness in the hope of making
you my wife. I call upon you to ignore all the selfish
declarations as to my own ideas which I have made in times
past. The only right which you could now possibly have
to separate yourself from me would come from your having
ceased to love me. You do not pretend to say that such is
the case; and therefore, with considerable indignation,
but still very civilly, I desire that Mudbury with his
hard-hearted counsels may go to the ----
Enticed! Of course you have enticed me. I suppose that
women do as a rule entice men, either to their advantage
or disadvantage. I will leave it to you to say whether
you believe that such enticement, if it be allowed its
full scope, will lead to one or the other as far as I am
concerned. I never was so happy as when I felt that you
had enticed me back to the hopes of former days.
Now I am yours, as always, and most affectionately,
FRANK HOUSTON.
I shall expect the same word back from you by return of
post scored under as eagerly as those futile "prays."
Imogene when she received this was greatly disturbed,--not knowing
how to carry herself in her great resolve,--or whether indeed that
resolve must not be again abandoned. She had determined, should her
lover's answer be as she had certainly intended it to be when she
wrote her letter, to go at once to her brother and to declare to him
that the danger was at an end, and that he might return to London
without any fear of a relapse on her part. But she could not do so
with such a reply as that she now held in her pocket. If that reply
could, in very truth, be true, then there must be another revulsion,
another change of purpose, another yielding to absolute joy. If it
could be the case that Frank Houston no longer feared the dangers
that he had feared before, if he had in truth reconciled himself to
a state of things which he had once described as simple poverty,
if he really placed his happiness on the continuation of his love,
then,--then, why should she make the sacrifice? Why should she place
such implicit confidence in her brother's infallibility against
error, seeing that by doing so she would certainly shipwreck her own
happiness,--and his too, if his words were to be trusted?
He called upon her to write to him again by return of post. She was
to write to him and unsay those prayers, and comfort him with a
repetition of that dear word which she had declared that she would
never use again with all its true meaning. That was his express order
to her. Should she obey it, or should she not obey it? Should she
vacillate again, or should she leave his last letter unanswered
with stern obduracy? She acknowledged to herself that it was a dear
letter, deserving the best treatment at her hands, giving her lover
credit, probably, for more true honesty than he deserved. What was
the best treatment? Her brother had plainly shown his conviction that
the best treatment would be to leave him without meddling with him
any further. Her sister-in-law, though milder in her language, was,
she feared, of the same opinion. Would it not be better for him not
to be meddled with? Ought not that to be her judgment, looking at the
matter all round?
She did not at any rate obey him at all points, for she left his
letter in her pocket for three or four days, while she considered the
matter backwards and forwards.